Page 19 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Normal?” Dean laughed. “I don’t know if I’d call what you do normal. Working every single day like that.”
Ingrid took a moment to grasp what he was saying. So pressing was her desire to leave her job and her hometown, she’d almost forgotten she was scheduled to work the very next day.
“Wait, how did you know I work every night?” she asked, once the realization hit her.
“My god, woman.” Dean scoffed, giving no room for doubt to infect the silence. “Everyone who goes into The Boneyard does. No one has anything interesting going on so they all gossip.”
Ingrid knew that better than anyone. She knew there was a good chance she’d told him about her massive overtime hours herself. Yet, now that he was so flustered, she went quiet, letting the tension build.
“Really?” Dean said, blowing out a heavy breath. “I knew you had trust issues, but this is worrisome.”
“Gotcha,” she said, pivoting. “I could almosthearyou blushing.”
“No you couldn’t.” His tone was overly defensive—harsh, but in an endearing way.
“Yes, I could,” she pushed. “And I can still hear it.”
“What does that mean? How can you hear someone blushing? Is this another vision thing?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I can see you right now. All flustered like a teenage girl.”
Dean had gone silent. “Are you serious? Can you see me right now?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Umm, okay, so you?—"
“No! I can’tliterallysee you! Are you always this gullible?”
A click of his tongue. “You never know. I mean, you do have the look. Like you might have some spells or curses up your sleeve.”
“You mean like a witch?”
“Yes. But the good kind of witch.” He clamped a laugh, like one might at an inside joke they weren’t willing to share. “Not the evil, wart-nosed kind. No. You’re a… a good witch.”
“But still a witch?”
“I don’t know! You were the one who saidwitch. I just…” He went on for a while before Ingrid cut him off.
“Goodbye, Dean.”
He sighed. “Right. Sorry. Talk to you soon.”
She’d just pulled up to the ramp that led into her heavily gated parking garage. As entertaining as the conversation had been—for her, at least—she was tired, her back a little stiff from sitting for hours, and she wanted nothing more than to tuck into bed and drift off, nightmares be damned.
The powerful sage candle that management always had burning wafted into her nostrils as she walked through the empty lobby and into the elevator. She hit the button. Then, leaning on the reflective metal as it ascended, shifting her weight as if the thoughts were pushing her to do so, she again considered what starting over in another city would look like.
How could she leave Franky? Her job? Her co-workers that, despite their surface-level relationship, she’d grown somewhat attached to? Like an old apartment or a kind teacher from gradeschool, there was history, comfort. They’d grown on her, just like Dean had grown on her. As terrifying as their first extended conversation was, she’d been happy and almost anxious to speak with him every day afterward. Whether it was mid-shift messages or a late-night phone call—peeking out her window to see his black truck parked on the street—she found it easy, soothing.
But now she was thinking of leaving that comfort. Running away, just like she always had. Like her father had taught her to do.
Ingrid winced at that, shaking off the thought.
The elevator was nearly at her floor and her body still slightly swayed in anticipation, shifting from one foot to the other, and then, all at once, jerking forward.
The machine grumbled, coming to a screeching halt.
She swore under her breath and glanced up at the electronic number above the door of the elevator.
