Four days after finding my first dead body, I'm in the tiny office I share with a Tarot reader and an astrologer, doing my best to convince a perfectly good paying client that I'm not the one she needs to see.

"Miss Mumu needs to see a vet, Mrs. Collins," I say for the third time, "not a psychic."

I suppress a grimace of distaste as the little white dog bares its teeth at me and growls.

It's not unusual for people to bring their pets in for a reading, and I can read animals, but the things I pick up from them tend to be mundane. Usually something along the lines of "I like the park," or "rolling in shit is fun."

I've yet to solve any mysteries with the help of a cat.

Today, Mrs. Collins has brought in her horrible little dog, Miss Mumu, for the fourth time this month, because apparently she's "not quite herself," and Mrs. Collins is concerned she might be having an existential crisis of some kind.

I suspect indigestion, but I'm not a veterinarian, so all I can offer is the advice that she go and find one.

"But won't you at least try?" Mrs. Collins insists, rheumy eyes blinking in her aged face. "Here—I brought her favorite blanket." She holds out a tattered blue cloth covered in dog hair and an almost artistic pattern of stains.

I really don't want to touch it.

On the other hand, Mrs. Collins is my only client today, and she's got a lot of influence among the elderly, dog-owning crowd, who for better or worse make up a significant portion of my clientele. It's in my interest to at least give her something.

Resignedly, I take the blanket and close my eyes, opening my senses to whatever impressions it has to offer.

I get a sense of warmth and comfort (it seems that Mumu really does like this thing), a feeling of sleepiness, and then—to my surprise—a strong ache in my teeth. I hold a hand to my jaw and open my eyes, and the feeling fades.

"How old is Mumu?" I ask.

"About eight, I think."

"Mrs. Collins, I'm not a vet, and that's what Mumu needs. Tell them to look at her teeth. I think she's got an infection."

I can tell she was hoping for a more philosophical revelation, but she promises to take my advice.

When she reaches into her purse to pay me, I sigh.

"No charge today, Mrs. Collins. This one's on the house."

"Oh, no. I couldn't," she protests.

"Sure you can. Isn't it nearly your birthday? Consider it a gift."

She purses her lips, and to my dismay, her eyes are bright. She's no fool, and she knows what I'm doing. Like a lot of older people, she lives on a fixed and limited income, and vets are expensive.

"Julian, dear," she says, taking back the blanket when I hand it to her, "you're too sweet for your own good, you know? Thank you."

I hold still and try not to grimace as she leans over and kisses my cheek. She's holding Mumu, and the motion brings the little beast closer than I'd like.

When she's gone, I heave another sigh, pull down the Venetian blinds, and close the office. It seems like my rent partners are also having a dry spell, and I'm the only one who had an appointment today.

As I wander down the street towards my car, I dust dog hair off my shirt and wonder if maybe I should add a "no pets" policy to my business. It would cut into my income, but at least I wouldn't have to see Miss Mumu again.

Ian used to tease me about it, calling me a swindler for taking money from old ladies and telling them stuff that anyone with eyes could see. But I never promise more than I can deliver, and it seems I offer a service they want—maybe even need. Moreover, I know there are plenty of other 'psychics,' real or otherwise, ready and waiting to take their money if I don't, and who would probably charge more and offer less.

Still, Ian had made me feel like a charlatan anyway.

And now I've gone and thought of Ian, and I'll be in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

Maybe the fact that he made me feel ashamed of my work should have been a red flag, but it had taken a lot more than that before I realized he wasn't the sweet, caring guy I thought I'd fallen in love with.

The downside of being attracted to men who are bigger and stronger than me is that, if they turn out like Ian...well, they're bigger and stronger than me.

We'd been together a few months, and I thought we knew each other pretty well. Turns out there was a lot I didn't know about him, like his tendency to get rough when he's drunk. He'd almost taken it too far a few times already when, the last time we were together, he finally had.

"Stop" is a powerful word, which makes things even more frightening when it doesn't work.

He'd been sorry afterward—told me he thought I was into it. I guess his translator was broken or something, because I'm pretty sure "no" and "stop" do not mean "I am into this."

He's been trying to get back with me ever since, and it doesn't help that my lizard brain still thinks he's hot, or that I'm forced to see him on a regular basis because he's my landlord's son.

I rent a little cottage on George Foley's land, about a mile outside of town. It's secluded and quiet, right on the edge of an alpine meadow, with its own driveway and no view of the main house. It's perfect for someone like me: someone whose senses can easily get overwhelmed because I have more than the usual number of them.

The rent is cheap, too, and given my lack of paying clients at the moment, that's a big bonus.

I don't want to give the place up, and George is a great landlord, but he keeps sending Ian over to fix things for me. Right now I'm torn between my duty as a tenant to let him know the roof is leaking again, and my fear that he'll send his son over to fix it.

I can't even blame him for being too cheap to hire a professional, either. Ian is a carpenter.

When I park my vintage Beetle in front of my cottage a short time later, I see that George is way ahead of me.

Ian's big red truck is parked with one of its over-sized tires in the bed of wildflowers I recently planted, and my front door is wide open. Which means Ian is already inside.

I consider driving away again and hiding out somewhere for a few hours until he's gone, but instead, I bite the side of my cheek and force myself to get out of my car.

"Hello?" I call as I enter the house.

"In here," Ian calls from the kitchen area.

I put my things away and wait. A few minutes later he wanders out of the kitchen, dressed in a dirty work shirt and jeans, tool-belt slung low on his hips, and a beer from my fridge in his hand. It's barely past eleven.

He sees my frown and lifts it towards me. "I left you a five so can buy more," he says.

Ian has a tendency to take what he wants and pay for it later. Another thing I didn't really notice until it was too late.

He's tall, bulky in the right places, red-headed, and bearded. When I first met him I thought he looked like a sexy Viking, or maybe a lumberjack. Now I think he looks like a painful memory.

"Ian," I say, as evenly as I can. "What are you doing here?"

He has the decency to look uncomfortable and rubs a hand on the back of his thick neck.

"My dad wanted me to check for leaks. That last rainstorm was a doozy. He was right, too." He points over his shoulder with the beer. "You had a leak right over the kitchen window. Coulda caused some problems if left unfixed."

"Yeah, I know. I was planning to tell him about it."

I don't say anything more, and watch him warily. I can tell he wants to say something, and I'd bet a year of free readings for Mumu it's not something I want to hear.

"Hey, Jules?" he starts.

Here we go again. "What, Ian?"

"Can't you give me another chance? I miss you. You're... Well, there's no one else like you. Believe me, I've looked."

Oh, I believe him. From the impressions I used to pick up from his stuff, he'd never stopped looking, even when we were supposedly together.

"No, Ian. We can't. Sorry. I lost interest when you..." I have to stop and look away. "When you broke my trust."

"That was one time. Can't you forgive me? We were good together."

Suddenly my anger, which I've been keeping in a hole about a hundred feet deep, gets loose.

"No, Ian," I spit. "Once was enough, I haven't forgiven you, and we were not good together. I'm not sure we even were together. Now please leave, and next time your dad asks you to fix something down here, tell him you're too busy. I can pay for my own repairs, or fix it myself. I'm not—"

I was going to say "helpless," but I choke on the word.

"—useless," I finish. "Now fuck off."

Infuriatingly, Ian has the temerity to look hurt.

"Fine, Julian. I'm going." He says it quietly and leaves the half-finished beer on the counter. At the door, he turns. "Jules? I'm really sorry for...what happened, you know? I hope someday you believe me."

Once he's gone, I lean against the back of the sofa and rub my palms into my eyes until I see stars. It pisses me off that he can still get under my skin, that I still find him attractive, and that because of him, I haven't been intimate with anyone for almost a year.

I hear Ian's truck start and then the crunch of dirt and gravel—and the silent screams of my wildflowers—as he pulls away. I hold still while the noise of the engine fades.

I've just started to relax when the sound begins to come back. I glance around, thinking Ian must have forgotten something, but I don't see any of his tools lying around. Maybe he decided he wanted the rest of that beer after all.

I hear a heavy door slam, and footsteps on the porch. Suddenly my anger spikes once more. I've had enough of him barging into my house, taking things that don't belong to him, and refusing to believe that I never want him within arm's reach of me again.

Before he has a chance to knock, I throw open the door and yell in his face.

"Why the fuck won't you listen, Ian!? I told you to fuck...off."

It's not Ian.

It's Dane Hunter, and he's looking down at me like he's not quite sure I'm entirely sane.