Murder by Medium

Chapter 2-An idea sparks Murderous Intent

———-An idea sparks Murderous Intent—-——

Phaedra sat slumped with the lights off at her cluttered kitchen table, the remnants of last night's wine slumbering in an empty glass beside her... and the two empty bottles only added to her hungover mood. Her crystal ball, a shiny silver orb atop of a brown oak base, cast a ghostly glow over the papers strewn around her. These accumulated notes of past "readings" cluttered the table, a chaotic tapestry of misspelt names and half-baked predictions. She tapped her ruby red pen against her temple, her frustration evident.

Staring at the Blightons' case notes Phaedra felt defeated. "I could have sworn he had a son" she murmured. "But no just two doting daughters." The family had sought her out after a sudden car accident had taken their father's life. This misinterpretation led to the aforementioned clients walking out, calling 'phony Phaedra' as they did. They had then gone on to contact the local paper and do a 'special section' entitled "Psychic Phaedra- the Phony' leaving Phaedra not only infuriated but embarrassed. The last thing she needed was her failures publicised and another slew of angry clients leaving more bad reviews and tanking her already declining business. 

Leaning back in her chair, rubbing her temples Phaedra was fast approaching a headache when her eyes drifted towards her phone glowing with notifications like a pearl in a dark ocean. Death notices from a local news outlet blinked monotonously- death was a tangled web leaving nothing but grief and empty thoughts. Yet this thought,  Phaedra straightened, began to unfold in her mind. What if she could turn grief into gold?

She flipped open her prized black and white polka-dot notebook, her fingers danced across the crip page as the plan unfolded from her mind explosively like a flickering light compelling her to write.

What if—what if she could create accurate readings simply by knowing the circumstances in which a person died? If she could craft a narrative truly fitting for each bereaved family, it could be her ticket to saving her livelihood and to getting rich.

"Find someone else to do the dirty work," Phaedra murmured, a wry smile spreading across her lips. The plan was so simple it bordered on absurd—a killer and her assistant, orchestrating it all like a wicked symphony.

She could pay someone to take care of the dirty work, while she took the stage to heal the broken hearts left in the wake of tragedy. For just £8.00 a reading, she could offer a thread of closure to those drowning in their mourning.

"a perfect scheme," she breathed, jotting down the possibility of finding a "partner" with the right skill set. The killer would need a certain edge, someone without a soul and with a clean enough track record—someone who could be forgotten after the act, yet knowledgeable enough to provide the details that would make Phaedra's performance as the all-seeing medium credible.

Phaedra stood, her heart racing with the thrill of the idea sparking a chaotic excitement within her. She paced around the living room. How easy it would be to convince someone to do it!

She could spin it, framing it as justice for the dead—a better outcome than anonymity or nothing at all. Now all she needed was someone she could trust. Her gaze landed on the cluttered kitchen table detailing her failures to anyone who happened to walk into her life. Never again.

"Someone... who knows the streets well enough." she whispered, her voice drumming in her ears like a spell. She envisioned the faces of those she'd interacted with—a handful of shadowy figures from lower society where desperation thrived. Any of them could do. But who?

Just then, a sharp knock at her door jolted her thoughts. Phaedra flinched, her heart momentarily pausing. She crept to the door with cautious steps, peeking through the peephole. A scruffy figure stood on her doorstep, a hoodie pulled over his head, only his piercing eyes visible.

He looked familiar—someone she'd crossed paths with during one of her readings outside a local pub. The thrill of her plot sparked anew within her, igniting again the possibility of a disposable ally.

"Who is it?" she called, raising her voice to be heard over the rush of excitement building in her chest.

"It's Rowan," came the muffled reply, a hint of urgency lacing his tone. "I need to talk."

Phaedra hesitated, she knew Rowan, 27 nearly 28, Naïve with a cunning mind he'd collected information from potential clients for her before, for a small fee of course, and with the looks of a man easily forgotten, could this be the connection she sought? Her mind raced as she leaned against the doorframe. She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening like cement. 

"Come in," she finally said, flinging open the door to the unkempt boy who could bring her lavish dreams to life—or drag her into a living nightmare.

As he stepped inside, the allure of her dangerous ambition shimmered just out of reach, waiting to be seized before it slipped completely out of her grasp.