Page 129 of Power of the Mind

“Goddamn her,” I said, straightening, peering back over my shoulder as the heavy door slammed shut. “I’ve had it up to here with witchy women.” I cut a hand above my head before adjusting my crooked glasses and admiring my savior. “Hey, Guns. Am I ever glad to see you. You will not believe the shit that just went down.”

Diem scowled and shifted his gaze between me and the front door. “What the fuck is—”

“I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here.” Since the Jeep was running in Rowena’s driveway, I added, “You drive. We’ll come back for my car when it’s safe.”

Diem, likely overwhelmed with the dumpster fire of chaos he’d walked in on—or was my Tower card rearing its ugly head again?—stammered and stuttered and didn’t object when I snagged his arm and physically dragged him away from the house.

“She knew me,” I hissed once we’d gotten into the Jeep and were on the road. “She knew I wasn’t Memphis. She knew we’d been investigating her. She knew about my past and present, and although I didn’t stick around to find out how I was going to die, she probably knew that too. Fuck me sideways. My heart is pounding.”

I clutched my chest and winced. “Diem, she was inside my head. I felt her fingers trying to rearrange my brain. Oh my god, that was so creepy. I need a shower. An exorcist. Stop at a church. Preferably one whose god doesn’t already hate me because I don’t need more problems. For real though. She touched my brain. Whatever you do, do not leave me alone. I can’t be trusted not to walk into traffic or try to slit my wrists.”

“Sally Soape,” Diem spat through gritted teeth.

“What? Soap?”

“Brodie Newall’s mother.”

The non sequitur was à la Diem, but I was not in the mood, not after the escapade at the psychic’s.

I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “Look, sweetie, babe, doll.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your fucking Memphis.”

I chuckled. “No, no, you aren’t. You’re my cuddle bear, like it or not.”

“Not.”

“I need you to do me a huge favor.”

“I’m not taking you to a church.”

I laughed, and it took far too long to get a hold of myself. Diem continuously glared from the driver’s seat like I’d lost my mind, which, maybe I had.

“D, I need you to think really,reallyhard about what you want to tell me right now. Put all the sentences together into one big paragraph, then say it out loud. I was ten seconds from being mind-controlled by a psychotic serial killer. I have no patience to play Guess What I’m Trying to Say. Can you do that for me? Just this one time. I’ll never bug you again. I swear.”

Diem growled under his breath and squeezed the steering wheel, eyeing me a few times, but, shockingly, he did as I asked.

“Sandra Morgenstern, Brodie’s mother, according to his birth certificate, worked at Thrill Ville fair when Rowena Fitspatrick and William Hilty performed the dreaded show that landed them in cuffs after two men died under suspicious circumstances. The husband-and-wife duo roomed with Sandra. Years later, after having a baby and losing her husband, boyfriend, or whatever the fuck he was, Sandra landed in debt up to her eyeballs. She lost her house and ended up declaring bankruptcy. After that, I couldn’t find any trace of her. She vanished. No driver’s license. No health card. Nothing. I found out she’s going by a different name. Sally Soape.”

“Why is that familiar?”

“Hilty’s secretary.”

“Oh my god. Sally Soape Opera.” I jolted. “Wait. Whoa. She’s Brodie’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“Brodie, who worked for Janek?”

“Yes.”

“Brodie, who was arrested in the cemetery last week.”

“Yes.”

“His mother works for Hilty?”

Diem growled and glared across the middle console. The look was affirmation enough.

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