Zero Worship: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #6

Chapter 27 - Ask Me How I Know

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Bexley's spasms cease. An empty stare crystallizes across her face. In a voice from somewhere else, she says, "He's out of ammo."

Pixie isn't sure what to make of that. "What do you mean?"

Zandra, however, has an idea.

No way.

No fucking way.

A fire alarm mounted on the ceiling in the kitchen goes off. It blares for a few irritable seconds before turning itself back off.

"He's out of shots. No more bullets," Bexley says quietly, amazed at the words coming out of her mouth. Her pistol's barrel moves from Pixie's direction to the front door's.

Pixie doesn't dash for the woods in the backyard. She's too curious for that. She steps back inside the house, her gun still pointed at Bexley, and says, "How? How can you possibly know that?"

Zandra trembles at the weight of the answer.

How could I have possibly known David was at Soma Falls before anyone else did?

"I don't know, but I know it's true," Bexley says.

Pixie isn't convinced. "You're trying to pull something. I don't know what it is, but I don't want to find out. I'm leaving."

Wait.

"I know how," Zandra says.

The knocking at the front door resumes. Despite her threat to leave, Pixie stays in place. She lowers her pistol, pointing it at the floor as her arm drops to her side.

Bexley does the same with her pistol. She smiles at Zandra and says, "It finally worked."

Zandra returns a weaker version of Bexley's smile.

And to think I made up half the shit I told her. Herman didn't make it up, though. The Six Reasons were right. The trauma or "heightened sense of psychodrama" must be genuine, though. There's no forcing it. The brain rewires itself somehow.

But is it worth it? Deep, penetrating trauma—like losing a loved one—is a high price to pay. Chad isn't dead, but the possibility is very real. That's not something you want to repeat over and over for the sake of a vision every now and then. Well, if you're a fan of Chad, anyway.

Far better to find shortcuts through some other method or you'll run out of loved ones.

Like I did.

"You counted bullets or you gave him the gun or something," Pixie says, sounding less confident than before.

"No, she's telling the truth," Zandra says. "I don't know how, either, but I know."

The knocking at the door gets louder. Pixie jumps. The man in the van—at the door—shouts, "Make a decision."

I think we have.

"I barely know you people," Pixie says.

Zandra rotates the handle of lawnmower knife in her hand. "Does that matter if she's right?"

"But why do you want to help me? No one helps me. That's how I ended up here," Pixie says.

Zandra can't put it into words, so Bexley does.

"The world shits on all of us. Sometimes, you've got to throw a little shit back," Bexley says.

Sounds like something I'd say.