Honey and the Hatchet

Chapter 2 : Tuscan Sun

You're still a little bit in shock if you're to be honest. You weren't born yesterday, you know who Patrick Jane is. Heard about him shooting a potentially innocent man. Read up about the Red John murders. Still not sure whose psych profile is more interesting. Either way, they're both a little touched in a head. You thank your stars that Mr Jane is on the Good Side.

Probably.

A few minutes later has you sitting on an old leather couch not too far from the stainless steel table. Full, warm mug of tea in hand rather than a small cup. You can't remember where, but you've read that holding a warm beverage is a comforting thing.

You're desperately trying to find the comfort in the situation.

"So tell me, Skye. You mind if I call you Skye?" You shake your head. Skye's fine. It's not like you want or expect high society manners anyways. "Great. What do you do?"

He sips his tea. He looks so carefree. Unsure if that's a façade or legitimate sociopathy. You correct yourself: psychopathy. Jury's still out on the existence of the former. You decide it doesn't matter just now.

"I work at a book store," you answer quietly, raising your eyes to meet Jane's when you catch yourself staring down into your mug again. You were raised better than that. "About... a little over two years now, probably. Friend of the family owns it."

Mr Jane nods like what you said means something. Maybe it does. Cold reading is a strange thing. You remind yourself to steady your breathing and still your limbs. Remember to always look up to the left. Never the right.

You vaguely think that this is good practice.

"Mm, right, yes, I know that much. But mean for fun. In your spare time. You draw?" He motions at your right hand. Good call.

You nod. "Yeah. Been drawing since I was a kid. I mostly, um. I do digital art now. My hands usually shake too much for a pencil to be any good."

"Anxiety issues." It's not a question, but you nod. Jane hums and sips at his tea again. You remember to drink yours.

It's not as sweet this time but somehow it's a pleasant change of pace. Not fruity undertones either. His steady gaze on you is unnerving. It looks expectant. You wonder what gave away that you hadn't mentioned everything.

"You're not gonna like the other thing," you add quietly, turning the mug in your hands. The warmth is more like searing heat, actually. Your palms are sweating. Don't think about the body. Don't think about the body. Steady breathing.

"Try me."

Deep breath. Close eyes. Try and let the tension seep from your muscles.

"Fortune telling." You can almost feel him tense at the mention of it. You told him so. "Since I was in middle school. Tarot cards, runes, um. That kind of thing. The owner of the store lets me do free readings at the back on Friday nights so..." You trail off and stare at your shoes. You distantly wonder what they say about you.

"There's no such thing—"

"—as psychics," you finish, cutting Jane off. "I know. I never said I was a psychic, either. You asked what I did in my spare time, so there you go." You try and sound confident and stable. Voice is too weak to come off as anything other than tired. Which you very much are.

Again, Mr Jane makes a rather nondescript, noncommittal sound. Leans back against a desk (probably his?) and contemplates you. The scrutiny is really starting to make you feel uneasy. You clear your throat. Tea is half gone now. You're considering if you'll want more.

"You uh, you said you could help me remember. What happened after the call?"

"Oh, that. Right. Have you ever been hypnotized?"