Page 13 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

The porch light clicks on.

My head turns slowly toward the front windows. Sunlight is pouring across the porch but the blue light glows cheerfully anyway.

I stare at it, annoyed that the cottage has so much to say today.

There is, unfortunately, a superstition for that one too. A blue porch light burning without reason means someone inside the house is lying to herself.

“You’re being dramatic.”

The cottage says nothing, but the light stays on.

I take a long drink of my iced coffee and immediately regret it because the ice has melted enough to turn Honey’s beautiful lavender concoction into floral sadness.

On the table, the spoon taps the side of the morning cup again. I pretend I don’t see it but my mind drifts back to the bonded pair of investigators. They are talking about the investigation, not me, I remind myself. Except Wes knew my name before I gave it to him and Roman knew about my books.

My body warms again, an ache settling between my legs.

“Traitors,” I mutter, with no clear idea whether I mean the spoon, my hormones, or the entire concept of attraction.

I cross to the kitchen window and push it wider. Wet heat rolls in from the swamp. It helps a little.

Their case should be the problem occupying my attention. Why do they think GatorX is coming from here? What wetland compounds have they found? Who put swamp lilies among sweetheart offerings where they do not belong? And the pack in the square, their breaking bond… is that connected?

The wrongness of it presses against me, even though I don’t understand it. That’s the way it seems to work. I can tell when something is wrong but never anything useful like how to fix it. Just like I knew something was wrong with Junie’s pack before their bond failed. I knew it while everyone around me smiled and congratulated her and talked about how beautiful the ceremony would be. I could not explain it then either.

People call that prediction because prediction is easier to understand than knowing. My grandmother called it paying attention. She also kept enough notebooks full of crossed-out dates, corrected legends, strange dreams, and tarot spreads to suggest her definition of what counted as paying attention was unusually broad.

My gaze drops to the deck beside my notebook. The cards have been in my family for generations. The corners are softened from use, the backs faded enough that I know which card has the tiny white nick along one edge. They don’t tell the future, which is never what anyone wants to hear. At their best, they give me a way to see things I already know but have not figured out how to name. At their worst, they tell me what I am afraid of and leave me to decide what to do with that fear.

I pull out a chair.

The porch light continues glowing.

“Fine.”

The deck is warm when I pick it up. I shuffle slowly, letting the familiar motion settle my hands. The fountain comes to mind first. I picture the flowers covering the stone ledge. Then the pale swamp lilies tucked among them like a sentence written in the wrong language.

I cut the deck. The strained pack comes next. The alpha reaching for his omega and stopping. Her confusion. The sudden absence where their connection had been. Another shuffle. Then GatorX in my swamp. My fingers slow. Wes and Roman slip into the thought before I can stop them.

I shuffle harder but I can almost smell cedar and cardamom and that warm, steady pack frequency between them. My body gives a small answering pulse.

“Still not relevant.”

I cut the deck into three piles. My grandmother used to say that if you have to keep telling a thing it does not matter, you have already answered the question. My gran was irritatingly right. I put the deck back together and pull three cards. The first turns over beneath my fingers to reveal The Moon. It warns of illusion, distortion, and things seen badly because the light is wrong.

My stomach tightens but I flip the second card. Judgment.

I sit back like I’ve been burned. Judgment is recognition or seeing what has been buried. It means someone is being called to answer for what is true after spending too long pretending not to hear it.

The third card sticks against the deck. I tug it free. Two of Cups. For several seconds, I simply stare. Then I laugh once, because apparently the universe thinks it has got jokes.

“No.”

I reach for the card but my fingers stop before touching it. The image shows two figures facing each other, cups raised between them. The same knowing from the fountain brushes beneath my skin.

My smile disappears.

I look at the three cards again. Distortion. Recognition. Connection.