The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 12
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Chapter 12
I stepped into the diner just after the lunch rush, when the place hung suspended between shifts like a body between heartbeats. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of false day that makes even the living look half-dead.
The worn vinyl booths lined the walls like tombstones, each one holding ghosts of conversations past. A drunk man slumped in the corner booth, his coffee gone cold, his consciousness somewhere else entirely. The chrome-edged counter gleamed under the artificial light, too clean against the grime that had settled into the cracks of this place years ago.
My fingers brushed against the folded paper in my pocket. The old man at Lucky’s had passed it to me with shaking hands. The paper felt like it carried a curse, like it might burn a hole through my jacket if I kept it there too long.
Sarah stood behind the counter, her hands moving in that methodical way of someone who’s cleaned the same coffee pot a thousand times. Her hair was pulled back tight, not a strand out of place, like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. Her eyes flicked up to me, then back down. Recognition, but no welcome.
I slid onto a stool directly across from her, placing my forearms on the cool surface of the counter. She didn’t look up, just continued her circular motions inside the glass pot, as if scrubbing away evidence of something more sinister than coffee.
“Hello, Sarah,” I said, keeping my voice low. The drunk in the corner didn’t stir, but I wasn’t taking chances. “I need to ask you about John and Mark.”
Her movements stuttered, a brief hiccup in her rhythm that would’ve been imperceptible if I hadn’t been watching for it. The cloth inside the pot paused its rotation before continuing with slightly less precision than before.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice so quiet I had to lean forward to hear it. “What’s it to you what happened to Mark? Or John, for that matter?”
I studied her face. I noticed the lines etched around Sarah’s lips, not from joy but from hidden sorrows. Her eyes carried a heavy emptiness, a darkness that whispered untold stories. Fear lingered within her gaze, yet it wasn’t aimed at me. I empathized with Sarah’s apprehension, the mistaken belief that Mark had been unfaithful with me. Determined to clarify this misunderstanding, I made up my mind to confront the truth directly.
“Because it could have been me. I also hit a major win at the casino and have received threats as a result.” I said simply.
Something in her posture shifted slightly. Not enough to call it relaxing, but perhaps a recognition of common ground.
“Look,” I continued, “I know there’s more to this story.
If you share what you know, we may be able to figure out what happened to Mark.”
Her eyes darted to the drunk in the corner, then to the kitchen door, checking for witnesses. Finding none, her gaze settled back on me, assessing.
“You should walk away from this,” she said. “Some things, once you know them, you can’t unknow. Some doors don’t close again.”
“Too late for that,” I replied, thinking of the pit boss’s knuckles against my window, of the old man’s trembling hands at Lucky’s as he’d passed me the paper. “I’m already through the door. Moreover, I’ve heard that statement from someone before and chose to ignore the warning.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded sheet. The worn paper in my grasp was a torn sheet from a notebook, its edges ragged and corners folded. It bore organized columns with dates, spell names, and numbers neatly arranged. Yet, what drew my gaze most intensely were the final lines, distinctly penned in a different hand, hinting at a shift. I placed it on the counter between us, not unfolding it yet. A test.
“Where did you get that?” Her voice had an edge now, sharp enough to cut.
“Lucky’s Bar. The old man who sits at the end of the counter, nursing whiskey like it’s medicine. He said Mark gave it to him for safekeeping, right before…” I let the sentence hang unfinished.
Sarah’s eyes fixed on the folded paper as if it might rear up and bite her. Her fingers moved toward it, then retreated, curling into a fist.
“He shouldn’t have given you that,” she whispered.
“But he did.”
The diner’s clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Somewhere in the kitchen, a dish clattered. The drunk in the corner mumbled something in his sleep. The world kept turning while Sarah made her decision.
“John doesn’t come here here anymore,” she finally said. “Hasn’t been for months.”
“Where is he?”
“Eating at another now I guess.” Her voice was flat, but her eyes flickered with something—grief, maybe, or guilt. “He had a dispute with Mark…” Again, the unfinished thought.
I pushed the paper toward her slightly. “This might tell us something about both of them.”
Her hand trembled as it finally reached for the sheet. Our fingers brushed as she took it, and a jolt ran through me—not static, but the electric current of shared dread. She didn’t open it yet, just held it, staring down at the creased edges.
“Open it,” I urged gently.
She unfolded the paper slowly, with the care one might give to handling old photographs or love letters. As the sheet spread open between us, I watched her face rather than the contents. Her expression shifted subtly—recognition, then confusion, followed by a flash of something darker.
“Where did you say you got this again?” she asked, her eyes still on the paper.
“Lucky’s. The old man.”
“And why are you bringing it to me?”
“Because I thought you might know something about it.”
Sarah flipped the paper over, her breath catching when she saw whatever was written there.
“Tell me what you see,” I said.
Sarah took it with steadier hands than before. She unfolded it carefully and laid it flat against the wooden table, smoothing out the creases with her fingertips. The security light cast deep shadows across the page, making the handwriting look like it had been carved rather than written.
“These are gambling records,” she said, tapping the columns of numbers. “Wins, losses, dates, places, magic spells they used.” Her finger traced down the page. “This section here, with the tight handwriting and small numbers? That’s John’s. And the last couple of lines, with the broader strokes, the numbers that always end in zero because he rounded everything? That’s Mark’s.”
I leaned in closer, studying the handwriting she identified. “You’re sure?”
“I watched them fill out paperwork for years. Loan applications, payment schedules, promissory notes.” She looked up at me, her eyes catching the harsh light. “The two brothers always worked together. In everything.”
I finally sat down, the wooden bench creaking beneath me. “Tell me about them.”
She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cooling night air. “John was older by three years. Responsible one, at least on paper. Had a steady job at the lumberyard. Mark was…different. Artsy. Worked odd jobs, mostly bartending, some construction when times got tight.”
“But they gambled together,” I prompted.
“Not always. I don’t know exactly when they started” Her finger moved across the paper again, stopping at a section where the numbers grew larger, the losses more frequent. “See this? This is when it got bad. Really bad.”
“And Mark covered the losses?”
Sarah twisted her wedding ring, a habitual gesture that seemed unconscious. “Mark covered everything. The mortgage when the bank was threatening foreclosure. The car payment when the repo man came knocking. Hospital bills when their mother got sick.” She looked up at me. “It was killing him, he was desperate to finally find that one formula that would make him win.”
I studied her face, searching for lies. “Why would he do that? Try to make money in gambling?”
“It was John’s idea, and Mark helped him cover the losses,” she said simply. “At least in the beginning.”
The moths fluttered frantically around the flickering lights, casting erratic shadows across the table. Sarah’s face moved between light and dark as she spoke, as if she herself were flickering between truths.
“So Mark just kept paying John’s debts? Forever?” I asked.
“No. He tried to stop it. Begged John to get help.” She ran her finger along a section where the handwriting became more frantic, the pressure so hard it had nearly torn through the paper. “This was during that period. Mark would come to the diner, sit for hours making lists, plans, budgets—trying to figure out how to save John from himself.”
“But John wouldn’t stop gambling.”
“Couldn’t,” she corrected. “At least that’s what Mark believed. He thought John was possessed by it, controlled by it. That’s when he started getting interested in…other solutions.”
“The gambling spells,” I said.
Sarah’s laugh was brittle. “Yes. The gambling spells. Mark started researching them about a year ago. Came in one morning all excited, showed me these old books he’d found, websites he’d visited. Said there were ways to change luck, to bind it to a person or take it away.”
“And you didn’t believe him.”
“Of course not. I told him it was nonsense.” She shook her head. “Mark was desperate, and desperate people believe desperate things.”
I thought about my own improbable winning streak, five straight hands that defied every law of probability. “What if it wasn’t nonsense?”
Sarah studied me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re like him, aren’t you? You believe in that stuff.”
I didn’t answer directly. “Did Mark try the spells on John?”
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the outline of her wedding ring again. “He said he did. Said he performed some ritual, used something personal of John’s. A watch, I think. Said it would drain the gambling urge from him. But when I look at the paper … it seems like John had already started trying the spells long ago.”
“And did it work?”
“That’s the thing.” Her voice dropped lower, though we were alone in the darkness. “John did stop gambling. Cold turkey. After years of promises and failed attempts, he just…stopped.”
“You must have been happy,” I said, watching her carefully.
“I was. We all were. It was like having the old John back. Before the addiction took hold.” A small, sad smile crossed her face. “He started coming to the diner again for Sunday breakfast. Paid back some old debts. Even talked about taking classes at the community college.”
“When exactly did John stop gambling?” I asked, the question casual but crucial.
Sarah’s forehead creased as she thought back. “About six months ago. February, I think. Right around Valentine’s Day.”
“And when did Mark start winning at the casino?”
The connection hadn’t occurred to her until that moment. I watched realization dawn across her features like a slow-motion car crash.
“Mid-February,” she whispered. “Presidents’ Day weekend. He hit a slot jackpot. Then poker the next night. And again the night after that.”
“Just after John stopped,” I said, making it a statement rather than a question.
“Yes, but—” She broke off, her eyes dropping back to the paper. “Wait. Look at this. You can see it on this list.”
She pointed to a section near the bottom of the page where the handwriting changed dramatically. The neat columns gave way to frantic scribbles, numbers circled and underlined multiple times.
“This is the last part,” she said. “These entries are when Mark started winning. When he started to write the list, instead of John.”
I was connecting dots in my mind. John stops gambling exactly when Mark starts winning. Mark wins big, gets threatened, ends up dead.
My mind was racing ahead, forming a theory that felt both impossible and inevitable. John, free from his addiction but watching his brother win the money he’d chased for years. John, seeing Mark succeed where he had always failed. John, with years of gambling debts still hanging over him. John, with access to Mark’s newfound fortune.
A coldness spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the night air. If I was right, then the casino men hadn’t killed Mark. John had. John had killed his brother, taken his money, and hidden the body at the abandoned casino to cast suspicion elsewhere.
My hands grew damp against the tabletop as my own predicament suddenly took new shape.
“What happened to John after Mark disappeared?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
Sarah’s eyes grew distant. “He…he was devastated. Helped organize the search parties. Spoke to the police constantly.” She paused. “Then, about a month later, John left town. Said he couldn’t stay here with the memories. That’s the last I heard from him.”
“With Mark’s money,” I added silently.
“What does any of this have to do with you?” Sarah asked suddenly. “You said at the diner it could have been you. What did you mean?”
I hadn’t told her about my winning streak, about the threats. Suddenly, sharing that information seemed dangerous. If John had killed his brother out of jealousy and greed, who was to say what Sarah’s motivations might be? I knew nothing about her relationship with either brother beyond what she’d told me.
“Just following threads,” I said vaguely. “The old man at Lucky’s thought I should look into it.”
“Why would he think that?”
“People see what they want to see. He saw someone asking questions and decided I was the right person to give answers to.”
Sarah looked unsatisfied with my response, but I stood before she could press further. The paper still lay on the table between us, its secrets partially revealed.
“Thank you for your help,” I said, reaching for the sheet. “This clarifies a lot.”
Sarah placed her hand on the paper, preventing me from taking it. “What are you going to do with what I’ve told you?”
I met her eyes. “Keep asking questions.”
“Be careful,” she warned. “Some answers aren’t worth finding.”
“That depends on what you’re looking for.”
She released the paper, allowing me to fold it and return it to my pocket. As I did, my fingers brushed against the casino chip I’d kept as a souvenir of my winning night—a talisman or a warning, I wasn’t sure which.
“John loved his brother,” Sarah said as I turned to leave. “Whatever you think happened, remember that.”
I nodded without committing to belief. “Goodnight, Sarah.”
Walking away from the diner, I felt a weight in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as certainty. John had killed Mark, not the casino people. The realization should have been comforting—the threat against me might be unrelated, coincidental. But instead, I felt like it has never been coincidence, but a nudge to lead me toward my purpose.
