She moved the crystal ball aside. “I do not see much now, so let us try the cards.” I didn’t know why I was still here, besides the fact I wanted her to work for the torment she’d caused me.
Madame Richie shuffled the tarot cards, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “So vat do you vant to know?”
Déjà vu on steroids slipped over my skin like electricity, raising the hair on the back of my neck. She asked me the exact thing six years ago, though instead of answering my question with something legitimate, she gave me a tiresome response about finding a man. I decided to ask the same thing again.
“I want to know what my purpose is in life.”
She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table.
I stared at it, my stomach on the floor.
The Devil.
A puff of Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke circled the card, a little humor in her voice. “Vell . . . this is interesting.”
Calmly, I got to my feet and headed to the door.
“That vill be fifty dollars,” she hollered after me.
raison d’être
(n.) a reason for existing
I took a Lyft ride to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”
Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at him was missing a large tuft of fur.
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I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with him the next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.
On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me from behind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.
Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coincidence . . . But I refused to think about it again.
Khaos and I stood in front of my childhood home. I wasn’t thrilled about being here again, though I needed to grab the important things—such as my high school diploma, my birth certificate, other accolades I was proud of . . . and maybe a few pairs of shoes.
When we entered through the front door, it was clear the electricity had been turned off. No lights. No water. And the worst: no A/C. The house radiated heat beneath the hot summer sun.
I grabbed a water bottle from my bag and poured a bowl for Khaos. Panting, he plopped down on the cool stone floor, not used to the high Miami temperatures.
Finding a cardboard box, I dumped out the paperwork inside and filled it with everything I wanted to keep. When I was finished, I came down the stairs and told Khaos, “Come on. You can take a dip in the bay to cool down.”
As if he understood the words, he jumped up, tail wagging.
Jostling the box in my hands to open the door, I mused aloud, “Maybe we should move up north where it’s cooler. What about New York?”
Khaos didn’t look impressed.
“Chicago?” I asked him while shutting the door behind us. “Or Aspen?”
“What about Moscow?” The familiar Russian accent slid down my spine and shook the beat of my heart.
The box slipped from my fingers. The items inside fell out onto the pavement, but I could only focus on the presence behind me. My pulse pounded in my throat. It couldn’t be him—not here in The Moorings, where I stared across the bay toward Russia dreaming of something I hadn’t yet known existed.
Breathless, I turned around.
Ronan stood in front of a black car parked at the curb. Dressed in Oxxford. Hands in his pockets. His hair gleamed blue beneath the Miami sun, though the light didn’t touch his eyes fringed by dark lashes. They called him D’yavol, but there could be a halo above his head for as perfect as he looked to me right now.