"The con always starts before the mark ever sits down."

~ Zandra

After re-watching the video a few more times, Sunglasses says, "I can't believe we caught this on video. Real evidence."

"To be fair, Carey Manor is supposed to be haunted. That's why it was exceptionally easy to call up the spirits," Zandra says. "You shouldn't be so surprised."

"Supposed to be?"

"Is haunted. I think we've cleared that up now," Zandra says. She motions to leave the phone booth, but Sunglasses isn't interested in going just yet.

"What do they look like when you see them?" Sunglasses says.

As common a question as the trick I just pulled with the planchette.

"It's not like how I see you, child. It's more of a feeling. If you walk into a room, and you feel the hair standing up on the back of your neck, it's like that," Zandra says.

"Do they wear clothes? Can you tell?"

"There's no need for clothes when you're dead, despite what you might see in a casket."

"So they're naked?"

"No, but they're not clothed, either. Creep," Zandra says and forces a cough into her sleeve to mask that last word.

Sunglasses mulls that for a moment while Zandra gathers the spirit board from the table.

There are good reasons I picked this exact table to dance this bullshit dance with the spirit board. Four legs. A linen to hide my feet under.

All it takes is a toe under one of the legs, or a knee up against the underside of the tabletop, to move a planchette. It's easier than it seems. A little wiggle is all it takes.

Why? Let's call it my version of "resetting assumptions." So long as ghosts are real, I'm in control.

"I'll play this back with some headphones on later. Maybe the video picked up some electronic voice phenomenon," Sunglasses says, holding up the smartphone.

Sounds thrilling. Have fun with that.

They leave Carey Manor and return to the white SUV, knowing they'll be back the next day to set up for the dinner party.

"The dinner party of the damned and despicable. I just can't decide which one I'm supposed to be," Zandra says inside the SUV as they pull away from one last glimpse at the eccentric lawn ornamentations.

"How many invitees are we up to?" Sunglasses says from the driver's seat.

"Eight. Melvin the beet juicer. Emile the Empath. Carter Cunningham, the gods' gift to Ukrainian chlamydia. The person in apartment 201. Hank, from the hotel lobby. Three weirdos who think beating the piss out of each other will lead to enlightenment," Zandra says.

Fuck, I could use a cigarette.

"So 10, counting you and I," Sunglasses says.

"Ten, yes. Ten ways to die by midnight," Zandra says and taps her fingers in succession on her knee.

"Well, OK, 10 it is," Sunglasses says. "Speaking of 10, I've got about as many stops to make before tomorrow to get ready. This is a dinner party, after all. The Carey estate doesn't provide anything other than the square footage."

"Fitting."

"You want to come along or should I drop you back at the hotel?"

Zandra rubs the spot between her eyebrows. This time, it's not for dramatic effect. Headaches let her know when it's been too long between cigarettes. She says, "I'll do fine at the hotel. I need to get ready for this. It's going to be quite a show."

"You think the killer is on the invite list?" Sunglasses says.

"I don't think anything. I know things. If I have to stop to think, I'm doing it wrong," Zandra says.

Not long later, Sunglasses drops Zandra off at the hotel. As she shuffles toward the front entrance, she spots someone familiar parting ways with an older male in the parking lot. Zandra pauses and watches the young woman, knowing the gaze is returned from behind a pair of sunglasses and long, blond hair.

Once you spot sex trafficking, you can't unsee it.

But then, what do I do about it? Tell the police I have a hunch?

Zandra runs a hand over the part of her sleeve that outlines the sheathed lawnmower knife.

I need to get warmed up for the dinner party.

Zandra changes course and heads for the nice car the older man is presently unlocking. She calls out, "Hey you."

The older man looks over. "Me?"

"Yeah, I think you forgot something," Zandra says. She shuffles quickly, but not in an aggressive way. Her demeanor flips when she gets within arm's reach of the man.

"Wha...?" the man manages to say before Zandra takes out the lawnmower knife. She pushes the steel tip into the leather of his belt just above his groin. The man could knock Zandra's hand away, but the element of surprise keeps the momentum in her favor.

Just a nice, little warm up. That's all.

"Enjoy the hotel?" Zandra says, her voice forceful without cracking. For once, the knife is as steady in her hand.

"If you want money, I'll give you whatever you want. Please, don't hurt me," the man says, his hands raised.

"Yeah, money. That's what I want. Show me your wallet. Open it up. I want to see inside," Zandra says. The man obliges. "Say, Larry Anderson who lives on Birch Street, you're looking a little light on cash in this wallet. Mind telling me why?"

"W-w-was just out having a late breakfast," Larry says. He pits out in his dress shirt.

"R-really? With who?" Zandra says, mocking him.

"Uh, m-my niece."

"Niece? Sounds nice. You like to fuck your nieces, Larry?" Zandra says.

"I swear. It's the truth."

People telling you the truth don't usually swear they're telling the truth.

I suppose I could fuck with him and make him tell me a story about how he had breakfast, and then tell him to repeat those same events in reverse. That's another way to catch someone in a lie. But we're way past that point here.

"Listen to me very carefully, Larry. I know what goes on in this hotel. If I ever catch you here again, I'm not going to bother being so nice. Next time, I'm going to castrate you, right here in this parking lot, and then I'm going to stuff your mouth with what hits the pavement so you get a taste of your own medicine. Clear?" Zandra says.

"Y-yes. Clear."

"Good. Now throw your wallet as far as you can before I change my mind about letting you go today. It's time you got good and fucked today, too," Zandra says. The man follows orders, hurling his wallet into the middle of the parking lot. He's practically halfway down the street in his car by the time Zandra removes the knife.

Zandra shuffles past the wallet on her way back toward the hotel entrance, scanning the parking lot for signs of the young woman but seeing none. She does, however, spot a minivan grating the wallet against the pavement.

When all this is over, I'll call social services. Not the police. A place like this doesn't operate without the police knowing.

The front desk worker greets Zandra in the lobby.

Or the hotel staff, for that matter.

"Remind me one more time, child. Do the security cameras in the parking lot work or are they just for show?" Zandra says to the front desk worker.

The front desk worker's face goes from forced smile to relaxed droop.

"Thank you, child," Zandra says. She favors her bad ankle as she makes her way to the elevator.

Returning to her room, Zandra takes stock of anything missing or moved. To her relief, nothing appears out of place. The bathroom is still a mess from her adventures in the tunnel. The TV is still on. Even the cleaning staff honored the "Do Not Disturb" sign she hung outside.

Zandra takes a moment to strop the lawnmower knife against a stack of newsprint. The rhythmic, muted scraping of metal on paper gives her a beat to settle her mind. She closes her eyes, stropping the knife by muscle memory and letting her focus drift.

After what could've been five minutes or 50, Zandra sets the knife down and hobbles to the bathroom. She turns the desk lamp on and shines it into the tunnel. The light catches something she hadn't noticed before.

The final piece of the puzzle. I hate being right all the time, I really do.

Zandra switches the lamp off and leaves the bathroom for the phone by the bed. She dials the number for Sunglasses's smartphone. He picks up in two rings.

"Everything alright?" Sunglasses says.

"It's fine. Better than fine, actually," Zandra says.

"Good. Do you need anything?"

"No, I've got everything I need now. I'm going to stay here and rest until the party. I'll have room service run food up to me. You take care of what you need to do."

"You feeling OK? Sick?"

"Not sick. Tomorrow night, everything gets sorted out," Zandra says. She ends the call after that, skipping the formality of a "goodbye."

Zandra collapses onto the bed. She drifts off to sleep, free from worry about the secret passageway in the bathroom.