Clairvoyant

When I was twelve, I paid a fortune teller at a travelling circus three dollars to tell me when I was gonna die. I didn't want to do it, but a freckled kid named Steven Ambrose dared me. You know how these things go.

Her name was Mystic Mona. She made a big show of it, waving her hands slowly over her glass ball and punctuating the whole thing with an occasional gasp or a knowing nod. Eventually she sat up straight and looked me in the eye.

"I see it now. You vill die at ripe old age of eighty-two." Her accent was a little too thick to be convincing, and her tent smelled like old funnel cakes. "Skiing accident. You vill smash into boulder, break neck, die instantly. Leave behind many beautiful children. Three dollars please."

It was a funny thing to think of while the prison guard was tightening the straps. At that point, though, I guess I'd thought all that I could about the false accusation, the disappearing evidence, and the years of failed appeals.

I was a few hours away on a business trip. It was supposed to last a full week, but her birthday was on Thursday. So I faked sick, drove back home, stopped at the store to pick up some cupcakes and a bottle of her favorite rosé, and pulled into the driveway at 6:00 sharp.

I found her body at the foot of the stairs. Signs of a struggle. Forensics determined that she'd been pushed. Time of death: approximately 5:45 PM. Nothing was missing from the house. Maybe I spooked whoever it was when I pulled up.

No, Detective, I didn't save the receipt for the cupcakes. No, Detective, I had cash on me so I used that instead of my debit card. No, Detective, I didn't tell my boss what I was really doing when I left my trip early - they all thought I was sick in my hotel room.

You know how these things go.

I was all strapped in and ready to be on my way. The gurney was a little uncomfortable, but I wouldn't be using it for long and I didn't want to be a squeaky wheel.

"Do you have any last words?" The voice behind me was a bit higher pitched than I thought it should be.

Twenty-seven. No kids, except the one that she was waiting until after my business trip to tell me about.

"Tell Steven Ambrose that Mystic Mona is full of shit."