My apartment greeted me with its particular brand of silence—the kind that accumulates in spaces where one person lives alone for too long. I stood just inside the door, keys still in hand, listening to the emptiness. The studio that had once seemed cozy now felt confining, a constant reminder of how much I had lost when my shop closed. Fifteen hundred square feet of prime retail space reduced to three hundred square feet of living space where I both slept and worked. The walls seemed closer each day, as though the apartment were slowly exhaling, giving up its own breath to sustain mine.
I set my keys in the ceramic dish by the door, a relic salvaged from my former space. The dish, shaped like a lotus flower, had once held business cards on my shop counter. Now it caught keys and loose change, a daily reminder of better days.
“Five thousand dollars,” I murmured, pulling out my phone to check my bank account again. The deposit from Jason Green had cleared while I was on the subway home. The numbers on my screen seemed surreal after months of dwindling finances—my balance now sporting a comma where there hadn’t been one in weeks.
I moved to the window, drawing aside the thin curtain to gaze at the city lights emerging in the early evening darkness. My reflection stared back at me—tired eyes, hair pulled back in a practical bun that had started the day neat but now sagged to one side, the weight of the day evident in the slope of my shoulders. Behind my reflection, the cramped apartment stretched in a single unbroken space: kitchenette along one wall, bed pushed into the far corner, desk cluttered with tarot books and the sad little ring light I used for my YouTube videos.
“I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said to the seemingly empty apartment.
Mister B. materialized in my periphery—not physically present, but in that liminal space where my mind perceived my guides. I didn’t see him with my eyes so much as feel him with some other sense, one that translated his presence into visual form for my brain to process. Tonight, he appeared in his usual tweed jacket, looking like a professor from a British period drama. His form was more solid than usual, a sign that my connection was strong today, likely from the heightened emotions of the reading.
“On the contrary,” he replied, his accent crisp as always. “I think this case may be precisely what you need.”
I turned from the window, moving into the kitchenette. The apartment was small enough that three steps took me from one “room” to another. “A wild goose chase for a wealthy addict who can’t accept his grandfather’s death?” I shook my head as I filled the electric kettle. “The man was one hundred and two.”
Mister B. perched on the edge of my desk, his form causing no disturbance to the papers beneath him. In the early days of our relationship, such visual inconsistencies had bothered me. Now I barely noticed them.
“And yet. The cards were unambiguous. Deception. Conflict. Loss.” His gaze was penetrating, despite being not entirely corporeal. “When have you known the cards to be so definitively dark without cause?”
“Cards can be interpreted in many ways.” I pressed the switch on the kettle, watching as the indicator light glowed blue. “Maybe they were just reflecting Jason’s addiction, his family troubles.”
“Perhaps.” Mister B. crossed one leg over the other, a gesture so human it sometimes made me forget he wasn’t. “But you don’t believe that, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic. Something about Jason’s story had resonated with me, despite my skepticism. Or perhaps it was simply the opportunity it presented—a chance to revive my faltering career, to do something more substantial than recording YouTube videos that garnered fifteen views. To be more than the crazy woman who claimed to talk to spirits and read cards.
“He didn’t look like he was lying when he said he never thought his grandfather would cut him out of his will,” I admitted, reaching for a mug from the cabinet. My fingers brushed against my collection—mismatched pieces accumulated over years, each with its own story. I selected a heavy ceramic one with a chip on the rim, a memento from my shop’s grand opening.
“His eyes were clear when he spoke about that,” I continued, dropping a tea bag into the mug. “Clearer than at any other point in our conversation.”
“Follow the money,” Mister B. advised. “Always follow the money.”
The kettle clicked off, and I poured steaming water over the tea bag. The scent of chamomile rose with the steam, herbal and soothing. I needed soothing tonight.
“Even if there is something to find, what can I actually do?” I leaned against the counter, cradling the hot mug between my palms. “I’m not a detective. I don’t have resources or connections. When I tell the police I know who murdered that hundred-and-two-year-old man, even if it’s true, will they even think twice before they kick me out of the police station?”
Mister B.’s form shifted slightly, becoming more distinct as my focus on him intensified. The tweed of his jacket took on a textured appearance, the leather patches at the elbows gaining a worn sheen.
“I’m still here,” he said simply. “And I’m doing the magic. Don’t you forget.”
Magic. He always called it that, though I preferred terms like intuition or insight. Less provocative. Less likely to get me diagnosed with something. But he wasn’t wrong—whatever we called it, his guidance had led me to truths that rational investigation couldn’t explain.
Steam rose from my mug, curling in the dimly lit apartment. I watched it dissipate, thinking of the paths before me. I could return Jason’s money, recommend a grief counselor, walk away. The safe choice. The rational choice.
“I’ll need to research the Green family,” I said finally, making my decision. “And I’ll need to find out exactly how Seamusdied.”
Mister B. nodded, approval evident in his posture. “The young Mr. Green will provide details, I’m sure.”
“If he stays sober long enough.” I sipped my tea, the liquid still too hot, burning my tongue slightly. I welcomed the minor pain, a physical anchor in a conversation that existed partly outside physical reality. “That’s another problem. How reliable is our client?”
“Addicts can still tell the truth,” Mister B. replied. “And sometimes, they see things others miss, precisely because people underestimate them.”
The observation gave me pause. I’d been doing exactly that—underestimating Jason because of his addiction. Assuming his story couldn’t be true because of who was telling it. It was the same mistake people made with me—dismissing my insights because they came packaged in talk of tarot cards and spirit guides.
I moved to my desk, setting my tea beside my laptop. The browser was still open to my failed YouTube channel—I got a 3rd subscriber in the meantime, and my latest video had garnered a mere dozen views. A pathetic digital footprint for fifteen years of professional experience. I closed the tab and opened a new document.
“Seamus Green,” I typed. “Age 102. Cause of death: natural causes?”
The cursor blinked at me, waiting for more. But what more did I have? A grandson’s suspicions. A troubling tarot spread.
I paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Once I began this investigation, there would be no turning back. If Jason was right, if someone had murdered a centenarian for his fortune, that person wouldn’t hesitate to silence a struggling tarot reader. I had no illusions about my vulnerability, about how easily I could disappear without anyone noticing or caring.
“You’re afraid,” Mister B. observed from his perch on the desk’s edge.
“I’d be a fool not to be,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly.
“Yet you’ll proceed.” Not a question. He knew me too well.
I nodded slowly. “Five thousand dollars buys a lot of courage.”
“It’s not just the money,” Mister B. said, his form beginning to fade as my concentration shifted to my research. “It’s the possibility that you might make a difference. That this case might matter.”
He was right, of course. Beneath the practical concerns about rent and bills lay a deeper hunger—to be meaningful in some way. To use my peculiar gifts for something beyond entertaining bored housewives and nervous college students. To matter.
As Mister B.’s presence receded, I began typing again, listing questions that needed answers. Who stood to gain from Seamus Green’s death? Who had access to him in his final days? And most importantly, who could have influenced or forged his will?
I worked methodically, creating headers and subheaders, organizing my thoughts. Structure helped me think. It also helped me feel less overwhelmed by the task before me. I was no detective, but I had interviewed hundreds of clients over the years, piecing together life stories from fragments they shared. This wasn’t so different. Just higher stakes.
I opened a browser and searched for “Seamus Green obituary.” Several results appeared, and I clicked on the most official-looking one from the New York Times. The photograph showed a remarkably alert-looking elderly man with a straight posture and clear gaze. Not the typical centenarian.
“Seamus Patrick Green, 102, died peacefully at his home at Central Park on December 15th,” I read aloud to my empty apartment. “Founder of Green Development Corporation, philanthropist, and patron of the arts, Mr. Green is survived by his daughter, Aurelia Green, and grandchildren, Julia Green and Jason Green.”
No cause of death listed. Just “peacefully.” I made a note to ask Jason about the medical details.
I continued reading. The obituary detailed Seamus’s business accomplishments, his philanthropic endeavors, his late wife’s death some twenty years prior. A life of wealth and apparent purpose, condensed to four paragraphs.
A line near the end caught my attention: “In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to the Aurelia Green Foundation for the Arts.”
Not the Seamus Green Foundation. Not a charity he had supported during his life. But one bearing his daughter’s name. I was also wondering if Aurelia was his only daughter and Jasons and Julias Mom, or if there were other children who had already died before him.
I made another note. It might mean nothing. Or it might be the first thread to pull.
By midnight, my notepad was filled with names, relationships, and questions. I had found several mentions of Aurelia Green in society pages—charity galas, art openings, the occasional profile piece describing her as “carrying on her father’s legacy” even before his death. It turned out, Aurelia was Jasons aunt and mother of Julia, and that Jasons father had died from a heart attack five years ago. Jasons mother, who had divorced from his father a long time ago, vanished from the articles, but seemed to be still alive. I had found less about Jason—a few photos from years back, looking healthier and standing alongside his grandfather at various functions, but nothing recent.
There was also a mention of a family lawyer—Mr. Summer—who had issued a brief statement after Seamus’s death regarding the continuation of the Green family businesses under Aurelia’s leadership. Another name to investigate.
My eyes burned from staring at the screen for hours. My tea had gone cold, forgotten beside my keyboard. Outside, the city had settled into its nighttime rhythm, car horns and sirens occasionally piercing the background hum.
I stretched, feeling the stiffness in my shoulders from hunching over the laptop. Tomorrow, I would need to talk to Jason again, get more specific details. Assuming he called. Assuming he remembered our conversation through the haze of whatever he’d taken after leaving me.
I closed my laptop and moved to the window again. The city stretched before me, millions of lights, millions of lives, millions of stories. And somewhere out there, perhaps, was a person who had killed a 102-year-old man rather than waiting for nature to take its course.
It seemed absurd when framed that way. Yet the cards had spoken clearly. Mister B. had sensed something amiss. And five thousand dollars now sat in my account, payment for services I had yet to render.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Tomorrow, I would begin untangling the web of the Green family fortune. For tonight, I allowed myself to feel something I hadn’t experienced in months: purpose. Whether that purpose was based on truth or delusion remained to be seen, but it was there nonetheless, a small flame in the darkness of my reduced circumstances.
“Don’t get too invested,” I warned myself softly. “This could all be nothing.”
Sometimes the universe spoke through coincidences. Sometimes it spoke through cards. And sometimes, just sometimes, it spoke through the desperate pleas of a young man everyone else had dismissed.
I just had to be willing to listen.
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