"I shall not commit the fashionable stupidity of regarding everything I cannot explain as a fraud."

~ Carl Jung, psychiatrist, 1875-1961

"No Refunds."

~ The sign on the front window of Sneak Peek, before it burned down

The man in sunglasses makes his pitch. Zandra listens with one knuckle grinding between her eyebrows.

"One of your old clients, someone from the past, is planning on murdering you. Judging by your personality, that shouldn't come as a shock," the man in sunglasses says. "We're not certain of who this person is, but we're confident someone is planning on it. Our pre-screening technology alerted us to a specific pattern of communications and financial activity in this area. Long story short, we know someone is coming after you, but that's about it."

Wouldn't surprise me if there was a bounty on my head, and someone out to claim it. People are desperate for money right now.

Zandra laughs from deep in her chest, rattling something loose that she gives up to the grass. She says, "If you know someone is out to get me, why don't you just stop it? And why is there only one of you? Your partner get bored and go home or something?"

"To be frank, we want to confirm you are who you say you are, and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. Because of the sensitive nature of this situation, and your profile, we wanted to keep your points of contact to a minimum. It's just me," the man says.

But there's still a "we" in there, isn't there?

"Remind me again what organization you work for? If you're with the IRS, I promise you that an audit of my tax return would break your little brain," Zandra says.

The man in sunglasses shakes his head. "Not the IRS. I'm with the Office of Naval Research. We investigate claims of psychic activity as it relates to national security. We've been interested for a long time."

Apparently, there's a 25-year backlog. Took them long enough.

The breeze picks up, blowing the sweet smell of something blooming in the park across the road.

"That's a Cold War blast from the past. Didn't the Soviets and the U.S. already look into this stuff? All they accomplished was wasting time and money," Zandra says.

"That's right, but not in the way you think. In the 1950s and '60s, the idea was to force the Soviets to burn resources chasing their tails with psychics," the man in sunglasses says. "We knew that if we started our own programs, we could get them to match the effort. It was an arms race, and every possible advantage had to be explored.

"The public knows a little about this because we'd intentionally leak sensational information, regardless of whether it was true or not. This allowed us to track how that information flowed from the U.S. to the Soviet Union. We could plant something and watch where it came out on the other side of the planet. Great way to catch spies," the man in sunglasses says.

"That was decades ago, though," Zandra says.

"Yes, but the programs never stopped. Project Star Gate, declassified by the CIA in 2017, started in the '70s and ran through to the mid-'90s, after the collapse of the Soviet Union. In the mid-2010s, the Office of Naval Research spent $4 million on figuring out why certain U.S. Marines in Iraq and Afghanistan somehow knew to go left instead of right, so to speak, to avoid explosives and certain death. If there was no there there, the research would've stopped decades ago," the man in sunglasses says.

Like looking for a black cat in a dark room.

"War is stupid. I guess this just proves the point," Zandra says.

"You can think what you want about U.S. policy, but the point is that the government has always placed citizens displaying exceptional abilities in the same bucket as national security. If an Olympic swimmer breaks records, the government wants to know how to copy-paste those abilities for the Navy. Someone is a mathematical genius, they get recruited by the NSA to crack ciphers. Heck, even Julia Child helped cook up shark repellent during World War II. It's all about maximizing these assets for the benefit of hundreds of millions of people, to keep them safe," the man in sunglasses says.

So, at best, the world's greatest intelligence agencies don't know that psychics aren't real. At worst, they know they're not real and want to keep the myth going for the sake of keeping their jobs. We're in good hands, people.

"Did you rehearse all of that in your hotel room this morning or did you make it up just now?" Zandra says.

"Excuse me?"

"You expect me to believe all of this just because you bought me breakfast? You still haven't told me your name, but here you are just handing over these secrets. Doesn't add up."

"I'd rather finish this part of the conversation first, then talk about my name," the man in sunglasses says.

Zandra rolls her eyes. "Go on then."

"Put all of what I just said together, and now you can see why we were so concerned about the threat to your life. I'm here to document how you work and, most importantly, keep you alive. Your job is to find the would-be killer," the man says.

"So you sent someone to kill me as a test? Is that it?" Zandra says.

"I can see how you'd think that, but in this case the threat to your life is genuine," the man says.

The conversation pauses for a car driving down the road. Zandra catches the license plate number. It's familiar. One driver, one passenger. Older couple.

"You're going to pay me for this, right?" Zandra says.

"Isn't saving your life enough?" the man says.

"No. Not nearly enough," Zandra says. "I'll charge you my standard hourly rate, plus overtime, plus a new client fee, plus a client maintenance fee. I'm sure there's sales tax in there, too, but you're in luck. It's coupon day. One for the price of two," Zandra says.

Maybe when this is done, I'll be able to buy my own car to sleep in.

Zandra lights another cigarette and takes a walk across the cemetery once more, glancing only at the names she doesn't recognize. This time the man in sunglasses doesn't follow behind her. She pauses at a tall, concrete cross that casts a shadow across her face.

"What will you do with what you find out about me? Your observations must be going somewhere," Zandra says over the top of the breeze.

"I'll add it to the data we already have. Hopefully, we'll draw some conclusions," the man in sunglasses says.

Zandra runs her hand across the cross, feeling the cool, weathered concrete against her skin. It contrasts the sheer volume of people she's burned through her work as a psychic.

"But it's to help people, right?" Zandra says.

"Absolutely. The more we learn, the better we get at isolating the root of psychic powers. We could locate missing people, anticipate unusual events, avoid dangerous scenarios, save lives, that sort of thing," the man in sunglasses says.

"Or program computers to predict crimes before they happen," Zandra says. "Sort of like whatever program you used to detect this threat to my life."

"Yes. It's all for the greater good," the man in sunglasses says.

These types always say that, and then the greater good leaves a mess a few feet shy of its target, like a grenade. We all need reasons, though.

"So what's the plan here? I give you a personal tour of Stevens Point? Better buy new shoes. It's going to take a while to get through everyone who wants to kill me," Zandra says.

"I was hoping we could be more precise than that," the man in sunglasses says. He reaches inside the jacket of his suit and pulls out a white envelope. He opens the fold at the top to show Zandra several business cards.

"You floating your résumé?" Zandra says and walks to the man.

"Take one," the man says.

Zandra plucks one of the business cards from the envelope. Printed in black letters against a white background are a date two days from today, a time of 6 p.m., an address, and nothing more.

Isn't that the address for Gene Carey's mansion? Used to be owned by one of the wealthiest families in Wisconsin, before a certain someone wiped him out. Now it's rented out for events. They say it's haunted.

Good marketing. You can charge a lot more for a haunted mansion.

Zandra rubs her temples for effect. "You want me to select the most likely would-be murderers and invite them to meet me at this date and address. Then I'm supposed to figure out who the real one is, and then you'll swoop in with the arrest. Did I get that right?"

The man in sunglasses grins. "Technically, I have no authority to arrest anyone, but I'm sure we can come up with a convincing argument to keep you alive. Other than that, you are 100 percent correct."

Of course I am.

"I thought they sold Carey Manor," Zandra says.

"The estate of the late Mr. Carey is planning on selling it, yes. It's still available for short-term leases for now," the man says.

"Like old-fashioned dinner parties."

"Yes, like old-fashioned dinner parties."

Zandra wobbles the card in her hand. "There's no time to put these invitations in the mail. They'll need to be hand delivered."

"So you'll do it?" the man says.

Zandra turns back toward the park bench and exhales a cloud of smoke. She says, "In a moment like this, I suppose someone might say, 'Everything happens for a reason,' and then agree to go on this little adventure. People who say those things center the universe of coincidences on themselves. Sometimes things happen for reasons you don't realize until they're over. And sometimes you find out you weren't the star of the show the entire time like you thought you were."

The man in sunglasses adjusts his collar and says, "Well, I can tell you that I'm not a narcissist, but I do believe things happen for a reason. That reason is you."

Zandra feels the light, cool breeze on her face change direction. She shrugs and says, "This still feels like bullshit, but honestly, I've got nothing else better to do."

The man in sunglasses adjusts his collar. "Then let's get started. I've got you set up in a hotel room. There's no time to waste."

The world's phoniest psychic. The world's worst secret agent. An entire city full of people who would jump at the chance to kill its most infamous resident. That's one hell of a setup.

And I know just whoto invite to the party.