Art walks into the cabin, carrying a shopping bag and something, like a present, wrapped and everything, beneath her arm. She disappears in the back of the cabin and later returns with her notebook.
I stop her in the hallway.
"Hey," I say, tucking my hair behind my ear, all hush-hush about things. "Where were you? And what's with all of that stuff?"
"It's nothing," she insists, hugging me. "Hello to you, too."
"Whatever," I say, thinking about what Marcy said, feeling freaked out. "What took you so long? I was going crazy here all by myself."
She pushes my bangs out of my face, smiling sweetly, catching onto what I meant. "Don't be so prejudiced," she says. "She'll help with your precious case."
"I suppose I can't argue with that," I say, leading the way into the kitchen. "Do you want anything to drink?"
"Do you have any soda?"
I turn to look at her. "For you, no."
She cracks a goofy smile. "Why not?"
"I'm not going to be responsible for making you hyper."
•••
Finally, we are where I want to be, sitting adjacent to Marcy, staring at her so she has nowhere to hide, pens ready to document what she's about to say. Ready to document everything.
"So," Art beings saying, "just to be clear, you don't know anything about this case?"
Marcy nods. "I don't like knowing anything about a case before I begin. It takes away from the authenticity of the impressions that I receive. I prefer starting with a wave of nothing."
I look at Art, and she's drinking it in, all of this medium stuff, she honestly feels Marcy can help us. Maybe, I decide, I shouldn't be so prejudiced. I want to solve this case, no matter how I have to do it.
"How does your process work? How are you going to help us communicate with Joseline Madeline?" I ask, kicking things off. I need information. It's been almost a decade since we started her case, and up until this far, nothing.
"Can I have a picture? Anything that belonged to her." She picks up her sketchbook, flipping to a new page.
"Sure." I hand her a photograph of Joseline.
Then, like clockwork, she's scribbling in her sketchbook. Lines that we can't see. Pencil networks are like spider webs. Circles. Squares. Links. Leads.
I lean forward in my seat, watching her, trying to tell anything from the vacant stare on her face. "What's happening?"
"She's not the kind of person that would willingly walk away," Marcy says, looking dazed, on another planet. Maybe, somewhere in the spirit world.