Instead of delving into her psyche more than he already had, he chose to open a bit of his own malfunctioning prototype of a heart. “My mum saw a palm reader—or psychic, I can’t remember which—a couple of months ago. She called me up in tears, ecstatic, saying how the woman delivered information about my sister who died. How she was at peace. Happy. In a good place. Mum’s been doing a lot better since then. So I’m not opposed to the idea that there’s more out there. And that whatever that more is, that it can be good. In some sense I welcome the idea. Adds mystery to life. Comfort. Meaning.”
Helen closed her laptop. Matching his stare with a searching look, she rubbed a circle on the closed notebook. “I’m sorry about your sister. What happened?”
“She was a baby. Got sick with the croup. We lived on a farm, middle of nowhere near the Scottish border, and health care wasn’t great. My mum always blamed herself, no matter how much we reassured her. But now she’s stopped.”
Brian couldn’t quite list all of the reasons he chose to tell Helen this. But seated beside her in an anonymous hotel room, listening to the rain, he took pleasure in talking with her.
He liked her. She was prickly yet compassionate, genuine but aloof in a way that heightened his interest. A beautiful knot of harmonious contradictions, she interested him on mental and physical levels. Her layers stirred him to song.
Human connection, even if an illusion of the connection he was loathe to admit he yearned for, provided solace.
As a younger and more reckless man with endless access to women, he’d found false bonding in fleeting road relationships, temporary partners held close for a couple of nights. He now understood that confusing love with sex was a mistake, but he could enjoy emotional intimacy with Helen if they steered clear of physical coupling and its tendency to create attachment. His tendency to form attachments. Brian knew himself by now and avoided casual sex for distinct, clear reasons.
“Are you close with your family? I love hearing stories about happy families. They give me hope,” she said.
Noted. He’d have to censor the uglier parts of his filial saga, which suited him fine. He could talk about Mum and Dad and Alan without having to fib. “I call my parents every couple of weeks, my brother a few times a year. Visit yearly. Our lives are as different as can be, but we take comfort in each other. I enjoy hearing about day-to-day life on the farm, how the animals are faring. Keeps me grounded.”
“When did you move to London? Didn’t the band meet in London and break into the music scene fairly young? I thought I remembered hearing that in an interview.”
Empty pain unspooled beneath his ribs. He rubbed his knuckles, easing a bit of the ever-present soreness out of his joints and bidding adieu to the concept of self-censoring. “I moved there when I was thirteen, to live with my grandmother. My parents thought I needed more opportunities to hone and pursue my musical talent.”
“It paid off in spades. I want to say ‘good call, Mum and Dad,’ but I sense from your tone that the whole thing was a mixed bag at best?”
In an efficient show of self-preservation, Brian’s defenses kicked in and stashed unpleasant memories into their lock box. He didn’t need to subject Helen to his past woes, for she had enough on her docket without having to deal with his baggage about spending his teen years feeling unloved.
Besides, he was doing well now. He had a healthy, thriving child. No addictions or fights or other drama plagued his band. Brian lived a great life, wealthy and successful and full of travel and music. He had no right to complain. No right.
“I suppose,” he said.
She answered with no words and a small smirk made enormous by the wisdom it held.
Their little push and pull, their dance of advance and retreat, ended in a tie. And in that draw was parity, equanimity, and respect. Her Mona Lisa smile rendered their feelings into a touché they could share like an appetizer over candlelight.
He pointed to her computer and patted the hefty text splayed over his lap. Reminiscing time had ended. Helen and he communicated well on the unspoken plane. “Shall we review what we have so far?”
“Yes. So, based on what you’ve told me, we’ve got your manager Joe, a mystical neophyte who’s into remote viewing and nightmare fuel parties involving masks. You’ve heard rumors of a secret society cutting people open and saw a woman with the evidence of such an atrocity branded on her body. On my end, I dabbled in witchcraft in a desperate attempt to save my business and unleashed something bad. The clear crystal I gave you went missing the day we met, and this implicates Joe.”
“Apt summary.”
“We have a lot of dots, but we need through lines to connect them. I can’t get to a definitive reason why Joe wants the crystal, what he’s doing, and how his agenda ties in to what I did. I’m hoping once I get back home on Sunday I can clear some of that up, but for now do you have anything else we might be able to use? Any more dots?”
It embarrassed Brian that he fixated, with disappointment, on her comment about leaving.
A relevant memory, though, saved him from sinking into a brooding and unproductive crush on her. He took off his watch and brought up the photo of the party guest unmasked.
“Okay, good. Do you know who this is?” Her pretty eyes sparkled with engagement.
A ridiculous amount of pride in his accomplishment buoyed him. He’d found a solution she sought. He’d pleased her.
“I think he’s a record executive. Aries, probably, though I can’t be certain.” Brian squinted at the photo. Despite a film of blurriness clouding
