Page 42 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Oh,” she says. “That is considerably better.”

“Drink extra water this evening. You may have mild soreness tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell Mason I have medical instructions to rest.”

“I didn’t say rest.”

“He doesn’t need every detail.”

Chloe gives me a knowing smile as Delaney collects her bag. Their presence has left the booth warmer, their affection and happiness lingering around the space.

“How long are you staying?” Delaney asks.

“Until the festival ends.”

Chloe adjusts the heavy crystal in her arms. “That isn’t long enough to see Cady Springs properly.”

“Then I may have to return.”

“Good,” she says, as though the matter has already been decided.

Chloe laughs and carries her purchases toward the path. Delaney hugs me before following.

“Thank you,” she says. “For the massage and for not telling Chloe anything alarming.”

“Nothing alarming appeared.”

“That is exactly what I wanted to hear.”

They disappear into the festival crowd.

I clear the treatment area, replace the used linens, and prepare the booth for my final customers. My energy feels lower than it did before Chloe’s reading, but not depleted. Both sessions were warm, balanced exchanges. Neither woman took more than she gave.

The unease beneath the festival returns anyway. A child cries somewhere near the main path. The sound is brief, followed by a man’s reassuring voice and the child’s quick laughter.

Nothing is wrong.

I carry the used linens toward the storage container beneath my sales counter. My hand passes over the cash box. Cold moves through my fingers. I stop.

The metal latch appears perfectly ordinary. Silver, rectangular, secured with a small key. Rocco told me a man photographed locks and cash-handling procedures. Knowing that should explain why touching it makes my pulse quicken.

I place my fingertips against it again. The booth vanishes. Glass explodes in front of me.

A red flash cuts through darkness. Not flame. Fabric, perhaps, or clothing moving too quickly to identify.

Smoke burns my throat. Cinnamon and scorched sugar fill the air.

A child screams.

The sound is no longer playful. Someone shouts for people to get down. Another voice calls Rocco’s name. A deafening crack splits the night.

Then I am kneeling on the ground with blood covering both hands. Rocco’s blood. Warm. Slippery. Too much.

His face is beneath mine, but I cannot see his eyes. Dark hair lies across the pavement. My hands press against him while the child continues crying somewhere beyond the smoke.

The vision releases me.

I return to the booth with my knees striking the ground.