How can an old lady just vanish in her own hometown? And why? Police ask a reclusive psychic and her reformed young assistant to unearth clues through visions and investigation. They must ask themselves what in the woman's past needed silencing...
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JC called her mom at work, then boarded a bus to the hospital. Anything to ditch the Math studies. As long as her mother knew where she was, things would stay on track. 'specially post-Westerbeck, she thought with a wince as she swung into the seat with one hand on the chrome handle. Lady Gaga beat beautiful dirty rich into her ears. The bus chugged along wide roads, the thump-thumping telegraphed from wheels to seat to butt. Leaves hung like limp flags in the late afternoon heat. She closed her eyes, fingers tapping bare knees.
As they approached the hospital, JC wondered how Gramma'd be today. And who'd visited. Please lord, spare me Twiggy and Squirrel-Boy, she prayed as she galloped off and up the steps to the revolving front doors. Nine-inch Nails begged her closer as she crossed the lobby and jabbed the elevator button.
When JC passed the nurses' station on the second floor, a busy-body in uniform waved her arms, her mouth flapping, no words getting in through JC's personal soundtrack. She unplugged and wrapped the earbuds, flip-flops slapping down the marble hall. At the door, she heard wild giggles from her Gramma's room. What the hell?
Gramma sat propped as though the hospital bed was her magic carpet ride with the Blimp holding the front end down. No take-off here, she thought, glancing at the rolls of preteen flesh, pale and waxy between the red shorts and the polka-dotted crop-top. The Blimp's arms and legs jiggled as she gagged on laughter, notebook open over her exposed thighs. God, red-trimmed ankle socks and sandals too. JC tried not to show her disgust.
"Ah," Gramma sighed, her head quivering on her slender neck. She waved JC over.
"How y'doin' ol' girl?" asked JC, planting a noisy smack on her grandmother's papery cheek. Gramma's slender fingers shuddered through JC's hair. She's trying to flip it, noticed JC. And it doesn't flip.
"Pret-ty," her Gramma whispered. The Blimp watched, clutching her pen and book.
"Hi." JC moved from under Gramma's fidgeting and peeked at the writing. The Blimp slammed the notebook and pulled it to her chest.
"Po-em," stuttered Gramma and pointed. The old lady's eyes met the Blimp's. Their faces cracked and laughter spilled out.
"What?" asked JC, fists on her hips. Gramma jabbed a furious finger at the Blimp.
"O-kay," said the Blimp, unbraiding her legs to dangle them off the edge of the bed. She lowered her writing to her lap and let JC read over her shoulder.
"English assignment?" JC raised at eyebrow. Not bad.
"Yup." The Blimp swished bangs from her broad forehead. Her pits are soaked, thought JC, cringing.
"Read me what you got."
"Hmmm." She took a deep breath and in a nasal tone read, "I am a grain of sand. A grain of wheat. The grain of wood." She sucked in more air. "I-I am a...a flake..." An explosion of laughter erupted from both Gramma and the Blimp. JC looked from one to the other. Gramma's lips curled, struggling to keep all the spit in her mouth. The Blimp's eyes teared up. Her face was flushed. She began to hiccup.
