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ceiling in your bedroom. When I finally managed to turn my thoughts elsewhere, they wandered only as far as Mick’s wall safe, which was, I’d come to realize, another pointless intellectual exercise. Because even if I could break into his office, even if I could figure out the safe’s combination, and even if I could do all this without being caught by building security or by Mick himself, what good would it do me? I needed a lot of money. So even if he had ten grand in there, what would that buy me (aside from ten years in prison and/or a violent death)? Ten thousand would be devoured by Dryden Manor within two months. Still, it was disconcerting for me to acknowledge that I might consider jail time before having my mother move in with me again.
    The sun was making a feeble effort to leak past the clouds, which only served to make the air heavier. I flapped the bottom of my T-shirt for a little air conditioning. Bix teetered as he lifted his right rear leg over the curb in order to urinate into a storm drain. In spite of mymood, I had to smile. He’s a pudgy, short-haired terrier mix, and with his round little stomach and dainty paws he’s a rather comical looking sort. He’s also the most angst-ridden, fastidious dog I’ve known.
    We passed the Psychic Place on our way home. The curtains were drawn and the silver writing on the window sparkled. Erika Starwise had moved into the shop in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. One afternoon the storefront was bare, the window a large pane of dirty glass with a view of a small anteroom empty except for an electric pencil sharpener, still plugged into the wall, sitting on dirty taupe carpeting. A door leading to the back of the shop was open, and the space behind it dark, as though it led to nowhere. The next morning when I took Bix with me to the Wired Lizard, a mural of stars and moons spanned the purple-draped window, and what appeared to be a nebula surrounded the words painted over the glass: The Psychic Place. Beneath, in smaller letters, was: Erika Starwise, Medium.
    When I’d called her to ask for an interview, we’d talked about a good time to do it. She told me she was lining up a séance that I might find interesting. And, since that had to be better than just listening to her tell me how clairvoyant she was, I agreed. Three days later she’d called back and invited me to a séance being held tonight. The invitation came with specific conditions. I was not to use the real names of the attendees, nor was I to take any photographs. I’d asked Erika if I could come early so I could interview her prior to the séance, but she told me that would not be possible. “I must distance myself from the living prior to a séance. Perhaps, if I’m not too exhausted, we could talk afterwards.” Then she’d asked me if I’d arrive a little later than the others—say, seven fifteen—so she would have time to assure her client that she would remain anonymous in the article. Erika Starwise’s behavior left me a bit suspicious of her, if not of her profession.
    I do believe in psychic phenomena. There’s more to this world than what we can see—at least I hope there is—and I suppose thatsome people can peer over that fence, so to speak. But I was raised and schooled to be dubious. My mother blew the Santa myth for me when I was seven, and journalism school taught me to check things out. But Erika Starwise had an impressive website, chock-full of recommendations. She’d had a successful business in California, and I made a mental note to ask her why she’d moved from the L.A. area to Fowler of all places. Further Googling revealed a number of conferences where she’d been featured and a yearly retreat she’d helped to establish.
    When Bix and I returned to the apartment, I checked my voicemail while Bix retired to one of his two doggie beds. He has identical beds—one in the living room and another in my bedroom—so he doesn’t have an anxiety attack