Dead to Me by Anton Strout Page B

Ihaven’t talked in years, as a matter of fact, but it’s not what you think. It’s not like we had a falling-out or anything. He went missing about two years after that summer. It was another one of our yearly trips to the Cape, like the one you saw, and he just disappeared one day while we were all at the beach. Busy day, lots of people, and he was just gone in a heartbeat. That was the last any of us saw him. Big police investigation and everything.”
     
    “Jesus,” I said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…”
     
    Connor clapped me on the shoulder, reached back into his pocket, and pulled out the dispenser with a nostalgic look.
     
    “How could you, kid? I had totally forgotten why I had kept this thing anyway. Came across it while searching for some old hex dolls. Hadn’t thought of it in years. Everything got kinda cloudy when he disappeared, you know? I’m just glad you were able to catch a glimpse of him in your vision, kid. I’d give anything to see those days again. That’s gotta be something.”
     
    Connor had hinted at learning more about my kind of power, and now it made a bit more sense. Through teaching me, he hoped to awaken some dormant psychometric power of his own to track down his missing brother.
     
    “Maybe I could help you manifest the power,” I said hopefully. “I even picked up one of the departmental pamphlets about recognizing the signs of psychometry in others.”
     
    “Clairvoyance or Clair-annoyance: You Either Got It or You Don’t?” he asked. I nodded, but he shook his head. “Been there, read that, kid. It has surprisingly little to offer on whether it’s even possible for me to be taught or if it’s simply something a person is born with.”
     
    Seeing the melancholy look on his face, I was more determined than ever.
     
    “You never get even the tiniest of visions like these?” I asked. “No flashes, glimpses, maybe something you might have labeled as déjà vu?”
     
    Connor shook his head. “Nothing. I guess it’s not in my area of expertise.”
     
    “We’ll see about that,” I said. “I’ll be damned if I can’t teach it to you somehow.” I paused. “So you’ve only got the one, then?”
     
    “One what?” Connor said, confused.
     
    “Area of expertise,” I said.
     
    Connor nodded. “That I’m aware of. In fact, you’re sitting across from it.”
     
    “Huh?”
     
    Connor leaned in and whispered, “Across from you. The brunette.” He gestured toward the woman sitting on the couch next to his chair.
     
    I tried to appear casual as I glanced her way, pretending to check out theMaltese Falcon poster on the wall behind her, and found myself staring once more at the fetching woman I had made eye contact with earlier.
     
    Outside of her natural beauty, I saw nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Great skin, smartly dressed in black pants and a dark brown leather blazer. I judged her to be in her late twenties with an elegance that radiated from porcelain-like features perfectly framed by a river of wavy brown hair. Luckily, she wasn’t looking directly at me this time. I congratulated myself for stealthily sneaking a peek at her and avoiding any awkwardness. I leaned across the table toward Connor.
     
    “Women are your expertise?” I whispered. “What about her?”
     
    “Oh,” Connor said matter-of-factly, picking up his iced coffee and taking a lengthy sip, “she’s dead.”
     
    5
     
    I often imagined how cool my life would be if I were in a movie. I would say all the right things and have all the right reactions in any given situation. Most importantly, I would no doubt be as cool as I have always imagined myself, but at that moment in the Lovecraft Café, I found that reality was having no part of my delusions. As soon as Connor mentioned that the brunette was dead, I felt a chill run up my spine and I literally jumped straight out of my chair. Apparently, I had taken the remedialDeadside Manner: Staying Cool in Troubled