He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Speaking of your parents: the school is top-secret. You can’t tell them about it.”
“What am I supposed to say? I’m moving to San Francisco to join a commune?”
Clint smiled. “The cover most students use is training for a classified government job.”
“Convenient,” Teddy said. She gathered her purse and opened the passenger door. “Thanks for your help tonight. It’s been . . . interesting.”
Clint reached over and put his hand on the door, stopping Teddy from getting out of the car. “The next time something like tonight happens, I won’t be there to bail you out.”
She stiffened, imagining herself in a prison uniform, her parents renting an apartment on Balzar Avenue with bars on the windows. “Yeah. I got it.”
“The world needs people like us to show up, Teddy.” He handed her the brochure. “There’s a plane ticket in there. Flight leaves this morning at seven for San Francisco. I suggest you be on it.”
“As in seven a.m. today? As in five hours from now?”
“I tried to approach you earlier, Teddy. But you were hiding in your parents’ garage.”
Teddy rolled her eyes. “It’s not a garage, it’s an apart—”
“I told you there was one last move. Not Sergei, not jail, but school. If you choose to attend Whitfield, we’ll take care of your debts and make sure Sergei stays away from your parents.” He held her gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Think of this as a scholarship offer. You give us four years, we’ll take care of everything else.”
Teddy walked away from the car, wondering if he was telling the truth. She made it two feet before she had to ask him what had been nagging her since they left the casino. “Earlier tonight,” she said, “what happened in the casino. You . . . you told them to do that, right? Sergei and the pit boss. You told them to just turn around and walk away?”
“Told them?” He arched a single brow. “Did you hear me say anything?”
“You know.” Feeling foolish, she tapped her temple. “With your mind.”
He held her gaze. “If you really want an answer, come to Whitfield.”
With that, he drove away. Teddy stood on the curb, watching his taillights disappear around the corner. She loitered a moment longer, hoping there would be something, some sign, to help her make this decision. The cops pounding on the door. One of Sergei’s men driving past her house. Clint waiting by the curb to take her to the airport. But there was nothing. Just the warm desert air, accompanied by the sound of real crickets. All that was left was her—her and her thoughts.
CHAPTER FOUR
TEDDY WALKED AROUND HER PARENTS’ house to the two-door (detached) garage. And just like that, ten yards later, she was home. As she fumbled with her keys, she remembered the day her dad had installed a real door with a real lock—his effort to make her feel like a real grown-up—instead of what she actually was: a twenty-four-year-old woman who lived in her parents’ two-door (detached) garage.
She unlocked the door and walked into the remodeled space, which now held a separate living and sleeping area, with a small kitchenette tucked into the corner. It was nicer than some of the dumps Teddy had lived in. And the rent was very affordable.
She tossed the Whitfield brochure on her desk. Why does that name sound familiar?
She needed a long, cold shower. Then she needed pancakes. When she was a kid, her dad had cooked pancakes every Sunday morning while her mom slept in. The tradition had continued into her teens. Teddy and her dad discussed only the most important topics over pancakes—football, heist movies, disappointments and heartbreaks, adoption, epilepsy. Pancakes made everything better.
She stripped out of her costume, kicking it all into a corner.
As she showered, she thought about what Clint had said. If she were psychic, wouldn’t she have been able to predict her debacle at Stanford? Sergei? Avoid this whole mess in the first place?
Breakfast wouldn’t help answer that question. Exhausted, she slipped into bed, hoping that by morning she’d have a plan. And that maybe by tomorrow night she’d be laughing at the idea of a school for crime-fighting psychics. Oh, she’d laugh right up until Sergei tracked her down. She didn’t have to be psychic to know that whatever he was going to do to her would be bad.
One last move.
She grabbed the brochure and her laptop from her desk and carried both to her bed. She settled her computer across her lap and typed Whitfield Institute into the search box.
The school popped up immediately. Lots of photos of building exteriors, of students sitting in classrooms. It was all stock-photo stuff, except none of the students or teachers faced the camera; the photos showed only the backs of their heads. It felt as though the webpage were a mock-up, details to be filled in later. Next she Googled Clint. Now, this was a little more interesting. Apparently, Clint Corbett wasn’t just any cop. He was a Good Cop. Article after article featured his fancy cop certificates, shiny cop medals, and earnest cop plaques for solving cases that other cops believed were unsolvable. The Whitfield Institute wasn’t mentioned by name.
Curious, she dug a little further and found a YouTube video with footage dated 1982. Apparently, Clint had played football for USC. Not surprising, given his build. She started the video: “Corbett jumps the route and intercepts the pass!” the sports announcer shouted. “Thirty, twenty, ten. Touchdown, USC! Corbett does it again! It’s like he can read the quarterback’s mind! Don’t know how he does it!”
Teddy smiled. “He’s psychic, dummies.”
Her plane tickets checked out, too. Round-trip, leaving San Francisco at seven a.m., with the return date left open.
Teddy set her laptop aside. She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin atop her knees. Minutes ago, she’d been exhausted, but now sleep seemed impossible.
The idea of starting over in San Francisco was becoming more appealing by
