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75

ALLISON

I f I die today, it will be because Gram got into a fistfight with a psychic over a tarot card reading.

“I shuffled them myself,” Raven, the alleged psychic, complete with three nose rings and a crow tattoo on her collarbone, says calmly.

“They’re rigged,” Gram snaps. “You rigged them.”

“Ma’am, I literally have no reason to rig your cards.”

“You pulled The Tower. Twice. ”

“That card means major change or upheaval. It doesn’t mean you’re cursed.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Raven sighs. “Do you want your refund in cash or store credit?”

I’m trying really hard not to laugh. Or cry. Possibly both.

Gram whirls on me. “Did you see her pull The Tower? That’s never good.”

“She also pulled The Lovers,” I remind her.

“She pulled that after I glared at her. Doesn’t count.”

I sit back in my chair, swirling the last of my sangria. “Maybe it means Captain Jimmy is going to propose.”

Gram pauses, considering. “Do you think I should get a ring tattooed on my finger? Instead of a real one? I mean, at my age, someone could steal it when I kick the bucket. I’ve heard nightmare stories about what morticians do.”

I blink. “What?”

She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re thieves, Allie.”

“I’ve never heard?—”

“Creepy little bandits. They take jewelry right off the dead. I read a Reddit thread about it.”

I’m struggling to hang on to my patience—and my sanity.

“Gram, no,” I say, brain short-circuiting from whiplash. One minute she’s accusing the psychic of card fraud, the next she’s talking about corpse robbers.

“Can we just go get gelato like normal people?”

She ignores me, her grin turning feral. “What if I got a tattoo on my inner thigh?”

“Oh my God,” I mutter into my glass.

This was supposed to be a relaxing little outing. Connor told me to unwind and let him work on my surprise.

Instead, I’m half-drunk, emotionally off-balance, and fielding questions about thigh tattoos, cursed tarot cards, and mortician crime rings.

Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. It’s in my chest. A wrong note in an otherwise perfect song.

Gram, still bickering with Raven while I spiral, finally gives up.

We step outside. The sun’s slipping lower, casting golden light across the street. Tourists wander by in flip-flops, heading toward dinner.

I try to enjoy it. I want to enjoy it.

Then the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Despite the sticky Key West heat, a chill rushes over me.

I look around.

And then I see him.

He’s Across the street, his hoodie pulled low. Oversized sunglasses hiding most of his face. He’s standing just beyond a rack of plastic leis and touristy postcards, in front of a tiny shop.

He’s not moving. Not browsing.

Just… watching.

And though I can’t see his eyes, I feel them—locked on me.

I stop walking.

Gram’s still talking about edible glitter body paint, but I barely hear her. My pulse is in my ears now, thudding louder with every second.

He doesn’t move.

His focus is razor-sharp. Fixed.

Then a group of tourists passes between us, momentarily blocking my view.

When they’re gone, so is he.

I blink, suddenly ice-cold.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Gram asks, finally noticing I’ve stopped.

I force a smile. Shaky. Unconvincing. “No. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

But inside, I’m unraveling.

I know what I saw.

I didn’t imagine it.

And whoever he is… he’s watching me .