The police ask Zandra to come down to the station to make a statement outlining what she saw. Diana died within moments of the collision, presumably still wearing that smile, albeit a crooked one. With plenty of witnesses to back her up and little left to lose at this point, as well as a need to process the violence, she didn't worry about heading into the station.

Until Fred showed up.

Still chewing on a peppermint candy, I see.

"She walked right out of Sneak Peek and killed herself. Just like that, huh?" Fred says as Zandra finishes up with the statement.

This might not be the first time exactly that happened at Sneak Peek. Might. It's hard keep tabs on all her clients, especially if they aren't the damnable type. One despondent college student, anxious about introducing his girlfriend of another race to his family, wondered whether this was all a dream he could wake up from by killing himself. Whether he also dreamt up the girlfriend Zandra never did determine, because the student never returned after a quick $5 palm reading. Five dollars was well below her regular rates, but she'd come up short on the rent. Posters soon showed up on campus bulletin boards announcing the "$5 handjobs" at Sneak Peek.

The police didn't find the humor in the advertisement then, just as they fail to find the sarcasm in Zandra's statement amusing. She doesn't veer from the truth, because there's nothing to pin her with anyway, but that doesn't prevent her from having a little fun at the SPPD's expense. Letting the attending sergeant know the lingering stench of death coming from the station's bathroom is actually the product of demonic haunting cheers her up, even if it's lazy by Zandra's standards.

"Right said Fred," Zandra says.

"Excuse me?" Fred says.

He must not be a fan of '80s music.

"You're correct, captain. This woman came to me for comfort and reassurance about a highly personal matter. She seemed in good spirits when she left. Why she decided to end her life is as mysterious as it is tragic," Zandra says.

"A mystery? Aren't you a psychic?"

"I am, and I'll make contact with her spirit when the time is right. Crossing over to the other side can be traumatic, especially for troubled souls," Zandra says.

Fred slips another peppermint out of his pocket and unwraps its cellophane. He sucks hard on the candy while he rolls his eyes. "What, ah, what exactly were you two talking about?"

Zandra fakes a smile. "Come on, you know I can't say. That would violate psychic-client privilege."

"So now you're a lawyer?"

"No, but I'll get one if we keep going with this conversation," Zandra says, still smiling.

Fred chuckles under his minty fresh breath. "It may be while. Your lawyer still Herman the Hermit? We picked him up earlier today. Disorderly conduct."

Of course it's disorderly conduct. I have my trapdoors. The police have theirs.

"How unfortunate," Zandra says.

"It's only a fine, but I figured he needed some time to cool off, walking around with a hammer in the middle of the street dressed in a bathrobe. Speaking of which, he told me the hammer should be returned to you," Fred says. He calls over an officer.

A moment later Zandra is reunited with her hammer. It still bears the sigil Herman drew on it, but there's something extra on its head. It isn't much, but it's noticeable.

Is that blood?

Zandra points it out to Fred.

"It was like that when we picked him up. Unfortunately, there isn't a law against walking around with a hammer that has your own blood on it," Fred says.

Bullshit.

"How do you know it's his blood? You turn around lab work that quickly?" Zandra says.

Flanked by a pair of officers, Fred ushers Zandra toward the station's exit. Holding the door open, he says, "Herman will be alright. Like I said, he just needs a little time to cool off. Why don't I have these officers walk you home? You've had a rough day."

Zandra pauses before she exits. She looks straight into Fred's eyes and holds the gaze well past the point of courtesy, letting everything hidden behind her smile pour out through her pupils.

I won't forget this.

"Heh, heh," Fred says and swallows. "OK, Zandra. See you later."

Everyone carries a grain of doubt. It doesn't matter how many times they deny what I do. Maybe I really am a psychic. Or is it a witch? Maybe something terrible happens to you later on, Fred, or to someone you love. Maybe you'll think back to this moment and wonder whether this is the precise second I put a curse on you. Maybe your doubt will grow until it cores you out from the inside. Maybe you'll come crawling back to Sneak Peek seeking forgiveness, begging me not to rip out another piece from your life. And I'll have done it all without lifting a finger. It only takes a look. At the right person. In the right way. Right now.

The officers escort Zandra in silence back to her condo, only interacting with her to steer clear of the human wreckage outside Sneak Peek.

Zandra remains just as silent while pouring a rare glass of wine, pulling up a chair to the window overlooking the street and staring at the city that swallowed her up. Herman is in jail. Chris is a turncoat. Amanda is missing. Diana is dead. Sneak Peek is still defaced with spray paint. Some stoner is probably scratching his ass with her lawnmower knife. Dvorak is having a good laugh with her files. Fred and the police can't be trusted. Gene is lurking somewhere in all of this mess.

And David is still dead.

Zandra repeats these facts over and over, the electric shock of each swirling in her mind like the wine in her glass. She studies the people walking on the street below. A few coming out of the bars horse around. Others yell to one another from opposite sides of the street. A woman empties a bottle of something blue into a storm drain. No one bothers them about "disorderly conduct."

What then are the odds of anything positive coming out of the showdown? Her gut and her mind won't let her heart overrule the reality. Even if she finds a way to make it hurt for Dvorak and Stevens Point, her life can only get worse from here on out. Her shot at a modicum of happiness is over. This is it. She's running on hours until the shit hits the fan.

I've let all of this slip by me ever since the Elle Carey case. I got too wrapped up in the illusion of the good life. Of course it could never happen to someone like me. That's not how the world works. What an idiot I was to forget.

Zandra watches a dog slip loose from its collar and leash to chase a squirrel up a tree growing out of the sidewalk.

I need to remember. I numbed myself up with money and this condo and fan mail and book deals and TV shows and being able to breathe again. I need to break through. I need to feel it.

She finishes the wine and returns the glass to the kitchen. Heading to the first of her two bathrooms, the one adorned with marble and vintage gold leaf, she runs a cold bath made even more gelid by ice from the kitchen.

Zandra slips off her purple gown and stares at her reflection in the water.

Soma Falls.

Her eyes drift to a photo hanging on the wall near the vanity mirror.

David.

She walks back out to the kitchen, fully aware of her naked body in full view of the city outside.

You took everything from me.

Zandra lights a cigarette and fetches the hammer from the granite countertop.

You made a spectacle of me.

She places her left foot on the seat of the chair by the window.

I can't forget.

Zandra holds her breath. She's surprised when she does it. It's like someone else's hand brings the hammer across her ankle.

The cigarette falls to the floor.

She can't decide whether breathing will make the pain better or worse, so she stuffs down the feeling of her black lungs suffocating. Her eyes won't let her look at the ankle, but she knows from the crackle and sucking sound the recently repaired bones and ligaments make when she wiggles her toes that the damage is significant.

Not enough. Do it again. Do it until it hurts to walk.

Zandra keeps her eyes open for the second blow, this time staring out the window at Stevens Point. Her vision blurs until the buildings collapse onto the sidewalk as the hammer skids off of bone as it connects with the ankle.

For a moment, she thinks the chair came out from under her, because she loses her balance and slips forward. But then the artillery fire of pain reminds her of how an ankle of mashed tissue and chipped bone can't support the weight of her leg on the chair. She drops the hammer and braces herself against the window.

When Zandra finally exhales her clenched breath and looks down at the swollen mass pulsing in time with her heart, it comes out as a scream. And the collapsed buildings on the sidewalk turn to fire.