"Fuck off."

~ Zandra, 23 years ago, in response to an interview request from The New York Times

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Emile the Empath is the closest thing to a rival Zandra ever had in Stevens Point. For better or worse, Zandra retained a monopoly on metaphysical services in central Wisconsin throughout her career. Even disgraced, her name is synonymous with "psychic."

Except for Emile the Empath.

"She's in a retirement home now. It's one of the expensive ones that's like living in a condo, but they call it an assisted living facility. All the money was donated. Can you believe that? People love her," Zandra says in the white SUV as Sunglasses drives.

There's a fine line between donating and stealing. Just ask the TV preachers.

"Jealous?" Sunglasses says.

"I'll be lucky if I retire before I'm dead," Zandra says.

"Not many people retire after they're dead."

"I'll ask them next time we talk. There might be even a few in there," Zandra says as the white SUV pulls into the parking lot of the assisted living facility. The features bring to mind a lodge in the Rocky Mountains for the rich and famous.

"That's mean," Sunglasses says.

"And true. Three people died here in the past two weeks. One of them is still waiting for the staff to check the bathroom," Zandra says with zero evidence other than the confidence in her voice. "Maybe I should go inside and let them know about that."

"Is that person Emile?" Sunglasses says. He adjusts his trademark sunglasses. Zandra notices the indents the frames make on either side of his nose. The indents look different, almost as if he switched sunglasses, although Zandra can't be sure of that.

"It's hard to say. It'd be good if I went in and checked on her. You, however, should stay here. You're not getting tired of staying behind, are you? I'll be sure to leave the window open a crack so you don't overheat," Zandra says.

"I'd prefer to come with you. I still need to observe you at work, and only one of us has this," Sunglasses says. He pats the revolver in the pocket holster concealed in his jean shorts.

"This place bans guns. They don't ban knives, though," Zandra says. She taps the blade of the lawnmower knife up her sleeve.

Two parking lot cigarettes later, Zandra makes her case to the worker at the check-in station inside the assisted living facility. It doesn't go well.

"Why wouldn't a psychic impression be enough reason for me to go check on Emile?" Zandra says to the worker. "You take her money, don't you? She got that by being somewhat of a psychic herself. You're telling me you've never heard of Emile the Empath?"

When that doesn't work, Zandra leans into her own celebrity.

"Don't you know who I am?" Zandra says to a blank stare.

Fortunately, someone else does: Emile. Dressed like a baroness in an old black-and-white movie, she uses an electric scooter to steer to Zandra.

"I knew you were coming," Emile says in a vaguely eastern European accent.

"So did I," Zandra says.

Emile wrinkles her nose and says, "Follow me." Her scooter heads to a set of elevators with a whir. Zandra follows, dragging the pain in her left ankle along with her.

Their ride up in the elevator is silent except for the creak of the machinery.

She pressed the letter R on the panel with the floor numbers, and then inserted a key card. R for roof?

R does indeed stand for roof. Zandra soon finds herself four floors up, looking out at the sod, winding pavement, and drainage pond that form the facility's outdoor space. Even from above, the smell of fertilizer finds its way to Zandra's nose. She lights up yet another cigarette.

"They don't allow residents on the roof, but not every resident is Emile the Empath. You mind?" Emile says and raises two fingers like a peace sign. "They also don't let residents smoke outside, but no one checks the roof."

Pay all that money just to let someone tell you not to smoke? No thank you.

Zandra hands a cigarette to Emile. They light up and look down at the visitors and residents enjoying the sun.

"Are you here to kill me, Zandra?" Emile says finally.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Zandra says.

"So that's what's got you so distressed," Emile says and swats a stray ash from her shirt. "I felt the air change after you walked in."

Empaths always swoop in after the fact. They validate what other people are feeling, and that's why people love them. It's easy to do, but there's not much to it beyond stating the obvious. They're an inch deep and a mile wide, like a polluted drainage ditch posing as a pond on the campus of an assisted living facility.

"You don't have to talk like that anymore, not around me," Zandra says.

"Oh, that's right. You're the psychic. No hiding from you," Emile says.

"No, I believe that was your slogan: You Can't Hide From An Empath. That's what you told the parents of that kid with cancer," Zandra says.

Emile grunts something under her breath.

"No, that was all you, Emile. You sabotaged their desperate, last-ditch fundraising efforts to avoid medical bankruptcy on your hunch—oh, excuse me, your intuition as an empath—that the parents begging for money were all an act. Bravo, Emile, bravo. You got to be a fraud-busting hero, never mind the sacrifice of a few bystanders to get there," Zandra says. She pauses to hack into the sleeve of her purple gown. "No, I'm not here to kill you, Emile. I already did once. A little cut between you and me and the truth."

It should've been more than blackmail, but I was feeling generous that day.

Emile looks up at Zandra from the scooter, the creases around her eyes balled up in a squint. She says, "Then why are you here?"

Zandra flicks the butt of her cigarette off the roof. "I already told you."

Emile shakes her head as much as she can. It takes effort to twist her neck.

"You'll have to do better than that," Zandra says. She produces a business card invitation and hands it to Emile. "Get one of your superfans to drive you. Be there. You don't want to find out what happens if you don't."

"What? Why?" Emile says.

So you can prove you're not as fragile as your act. For using a scooter, the muscles in her lower legs are as defined as a regular mall walker. Take it from someone with a bad ankle.

"It's a party, and you're a guest of honor. Don't pretend like you don't like the attention," Zandra says. She shuffles behind the scooter out of Emile's view. "Beautiful view from this roof, isn't it?"

Emile yanks the handlebars of the scooter. The machine turns so the two women face each other. With the accent suddenly gone, Emile says like a lifetime resident of Rhinelander, "When am I going to die, Zandra?"

"Wait, what?" Zandra says.

"You're the real thing. So tell me," Emile says. "How much longer do I have?"

Do I get to decide?

"Let's find out. Don't mind my hands, child. I need to make a connection," Zandra says. She approaches the scooter from behind and places her palms on either side of Emile's head.

Emile reacts with a twitch but still allows the touch. She says, "Phrenology?"

You would bring up phrenology, Emile, wouldn't you? That would be the "science" of using bumps in the skull to identify a person's traits in hopes of foretelling the future. It gave the racists of yesteryear another reason to feel superior.

And of today. The world moved on to AI and facial recognition; a more efficient way to enforce the status quo.

"Shhh, child," Zandra says. Her fingers lock into Emile's scalp, and she feels how delicate the neck holding the empath's head up really is. She works Emile's head a few inches from side to side to test the resistance. Emile, eyes closed and relaxed as if she's receiving a massage, offers no complaints.

She's too primed. There's no baseline to work off of, and therefore no outliers to review.

Need to get her to talk.

Zandra clears her throat and slips a pinky down to Emile's carotid artery to feel for a pulse. She finds it. With a healthy dollop of woo-woo, she says, "Tell me your name, Emile."

Emile is still and silent.

Did she die? Oh, shit.

Zandra asks the question again. Emile stirs in her seat on the scooter, eyes remaining shut.

"Oh, sorry, Zandra, I must've dozed off. I've been like this more and more," Emile says.

Heart condition. At her age, with her being so bold as to ask me right out the gate about death given our history, I'd bet it's that. Either that or some other organ is failing her. Play the odds, do the quick math of calculating an expectation value, and you'll win most of the time. You just need an excuse ready in case it's a miss.

"I know, child. You've had a problem of the heart, haven't you?" Zandra says, hands still in place.

"Heart problems? No. They say it's my kidneys," Emile says. "The dialysis is hard, so hard."

This is why the heart is my favorite organ to lead with in a reading. It's an easy out. No one makes sappy metaphors about the kidneys.

"But it's your heart that's troubling you, isn't it, child? Something you need to get off your mind," Zandra says. Her pinky picks up a spike in Emile's pulse.

Bingo.

"Yes, and that you showed up so unexpectedly, even after all that's gone on between us, just shows that there's a reason we're here up on this roof," Emile says. Her eyes open. She tries to shift her head up so that her gaze meets Zandra's, but Zandra holds Emile's head in place. "You're the only one who will understand."

"Go on, child. I'm not here to judge you," Zandra says, sucking in a laugh.

"I...I...," Emile says.

"Yes?"

"Emile the Empath is a lie. I made it up. All of it," Emile says.

Does she think so little of me? This is old news.

"I know," Zandra says after waiting a few seconds.

"Of course you know. It's the money, though, that makes it worse. All these people paying for me to live here, it rubs it in, makes it worse," Emile says. "Do you realize how much money I have? Do you really?"

Let me count it and I'll tell you.

"Yes, child, but I wouldn't dare say it out loud. We're far too close to unworthy ears," Zandra says, still holding Emile's head in place. The pulse beneath Zandra's pinky remains high. This is pay dirt.

Emile says a number anyway. It's high even compared to Zandra's most generous estimations.

"I can't die with this guilt on my soul," Emile says.

"So give the money back."

Emile jerks her head free from Zandra's grip. Spinning the electric scooter 180 degrees, she says, "No, don't you see? That would ruin everything. Think, Zandra, think, and look in my heart again. To admit Emile the Empath was all a hoax would be to deny hope to people who need it the most. They're desperate for something, anything, to hold on to."

Always one for the dramatic. At least that part isn't an act.

"Then why, child, is your heart so heavy? Deep down, you know you hurt desperate people," Zandra says, ignoring the times she gladly did the same.

"Not everything is so black and white. When people put money down, they say something about their beliefs," Emile says.

That much we can agree on, Emile.

Zandra lights up another cigarette, plucks it out of her mouth, and hands it to Emile. Then she lights one up for herself. This guarantees there's a timer on their conversation on the roof.

"Your aura is turning, child, and I sense you've come to a decision," Zandra says.

"Yes," Emile says.

Might as well go for broke here.

"You're going to allow me to relieve you of this burden, child, aren't you?" Zandra says, taking care to couch how she states the question to leave plenty of wiggle room.

"Oh, please, will you? I'll keep just enough of the money to keep me here comfortably, but you'll promise to take the rest, won't you?" Emile says.

I can't believe that worked.

Meaning, I can't believe it.

Need to clear that up just in case someone is reading my thoughts like lines in a book.

Zandra shuffles to the scooter and places a palm on Emile's forehead, saying in a soft voice, "Come, close your eyes with me. Listen to your soul. Go deep inside. Feel our energies connect. Do you feel that, child?"

Zandra doesn't feel a thing except for the grease of Emile's forehead. Still, Emile acknowledges she feels something of a connection.

"There. You've repaid your debt on the spiritual level. But as you know, child, the spirit is only half of a person. You'll need to complete your show of commitment in the physical as well," Zandra says.

"I'll mail the money to Sneak Peek," Emile says.

I wish.

"Bring the money with you to the party, but tell no one about our conversation," Zandra says. She throws in some woo-woo babble to polish off the effect. "Until then, you must sleep with your head facing west. Place a single item made of solid metal beneath your pillow. Can you do that, child?"

"Anything, anything," Emile says.

"Then we shall not speak a word more of this," Zandra says.

They finish their cigarettes and ride down the elevator back to the lobby. Zandra, favoring her left ankle, bids Emile goodbye and heads for the door.

I bet she gets off that scooter the minute I'm out of sight.

Zandra's attention shifts to more urgent issues as she approaches the white SUV in the parking lot. Sunglasses is missing. Zandra tries the doors to the SUV, but they're locked. There's no note on the windshield. Nothing is out of place, except for Sunglasses.

Where the hell did he go?

That's when Zandra feels a hand slip over her mouth.