Page 75 of The Sin Eater

Ezra

They don’t arrive till after six p.m. Micah does text me—something something traffic yadda yadda—which is either the truth or the lamest excuse ever. Anyone who’s lived in Seattle for any amount of time knows that traffic is A Thing and you don’t make plans without accounting for it.

I lurk in the parlor where the leather couches are more comfortable than the chairs in my room and the whiskey’s not so easy to get to. Technically, I’m close enough to the end of the week where I’m drunk off my ass that I should be lightening up anyway, and something about the Great Ouija Board Encounter has me steering clear of the liquor.

I can start drinking after I talk to Micah and his friend. For now, though, I need to keep my head in the game until I know what they want.

And until I figure out if they can help me with my little psychic vision problem.

By the time they wander in, I’ve made a dent in a book about local history and I’m having doubts about my new clean and sober act. Micah’s in a rain-splattered leather jacket and Geordi’s wearing a sleeping bag of some kind. Okay, that’s harsh.He’s in a purple puffer coat that comes to his ankles and has a stand-up collar that covers his chin.

They decline my offer to get us a table in the hotel restaurant. “Probably want a little more privacy for this conversation,” Geordi says.

So that’s not concerning at all. “We can stay here or go to my room.”

They exchange a glance and it’s Micah who answers. “How ’bout your room?”

“Sure.” We have to pass the front desk to get to the stairs to the second floor. That takes us past Comb-over Dude, who silently side-eyes us.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous about unlocking the door. Like, what if the Victorian spiritualists are back? Or, I don’t know, we walk through the gates of hell or something?

Fuck that noise. There’s no heaven and no hell, and if that also means there’s no sin, then I’ve been wasting my damn life. Either that or Mom and Dad could have let me be a weird little psychic princess, without all the sin eating bullshit.

Some day the parents and I are going to have words.

“You guys can sit at the table,” I say, and plant myself on the end of the bed. “There are a couple bottles of water in the fridge if you want some.”

Geordi unwraps himself from his blanket-coat and drapes it over the back of the chair before sitting down. “I’m okay. This hotel is really very cool.”

“Yeah,” Micah says. “How’d you find this place?” He sits too but keeps his jacket on.

“Googled best hidden hotels or thereabouts and this one came up.”

He scans the room. Thanks to housekeeping, there are no empty plates or glasses, the trash can is empty, and the bed has been made. “Kinda clancy.”

“Clancy?” Geordi squints at Micah, who shrugs like he really is cooler than the rest of us.

“It’s what happens when you mix classy and fancy.”

I slow blink, shaking my head. “Anyway, what was so important you had to drive all the way out here to talk to me about it?”

They share another look, this one longer, weightier. “We were worried about you,” Geordi says, his expression giving nothing away.

Micah’s got more of a smile. “Yeah, the way you took off when I suggested you might be a sin eater had me concerned.”

Those words.Sin eater. They burn, or maybe it’s the shame that causes pain. Muscles rigid, I glare at both of them. “Way to get right to the point, dudes.”

“You asked,” Micah says with enough faux sympathy that I figure he’s going to play good cop to Geordi’s bad cop.

I’m on my feet and halfway to the whiskey bottle before I realize what I’m doing. “Just didn’t expect you to go for the jugular right away,” I mutter, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I’m facing the mirror that hangs over the dresser, whiskey within reach, resolve holding firm-ish. Instead of pouring a drink, I watch Good Cop and Bad, reflected in the glass.

“You said you’d only had the one psychic episode,” Geordi says. He and I share a glance through the mirror.

“I’ve had a second.” Grateful for the smallest subject change, I start telling them about the Victorian women and the Ouija board. By the time I’m done, I’m more relaxed, as if sharing the story has made it easier to manage. I sit back down on the bed, legs crossed, determined to handle whatever they hit me with next.

“So I’ve been doing some research.” Bad Cop is back, and ngl, my determination flagged right there.

“Not, like, stalking you,” he says, “but I wanted to make sure I knew who we were dealing with.”