Dream Walker (Bailey Spade 1)

Enthusiastic clapping brings my attention back to the audience.

“Thank you.” I bow slightly, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. “That was just a small appetizer before the main event.”

Kacie, the crowd, and even Darian (who knows the method of what’s about to come) are hanging on to my every word. Maybe it’s presumptuous, but I can picture the people at home scooting closer to their TV screens.

After all, they just saw me predict, via a tattoo no less, a free thought that occurred in a human mind, yet I call it an appetizer.

My pulse is still too fast, and I become aware of an odd sensation—like I’m filling up with warm energy. Is this the Valium kicking in? I hope it’s not the cocktail mixing with the medicine.

Pushing the worry aside, I focus on my performance.

“A few weeks ago,” I say evenly, “I mailed an important letter to Kacie.” I actually mailed it to her assistant, but she doesn’t correct me, so I proceed. “Kacie, do you have that letter now?”

Kacie triumphantly picks up a large sealed envelope.

“This envelope was at the studio at all times, was it not?” I ask and lock eyes with Darian.

A horrific idea just popped into my head.

What if he doesn’t want me to deny being a psychic so he can play the cursed video and make me look like a fraud?

Debunking a fake psychic might make for good TV.

Shoving that awful thought away, I refocus on Kacie as she says, “Yes, and it’s sealed. There’s no sneaky business here.”

I could kiss her. Now I don’t have to emphasize how untampered the envelope was and how impossible it was for me to access.

“Great. Thank you,” I say. “Now, before we get to the envelope, can you please put up the front page of The New York Times on that big screen behind me?”

The familiar page appears on the screen, with the biggest story of the day prominently featured. The headline reads: MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Under the article is an image of a tall building lying on its side, with people digging in the rubble.

This is my moment, but I can’t help a huge pang of guilt. What I’m about to do is going to seem that much more dramatic because of this terrible tragedy. Of course, I had no control over today’s headlines, and this sort of outcome is always a risk with this illusion. One mentalist accidentally predicted Elvis’s death like this, and to this day, he’s stalked by conspiracy theorists.

Swallowing the guilt, I say in my most authoritative tone, “Kacie, please open the envelope and show everyone what’s inside.”

“I’m not sure I want to open this,” Kacie whispers, but her fingers are already ripping at the paper in front of her.

She reaches into the envelope gingerly, as though it has anthrax inside. Pulling out the big sheet of paper, she looks at it, and blood leaves her cheeks.

I want to kiss her yet again. Her reaction is fueling the audience’s anticipation.

Finally, the entertainer inside Kacie takes over, and she turns the paper toward the camera with a flourish.

On the paper, there’s a hand-drawn recreation of the newspaper still on the screen behind us. In the neatest script I could manage, I wrote MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Using my shoddy artistic abilities, I also drew a big building on its side and a couple of matchstick people next to some splotches of ink that represent the rubble.

One of the studio’s graphics people puts my prediction letter side by side with The New York Times, and the visual is very powerful.

I prepared a spiel about the difficulty of predicting earthquakes, but I don’t go into it. There’s no need. The audience is in the rare state of silent shock, and I don’t want to ruin it with words. This is the coolest reaction a magician can hope for—frightened awe.

Alternatively, the audience might be sucking in a breath to start booing me off the stage.

Darian breaks the spell by beginning a slow clap, like in a teen movie.

The roar of the applause that follows is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I jackknife to my feet and take a bow.

“Bravo,” Kacie says, her voice still uneven. Into the camera, she says, “We have to take a quick commercial break and will be back in a moment.”

The commercial music turns on, and I’m glad. If I freak out now, at least it won’t be broadcast live.

The audience slows their clapping, and I notice a few people in the crowd who didn’t react at all. One is a sickly looking older gentleman in the third row, and the rest are pale men in aviator sunglasses and black suits who remind me of security guards. They’re all the way at the back of the studio.