Page 76 of The Sin Eater
“Why?”
Micah clears his throat. “Look, Geordi can help you learn to control your psychic power.”
Such a nice guy. I can’t help my grimace, despite the fact that he just gave me what I was hoping for.
“SPAM works with people with a variety of extra, you might say extraordinary, skills.” Geordi reclaims the speaker’s chair. “And in return for our help, you can help us.”
“You realize your org is named after a processed meat product, right?”
Even Micah-the-good-cop frowns at that one. “Yes, Ezra, we’ve heard all the jokes already.”
“And I doubt you’d come up with a new twist on it, anyway.”
Ooh, ouch, Bad Cop. Way to land a hit. Stifling the urge to try and prove him wrong, I grit my teeth and grind out, “So what do I need to do to control... whatever this is, and what’s it going to cost me?”
Geordi leans back in his chair, assessing me so intently I feel stripped bare. Awkward and scary, yes, but as long as he doesn’t start talking about eating sin, I can handle it.
“Here’s what I know. You were born in Bella Vista, Arkansas to a family with an odd amount of social isolation given their obvious financial resources.”
I’m off the bed and headed for the whiskey before he finishes. “Whoa, dude, that’s personal.”
He catches my eye in the mirror, freezing me in place. “I didn’t go any deeper than that. I didn’t look at your third-grade report card or dig up when you lost your virginity.” He gives a small shrug. “I do know that there were rumors attached to your family, at least to the older generations. You seem to have gotten out before—”
“Before what?” I gasp, like he’s smacked me in the chest.
He shrugs. “Before rumors got started about you. Your choice of profession and your family’s history make it fairly obvious you inherited the gift.”
“More like a curse.” I shut my eyes, grasping the neck of the whiskey bottle.
“Curse, if you prefer. I’m not wrong, though.”
I want to bluster, to tell him to go fuck himself. Only knowing that he might be able to help keeps my mouth shut.
“I have a question,” Micah says. I meet his gaze in the mirror and see sympathy without pity, and that keeps me from pouring myself a stiff one.
“Our best guess is that you chose to work as a morgue tech to practice your family gift, or curse, or whatever, right?”
I give him a half-assed shrug that might mean yes.
“So how did you know who needed to have their sins eaten?” Bad Cop asks.
The words lacerate my exposed bits. “Don’t say those words out loud. I can’t tell people what I am. It’s like the first rule of fight club, but there’s no fight and no club.”
“You can’t tell people you’re a sin eater?” Geordi asks.
I bow my head against the fire burning deep in my belly. “Stop. Please.”
There’s a period of silence. Might be thirty seconds. Might be ten minutes.
“You literally can’t tell people.” Geordi’s voice has a touch of wonder to it, like he’s going to nod his head and call me an interesting specimen or something.
“No.” I struggle to draw in enough air to say something, anything, that will make them stop.
I can’t.
“I can see why you’d call it a curse,” Micah says, and I swear to god a tear leaks down the side of my face.
There’s another pause, this one weighted with expectation. Maybe they think there’s something more I can give them. Joke’s on them. I got nothing. They know what I am. For the first time in my entire life, someone outside of my parents knows what I am.