Page 8 of Protecting Paige

I should have upgraded my home security, like Cillian suggested. But no… I was convinced a video doorbell would be plenty. After all, what burglar would want to break into my little ranch with the thirty-five-year-old roof and faded siding? They’d be much better off picking one of the newer developments a few miles from here, with the giant houses and perfectly manicured lawns and BMWs and Audis parked on spotless driveways.

This man isn’t just a burglar though, is he? Since he grabbed me in the bedroom however long ago—ten minutes? fifteen? twenty?—he’s shown zero interest in stealing anything. He just shoved a gun in my face and told me to shut up, then dragged me into the basement and restrained me.

And thank God, he hasn’t touched me aside from that. No, he’s just been pacing around, ranting about bad luck and how unfair life is and how I’m supposed to magicallyfixthings.

What did Cillian do when he heard me yelp? Was he worried? Did he call the police? But what could he tell them, really? Cillian knows I live near Fredericksburg, but not my actual address. He doesn’t even know my last name, which I’m really,reallywishing I’d told him.

“Aha!” The red-faced man snaps his fingers, and I jerk at the unexpected sound. “The gag,” he adds proudly, like he’s just discovered something incredible. He leans forward and reaches his calloused hand towards my face. It’s all I can do not to recoil from it.

Inches away, he stops. “If I take this out, you have to promise not to yell. Even if we’re in the basement, your neighbors could hear.”

Well. That sounds pretty good to me, really. But I obligingly nod my head.

He lifts his gun, brandishing it in front of me. “If you get any ideas, I’ll shoot you.”

My heart lurches.

Then he pulls the fabric from my mouth and tosses it to the floor. My skin crawls from the graze of his fingers against my face.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re going to tell me exactly how to fix things. Got it?”

I try to respond, but my mouth is too dry. It takes several swallows before I can get any words out. “What—” My voice cracks. “What do you want me to fix?”

“My life,” he snaps. “It’s all fucked up. And you need to tell me how to fix it.”

Um. What?

How in the world am I supposed to tell a complete stranger how to fix his life?

After another swallow to moisten my mouth, I say, “I don’t understand. How do you think I can help? I don’t even know you.”

A few seconds while he just stares at me. Then his lips draw up into a terrifying smile. “Oh, youdoknow me, Paige. Can’t you recognize my voice?” He pauses. “I sure recognized yours.”

My lungs seize.

My stomach falls to my feet.

What?

Could he?

WouldI recognize his voice? With some of my regular callers, I do. Cillian, of course. Flora from Norfolk, who calls every other week for exactly thirty minutes, not for a reading, but just to tell me about her week. Paul, who’s been calling once a month since I started and spends more time asking me for advice about meeting women than predicting his future.

That’s the funny thing about my job. It’s not so much about the fortune-telling aspect, which is good, because I’m about as psychic as a rock. It’s about relating to people. Making them feel heard. And that’s the part I like.

But this guy? His voice could be one of many. There’s no special inflection to it, no distinctive accent, nothing to tell me who he is.

But somehow, I don’t get the feeling he’d be happy if I told him that. So instead, I cautiously say, “I’m really scared right now. So it’s hard for me to remember. Could you…”

He scowls. Red rises in his cheeks. But he takes a steadying breath and replies, “I suppose that makes sense. It’s unfortunate I had to do it this way, but I couldn’t think of a better option.” He stops. Then he extends his free hand towards me. “I’m Derrick. We talked a few times. About my job. And the girl I was going to ask out from work.”

As I stare at his hand, because I can’t very well shake it, he slowly lowers it.

“So,” he hurries to add. “My life went all to shit. Andyounever gave me any warning. Which is pretty terrible, considering you’re supposed to be a damn psychic.”

Before I respond, I cast about for anything I can remember about him. Anything that might help me get out of this mess.

His name is Derrick, obviously. I vaguely remember a few brief conversations, maybe three of them over the last several months. He wanted a promotion, so I suggested going to his boss to ask about taking on more responsibility. Staying a little later to show his dedication to the job.