For two days, there's nothing. Not a peep, not a sound, not a sigh. Everything is completely silent, like it should be.
It weirds me out.
I pass by the apartment several times and knock, intending to be the busybody neighbor who introduces herself, but no one ever answers. I hang out on the street after dark with binoculars, waiting to see if a light goes on.
All is normal…which I’m pretty sure is bullshit.
I heard that guy. I heard him clear as day. So if someone’s not living there, does that mean there are squatters in the building? Is it unsafe?
By the time Friday rolls around, I’m a sleep-deprived mess. Between meetings, I rub my eyes at work and yawn, trying to stay focused.
"Still can't sleep?" Sherry leans over my cube and gives me a perky look that should be outlawed. “Or still haven’t gotten a replacement for that coffee pot?”
"Just a bit of insomnia," I tell her. "Nothing big. And my coffee pot’s being shipped. Should get here tomorrow.” Man, I am getting so good at lying.
She waves a hand as if my troubles are too irritating for her to focus on. “Well, caffeinate up and go to lunch with me today. I have to run to the post office and then we can grab tacos."
Even though I don't feel like moving—much less walking anywhere—I have to admit it'd be nice to get out of the office for an hour. Plus, tacos. Beats what I ate last night, which was oh, nothing. I’ve been too distracted to go to the grocery store. “Tacos it is."
As we head out for lunch, Sherry tries to keep the conversation going for both of us to make up for my quiet. She talks in line at the post office, tells me all about her kid while we grab tacos from a street vendor and I chug an energy drink. Sherry continues to yak about the horrors of finding a babysitter as we head back. We stop at a red light and wait to cross the street, tacos steaming up the paper bag I’m holding. I try to pay attention as Sherry goes on and on about her kid, I really do, but I'm so busy straining to hear the nonexistent voice in my head that I almost miss what I'm staring directly at.
There's a neon red palm blinking in the window across the street, with an eye in the center. TAROT. PSYCHIC READINGS.
Oh my god.
Of course.
This makes a ridiculous amount of sense. No one can give me a real answer, so maybe a supernatural answer is what I’m looking for.
I grab Sherry's arm. "How much time do we have before we need to be back?"
She checks her watch. "Half hour, really. Why?"
I shove my taco bag in a nearby garbage can, no longer hungry, and practically drag her across the street—in the wrong direction to get back to the office—when the light turns.
"W-what? What are we doing? Is there a bookstore I missed?" Her laughter dies when she realizes I'm charging for the psychic's doorstep. “Wait! Are you serious? Faith? You want to get your fortune told?" She looks at me as if I just told her I decided to join a nunnery. "Right now? On lunch hour? We haven’t even eaten our tacos!“
"You can go back if you want," I tell her, eyeing the window. There are beaded curtains covering the tinted glass, and the red palm is the only sign on the door. I wonder if I've ever seen this place before. Is it new? Or has it always been here and I've never noticed it despite a hundred lunchtime walks with Sherry? "I won't be long," I tell her and open the door.
If I can't have a logical answer to what's happening, an illogical one will do. Maybe my problem isn’t neurological or chemical but…mystical.
Okay, that sounds corny even to me, but I’m willing to roll with it if it gives me answers.
The shop itself is kind of disappointing. I was expecting mystical runes or lush velvet curtains hanging from the walls. Instead, the walls themselves are covered with bookshelves, and there's a glass counter along one side full of jewelry. The back wall has candles stacked in neat cubbyholes and some of them are set out on stands and lit, providing a thick, herbal smell to the shop. A woman comes from the back room as the door clangs with our entry.