probably shaved a good five years off her life, but they’re the shitty ones at the end, so no big deal.
“Oh. You must be Mr. Stark and Mr. Vidocq. Julia said you’d be dros t019;d bpping by.” She stops, staring at Candy in her robot sunglasses.
I say, “This is my assistant, Candy.”
Mrs. Sentenza gives Candy a thin smile.
“Of course she is. Please come in.”
The inside of the house is bright, with light coming through a million windows and reflecting off the polished tile floor. Obsessive California chic. Like they own the sky and are goddamn well going to use every inch of it. Hunter’s father is waiting for us by the stairs leading to the upper floor of a two-story living room. (I told you.)
“This is Hunter’s father, Kerry.”
“Nice to meet you all. Call me K.W.”
Handshakes all around. His grip is firm and serious. He has rough laborer’s hands, like he actually works for a living.
“Are you three exorcists, too?” he asks.
“No. Father Traven holds the prayer beads. We’re more like spiritual bouncers.”
“Well, if you can fix this, we’re willing to try.”
There aren’t any hoodoo vibes coming off these people. Nothing shifty and hidden. They come across like straight-arrow civilians who wouldn’t know a Hand of Glory from an oven mitt. They’re not responsible for calling a demon into the house. Unless they’re a lot more powerful than they look and can throw up a glamour powerful enough to even fool the angel in my head. Their eyes are dilating and their hearts are racing. I smell Valium and alcohol in Mom’s sweat. Most of what I’m getting off them is heavyweight fear for their kid and confusion and a meek mistrust of us three. No surprise there. They don’t run into people like us on the golf course at the country club.
Vidocq looks around the place. Like me, he’s looking for any traces of magic, in his case mystical objects.
“You have a very lovely home,” says Candy. “It looks like a happy place.”
“It was,” says Mom.
I say, “Can we see the room?”
“It’s Hunter’s room. His name is Hunter.”
“Hunter. Got it. Can we see Hunter’s room?”
Mom isn’t sure about Candy and Vidocq, but I can tell she hates me already. I’m not sure about Dad. He looks like the kind of guy who didn’t come from money, and now that he has it, he’s always a little on edge waitingrunedge wa for someone to try to take it away. That means he’ll have a handgun or two in the house.
K.W. leads us to Hunter’s room while Mom trails behind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but did Hunter take anything like antidepressants? Or was he ever locked up for, you know, behavior problems?”
“You mean, was our son crazy?” asks Mom.
“Was he?”
“No. He was a normal boy. He ran track.”
So that’s what normal is. I should write that down.
“Did he take any recreational drugs?”
Mom’s attitude has gone from hate to stabby.
“He’d never touch those. He’s an athlete. Besides, when Hunter was a boy he saw Tommy, his older brother, destroy himself with drugs. He hallucinated. He was scared all the time and couldn’t sleep for weeks on end. And it kept getting worse. Then Tommy died. Hunter saw all of it.”
“He didn’t die. He hanged himself,” says Dad. His face is set and hard, but it’s clear that admitting this hurt.
“Don’t say it like that,” says Mom. The tears come fast, an automatic reaction when her other son’s death comes up.
These people are unbelievably easy to read. They don’t have any magic. There aren’t any spells that will hide it this thoroughly.
K.W. puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“Jen, why don’t you put on some fresh coffee for our guests?”
Mom nods and heads down the hall.
When she’s gone K.W. turns to us.
“Sorry. This thing has us both a little crazy, but it’s hit her worse. How are you supposed to live after one son’s suicide and your other son’s . . . well, whatever
“Oh. You must be Mr. Stark and Mr. Vidocq. Julia said you’d be dros t019;d bpping by.” She stops, staring at Candy in her robot sunglasses.
I say, “This is my assistant, Candy.”
Mrs. Sentenza gives Candy a thin smile.
“Of course she is. Please come in.”
The inside of the house is bright, with light coming through a million windows and reflecting off the polished tile floor. Obsessive California chic. Like they own the sky and are goddamn well going to use every inch of it. Hunter’s father is waiting for us by the stairs leading to the upper floor of a two-story living room. (I told you.)
“This is Hunter’s father, Kerry.”
“Nice to meet you all. Call me K.W.”
Handshakes all around. His grip is firm and serious. He has rough laborer’s hands, like he actually works for a living.
“Are you three exorcists, too?” he asks.
“No. Father Traven holds the prayer beads. We’re more like spiritual bouncers.”
“Well, if you can fix this, we’re willing to try.”
There aren’t any hoodoo vibes coming off these people. Nothing shifty and hidden. They come across like straight-arrow civilians who wouldn’t know a Hand of Glory from an oven mitt. They’re not responsible for calling a demon into the house. Unless they’re a lot more powerful than they look and can throw up a glamour powerful enough to even fool the angel in my head. Their eyes are dilating and their hearts are racing. I smell Valium and alcohol in Mom’s sweat. Most of what I’m getting off them is heavyweight fear for their kid and confusion and a meek mistrust of us three. No surprise there. They don’t run into people like us on the golf course at the country club.
Vidocq looks around the place. Like me, he’s looking for any traces of magic, in his case mystical objects.
“You have a very lovely home,” says Candy. “It looks like a happy place.”
“It was,” says Mom.
I say, “Can we see the room?”
“It’s Hunter’s room. His name is Hunter.”
“Hunter. Got it. Can we see Hunter’s room?”
Mom isn’t sure about Candy and Vidocq, but I can tell she hates me already. I’m not sure about Dad. He looks like the kind of guy who didn’t come from money, and now that he has it, he’s always a little on edge waitingrunedge wa for someone to try to take it away. That means he’ll have a handgun or two in the house.
K.W. leads us to Hunter’s room while Mom trails behind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but did Hunter take anything like antidepressants? Or was he ever locked up for, you know, behavior problems?”
“You mean, was our son crazy?” asks Mom.
“Was he?”
“No. He was a normal boy. He ran track.”
So that’s what normal is. I should write that down.
“Did he take any recreational drugs?”
Mom’s attitude has gone from hate to stabby.
“He’d never touch those. He’s an athlete. Besides, when Hunter was a boy he saw Tommy, his older brother, destroy himself with drugs. He hallucinated. He was scared all the time and couldn’t sleep for weeks on end. And it kept getting worse. Then Tommy died. Hunter saw all of it.”
“He didn’t die. He hanged himself,” says Dad. His face is set and hard, but it’s clear that admitting this hurt.
“Don’t say it like that,” says Mom. The tears come fast, an automatic reaction when her other son’s death comes up.
These people are unbelievably easy to read. They don’t have any magic. There aren’t any spells that will hide it this thoroughly.
K.W. puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“Jen, why don’t you put on some fresh coffee for our guests?”
Mom nods and heads down the hall.
When she’s gone K.W. turns to us.
“Sorry. This thing has us both a little crazy, but it’s hit her worse. How are you supposed to live after one son’s suicide and your other son’s . . . well, whatever
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