Page 64 of Power of the Mind

“And?”

“And Allan Cornell did indeed visit Madame Rowena.” Tallus propped his hands on his hips, smug as can be.

Frowning, I examined the surrounding block again but didn’t see the psychic woman’s storefront anywhere, nor did I understand why he’d brought me to Beecroft.

A rumble sounded in my throat. “Tallus. Get to the fucking point.”

“Calm down, cuddle bear. I’ll explain.”

“Explain faster. It’s after eight. I’m starving, and I haven’t had dinner.”

“Huh. Me neither,” he said far too sarcastically. “Too bad there isn’t a sexy, brooding, six-and-a-half-foot hunk of a man around to ask me out on a date to a fancy restaurant. I wouldn’t say no.”

“Tallus—” my throat clogged when I tried to interject my opinion, but bubbly Tallus didn’t pause long enough to allow me to have a comment.

“So. Here’s what I’ve got. Allan Cornell got a parking ticket at nine eighteen p.m. on August first, mere days before he killed himself. He was parked in the 145-150 block of Beecroft Road. Right about there.” He pointed at where I’d left the Jeep.

My skin prickled with interest. I gave Tallus a look that urged him to continue.

“It means Allan was in the area long enough to pay for parking—which is a minimum of thirty minutes—and for his ticket to expire.”

I scanned the street again, still not fitting the pieces together. “And?”

“Follow me, Guns. I’m gonna blow your…” Tallus paused, scanned me up and down with his salacious bedroom eyes, then winked seductively. “Mind.” His smile was brilliant as he spun on his heels and sauntered into the cemetery.

My thoughts nose-dived into the gutter for half a beat before I realized he was getting away from me.

“Hustle, Guns.”

I hustled. I was always scrambling to keep up with Tallus. The man kept me on my toes.

Without streetlights, a blanket of darkness folded around us. The inner-city cemetery didn’t boast thick tree cover, but somehow, stepping within the gates dampened the traffic noises and gave the impression of seclusion. I caught a whiff of cigarettes and internally whimpered. Not what I needed. Maybe if I said it enough, my system would believe it.

Tallus held his phone in front of him, focusing more on the screen than where he was going. It was a good way to get mugged or trip and fall on his face since the ground was uneven.

I kept my eyes peeled as we weaved among rows of headstones, heading northwest. It might have been late evening and dark, but we weren’t alone. The cemetery was buzzing with activity. Several groups had assembled in shadowy corners, mostly questionable-looking young men who were likely up to no good. The cherry ends of cigarettes glowed near their faces. It was then I scented the musky aroma of weed as well.

The few women present were definitely up to no good. Their scarcely clad figures had little to do with the lingering August heat.

Toronto wasn’t without its homeless population, and there were more than a few vagabonds who’d set up camp—literally—among the crooked markers. One had fired up a camping stove and was cooking a whole can of beans on the blue flame.

It didn’t take long before we landed on a cedar-lined path leading out of the cemetery and found ourselves on Park Home Avenue. Tallus stopped, pivoted, checked his phone twice, and grinned as he pointed down the street. “Voilà.”

I followed his finger toward a blinking sign posted outside someone’s residence. The neon lights advertisedMadame Rowena’s Readings and Spiritual Healing.

Looking smug, Tallus crossed his arms and waited for my reaction.

I scanned the street, but it was all houses, no offices or storefronts. Beecroft had boasted condominiums and an arts building. I could see no other reason why Allan might have been in the area.

Except to visit the psychic. Not for the first time, I was impressed with Tallus’s observational skills. All from a parking ticket.

“Let me see your phone. Do you still have the map up?” I asked.

Tallus handed me the device. It was zoomed in to show our location on the street, so I zoomed out until it covered several city blocks. I noted the position of every store, company, and restaurant in a three or four-block radius.

“There’s a library.”

“I saw that too, but they close at eight thirty on Thursday nights. August first was a Thursday. Allan was ticketed at nine eighteen. The library is less than a five-minute walk from where he parked. The timing doesn’t work.”

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