The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 13
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Move on to Chapter 14 (last Chapter)
Chapter 13
I arranged the tarot cards in a half-moon pattern, my fingers trembling just enough to betray my nerves. The café hummed with afternoon chatter, but my chosen corner remained an island of silence. I’d rehearsed this moment for days, turning over the facts like worn poker chips.
My cappuccino had gone lukewarm, the surface marred by a skin of congealed milk. The exposed brick walls of the café pressed in around me, their rustic charm unable to mask the weight of what I was about to do.
Three weeks ago, I hadn’t known Mark Stevens existed. Now I couldn’t forget the sight of him—bloated and pale, hidden beneath a trapdoor in that abandoned casino like discarded trash.
I shifted in my seat, the wooden chair creaking beneath me. The cards beneath my fingertips were just props, tools for the deception I was about to perform. I felt like a yahoo-girl rather than a psychic.Throughout my career, I’ve conducted thousands of readings—providing honest and valuable service to my clients. Rather than fabricating information, I’ve always preferred to simply apologize when I couldn’t discern their path, returning their payment in full. But today, I was going to swallow my pride and perform a show.
I reordered the cards, my throat dry. I’d fed John a line about being a psychic who’d “channeled” his number from the beyond, when in reality I had gotten it from a regular at Lucky’s bar. When I told him I got a message from the universe about his sister-in-law, he’d been eager to meet, almost desperate. Guilt did that to people. Made them seek absolution in strange places.
The bell above the door chimed, and I knew without looking. Some people enter a room; others infect it. John Stevens brought with him the cold damp of the winter air and something darker—a heaviness that pressed against my temples.
He moved with nervous purpose, scanning the café until his eyes found mine. I recognized him from the single photo I’d found online, though the real thing was gaunter, his face carved by shadows that didn’t match the overhead lighting. His dark coat hung on his frame like it belonged to someone larger, dripping rainwater onto the tiled floor. He approached my table, his movements stiff as though his joints needed oil.
I didn’t stand. Power dynamics matter in confrontations.
“Ms. Hart?” His voice emerged like it was being squeezed from a tube, thin and pressured. I hadn’t told him my real name.
“That’s me.” I gestured to the chair across from me. “You must be Mr. John Stevens.”
He sat, perching on the edge of the seat as though ready to flee. His tie—navy with faded pinstripes—was crooked, and he smoothed it with twitching fingers. The gesture reminded me of a man straightening his clothes before an open casket, performing normalcy for the dead.
“Thank you for coming all the way back to the city,” I said, keeping my voice soft, mystic. The role I’d assigned myself. “The cards have been insistent about you.”
His eyes darted to the spread before me, then away. “You said you had information. About Sarah.”
“And Mark,” I added, watching his face. Something flickered behind his eyes—fear or rage, too quick to name.
“What about my brother?” The question hung between us, a loaded gun.
I spread my hands, palm up, the picture of openness. “That’s why I asked you here. To understand the messages I’ve been receiving.” I touched the first card—The Tower, upside down. “There’s been a catastrophe in your family. A sudden change.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Mark’s disappearance, you mean.”
I nodded slowly, watching his hands. They betrayed more than his face—the whitened knuckles, the way his thumb worried at a hangnail until it bled. “The cards show me a pattern of misfortune, suddenly reversed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” I turned over the next card—the Ten of Swords, a figure stabbed in the back. John flinched. “The cards speak of betrayal. Of one brother rising as another falls.”
“This is—” He stopped, glanced toward the door. “I thought you had actual information.”
“I do.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “The cards never lie, John. They show me rivers of luck, diverted from their natural course. They show me spells meant to protect, twisted into weapons.” I flipped another card—Death. “They show me the abandoned casino, and what lies within its walls.”
His face drained of color. “I should go.”
“The reading isn’t finished.” I laid my hand on his wrist, felt his pulse hammering against my fingertips. “My cards have some important messages for you that you don’t want to miss.”
He stayed, but his eyes had changed. The nervous energy had crystallized into something harder, more dangerous. I’d hooked him, but now I had to be careful. A cornered animal is unpredictable.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
I smiled, the expression strange on my face. “Just to complete your reading. To deliver the message I was meant to share.” I flipped another card—Justice. “The universe demands balance, John. What was taken must be restored. What was hidden must be revealed.”
“You’re crazy.” His words lacked conviction.
“Am I? Or am I just someone who can see the patterns?” I turned the final card—The Hanged Man. “Sacrifice. Surrender. These are the only paths forward for you now.”
John’s eyes were fixed on the card, his face a mask of horror I couldn’t fully interpret. I’d gambled on guilt, on the weight of murder pressing down until confession became relief. But as I watched him, I wondered if I’d miscalculated. If the man across from me wasn’t burdened by his crime, but proud of it.
His lips parted, ready to deny everything or possibly threaten me. I couldn’t tell which. The air between us thickened with unspoken accusations and the weight of Mark’s absent body. For a moment, we were suspended in perfect, terrible balance—the accuser and the accused, waiting to see who would break first.
I watched John’s eyes dart to the exit, calculating distance and obstacles. The cards between us might as well have been crime scene photos for how they unnerved him. I needed to push harder. The café had emptied somewhat, the afternoon crowd thinning like weak broth. I leaned forward, the wooden table edge pressing into my ribs, and lowered my voice to ensure our conversation remained ours alone.
“The cards tell me you’re carrying something heavy, John. A burden that’s crushing you from the inside.” I tapped the Death card with my index finger. “This isn’t about physical death. It represents transformation. The end of one thing, the beginning of another.”
“I thought this was about Sarah.” His voice had hardened, a shell forming over his fear. “You said you had a message.”
“I do,” I replied, watching the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Sarah misses her husband. She wonders where he went. Why he never came home with all that money he won.”
John’s hand moved to the water glass in front of him, fingers wrapping around it too tightly. “Mark’s disappearance has nothing to do with me. We weren’t even speaking when it happened.”
Lies had a particular cadence, a rhythm distinct from truth. His words came too fast, too rehearsed.
“Strange,” I mused, “because Sarah told me you two were quite close. Gambling together, using those spells you found.”
His eyes widened slightly. “What spells?”
“The ones that never worked for you. Until they did. For Mark.”
John shifted in his seat, the chair creaking beneath him. “This is ridiculous. I don’t know what Sarah told you, but magic isn’t real. We had a book, sure. Stupid superstitions.”
“And yet,” I said, sliding the Tower card toward him, “your luck changed. You stopped gambling. And suddenly, Mark couldn’t lose.”
“Coincidence.” But his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous tattoo that betrayed him.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said. “Not when they stack up so neatly.”
John’s leg had begun bouncing beneath the table, a rhythmic motion that vibrated through the floorboards. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know—”
“I know Mark’s body is at the old casino down at the docks,” I interrupted, my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. “I know he was killed there after winning big.”
The color drained from John’s face in patches, like watercolor bleeding through paper. His mouth opened, then closed, fishlike. “That’s not—you can’t—”
“I found him, John. Two weeks ago.”
“That’s impossible.” But his voice had gone thin as tissue paper.
“Is it?” I withdrew a small notebook from my purse, flipped it open to where I’d recorded the details of my discovery. “Male, mid-thirties. Green dress shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. Gold wedding band. Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull.”
Each detail landed like a stone. John’s breathing had gone shallow, his chest barely moving.
“How did you…?” The question trailed off, incriminating in its incompletion.
I leaned closer. “I told you. I see things.”
“Did you tell the police?” His voice cracked on the final word.
“Not yet. I wanted to understand first.”
John’s hand moved to his water glass again, lifted it halfway to his mouth, then set it down untouched. “There’s nothing to understand. If Mark is dead, it’s a tragedy, but it has nothing to do with me.”
“Doesn’t it?” I reached for my bag again, felt for the manila folder I’d placed there. “Funny thing about casinos, John. Even abandoned ones. They have cameras. Or did, until someone removed them recently.” A lie. The cameras had been stripped years ago, but John wouldn’t know that.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating in the café’s dim light. He shifted again, more violently this time, his knee bumping the underside of the table. The water glass wobbled, then toppled, sending a wave across the polished surface.
“Shit!” John scrambled to right the glass, but the damage was done. Water cascaded over the edge of the table, soaking the cards, dripping onto the floor with soft plinking sounds.
I didn’t move to help, just watched as he grabbed napkins from the dispenser, blotting ineffectually at the spreading puddle. His chair scraped loudly against the tile as he half-stood, drawing glances from the few remaining patrons.
“It’s fine,” I said, my voice level. “Just water.”
But it wasn’t fine. The spill had broken something in the atmosphere between us—the careful, controlled tension snapped like an overstretched wire. John’s movements became jerky, panicked, as he crushed wet napkins in his fist.
“I know you killed him,” I said quietly, the words dropping into the chaos of the moment like stones into still water.
John froze, napkins dripping between his fingers. “What did you say?”
“I know that you killed your brother Mark because you wanted to steal his gambling money.” The words came out clearer, stronger than I’d expected. “He started winning as soon as you stopped gambling, and that made you jealous. You then hid his body in the abandoned casino down at the docks to make it seem like the casino staff has killed him because he won big.”
My hand moved to my bag again, this time withdrawing a photograph—not of the crime scene, but of the casino exterior, an image I’d printed from a real estate listing. I placed it on the dry edge of the table, my fingers tapping lightly on its glossy surface. John’s eyes fixed on it as though it might burst into flames.
“That’s where I found him,” I continued. “Where you left him.”
“You’re crazy,” John whispered, but the protest lacked force.
“Am I? Or am I just the only one who put it together? The spell book. The sudden reversal of fortunes. The missing money.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “How much did he win, John? How much was your brother’s life worth?”
Something shifted in his eyes then—fear giving way to something colder, more calculated. His posture straightened slightly. “You have no proof.”
“Don’t I?” I indicated the photograph. “I was there. I saw what you did.”
“You saw nothing,” he hissed, fingers clenching into fists on the table. “Because there’s nothing to see.”
“The police will disagree.” I reached for my phone, making sure he saw the movement. “Should we ask them?”
It was the wrong gambit. John stood abruptly, the chair clattering backward onto the floor with a sound like gunfire in the quiet café. His hand moved toward his coat, and for one terrible moment, I thought he might have a weapon. But he was only grabbing for balance, his fingers gripping the fabric as he backed away from the table.
“Stay away from me,” he said, voice rising. “You’re insane.”
The few other customers turned to stare, their faces showing mixtures of alarm and morbid curiosity. The barista paused in wiping down the counter, dishcloth suspended in mid-air.
“John,” I said, raising my hands in what I hoped was a calming gesture. “Sit down. We can talk about this.”
But his eyes had taken on the glazed look of cornered prey. He gave a single, sharp shake of his head, then turned and bolted for the door, pushing his coat aside with a clumsy jerk that sent it swinging wildly around his body.
For a moment, I sat frozen, watching his retreat. This wasn’t how I’d imagined the confrontation ending. I’d expected denial, maybe anger—not this panicked flight that screamed guilt louder than any confession.
The bell above the door jangled discordantly as John flung it open and disappeared into the gray afternoon. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of him running down the sidewalk, coat flapping behind him like broken wings, rain plastering his hair to his scalp.
My hands trembled as I reached for my phone. I’d gotten what I came for—confirmation. But at what cost? John was out there now, aware that someone knew his secret. What would he do? Run? Or try to silence the threat?
I’d been so sure of myself, so certain that public confrontation was the safest approach. Now, watching the empty doorway where John had vanished, doubt crept in like the damp chill from outside.
The barista approached, dish towel in hand. “Everything okay over here?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My fingers found my phone, pulled it from my purse. The screen glowed in the dimness of the café.
“Fine,” I managed. “Just a… disagreement.”
She glanced at the overturned chair, the puddle of water, the scattered cards. Her eyebrows rose, but she said nothing more, just began mopping up the spill with practiced efficiency.
I dialed 911, my heart hammering against my ribs. The call connected with a soft click.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice was female, calm, professional.
I took a breath, steadied myself. “I need to report a murder. And the murderer just fled the scene.”
“Are you in danger, ma’am?”
“No, I’m safe.” For now, at least. “I’m at the Cornerstone Café on Lexington. A man named John Stevens just ran out of here after I confronted him about killing his brother, Mark Stevens.”
“You confronted a murder suspect?” The operator’s professional tone slipped, revealing a note of disbelief.
“Yes.” My voice sounded small, even to my own ears. “I know where the body is. Or was. The old Royal Flush Casino down by the docks. I found it three weeks ago, but when I called then, nothing happened.”
A pause. “Can you describe the suspect?”
I gave John’s description, watching the rain streak the windows, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolor. “He’s on foot, heading east on Lexington. Dark coat, navy tie, brown hair. He looks… desperate.”
“Officers are being dispatched to your location. Please stay where you are.”
I agreed, ended the call, and sat back in my chair, suddenly aware of the silence that had fallen over the café. The remaining customers were pointedly not looking in my direction, their attention fixed on phones, books, anything but the woman who had just driven a man to flee in panic.
The tarot cards lay scattered across the table, some still damp from the spilled water. The Hanged Man stared up at me, his inverted figure a mockery of justice. Had I done the right thing? Or had I just signed my own death warrant by confronting a killer without backup, without protection?
I gathered the cards with numb fingers, slipping them back into their velvet pouch. At least, I hadn’t brought my favorite deck.
Outside, sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Too late to catch John, I suspected. He had too much of a head start, too much motivation to vanish.
But not too late for truth, or whatever approximation of it I could provide. I touched the damp photograph of the casino, tracing its outline with my fingertip.
“I found you,” I whispered, though whether to Mark’s ghost or to my own conscience, I couldn’t say. “I saw what happened. That has to count for something.”
The sirens grew louder, then stopped. Blue lights flashed against the rain-streaked windows. I straightened my spine, practiced the words I would say to the officers. The truth, as I understood it. The evidence, such as it was. The certainty that had driven me to this confrontation, now tempered by the first cold tendrils of doubt.
