Chapter 1: The Murder Confession Reading

I read tarot cards for a living. And yeah, I run the only New Age shop in town.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not as mystical as it sounds. My storefront’s wedged right between the bakery and the dry cleaners on Main, with a neon sign in the window that blinks between “Palm Readings” and “Crystals & Candles.” I string up fairy lights all year, and the bell over the door loves to jangle right when things get dramatic. Guess I can’t help leaning into the whole vibe.

Yesterday, a customer walked in, told me she’d killed someone, and then asked if I could figure out where to dump the body using my cards.

That’s not the kind of thing you hear every day—even in my line of work. Usually, folks just want to talk about love, money, maybe a lost pet. But this? This was a new one. I can still hear her voice, calm as can be, almost too matter-of-fact. Honestly, it gave me the creeps.

I’m Finn Harper, and yeah, I’m a fortune teller.

I know, sounds like something I made up for business cards, but it’s what’s on my driver’s license. Around here, people just call me “that psychic guy” or “the Mystic Haven dude.”

A few years back—God, has it really been that long?—I moved to this town.

It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked on the highway. Tucked in the foothills, surrounded by wooded ridges. Folks here are salt-of-the-earth types, and to be honest, it looked like a prime spot to make some easy cash.

I still remember rolling into town the first time, windows down, Fleetwood Mac on the radio. The place oozed faded Americana: clapboard houses, a diner with a “Best Pie in the County” sign, a post office that still closes for lunch. I thought, why not try my luck here?

So I opened Mystic Haven—my shop, my place—and sure enough, business took off.

Turns out, small towns are loaded with secrets and superstitions. People came in for all sorts of reasons: heartbreak, hope, curiosity—or just to browse the wind chimes and chat about the weather. I became part of the scenery, like the old oak by the library or the faded mural on Main Street. Not exactly a statue, but you get the idea.

Monday. Slow as always.

Mondays are usually dead. I spend most of the day restocking shelves, sweeping up stray glitter, and sipping bad gas station coffee. But tonight, the air felt heavy—like something was brewing.

That evening, a strange woman showed up at my shop.

She looked like your standard small-town woman in her forties, but she was tall and broad-shouldered. I’m 5’8”, but next to her? I felt tiny.

Her boots were caked with mud. As she stepped in, I handed her a couple napkins from the counter.

“Welcome to Mystic Haven. We’ve got all kinds of crystals, incense, tarot decks, lucky charms—whatever you’re looking for. What brings you in?”

I tried to keep it breezy, like I hadn’t just noticed she could probably bench-press me for fun.

She wiped her boots, looked up, and—voice flat as a pancake—said, “I want a reading.”

Her eyes were sharp, but there was a tiredness there, like she’d seen more than her share.

“Just so you know, tarot readings aren’t cheap—forty bucks for thirty minutes.”

“All right.”

She agreed so easily it threw me off. I blinked. Most folks at least try to talk me down. She didn’t even flinch.

“My rule is, I look at your past first. If I get it wrong, I don’t charge. Just need your birth date and time.”

I waved her over and started sizing her up.

She had a lot of gray hair, strong arms, and her clothes were clean but old-school. Her fingers were covered in calluses—definitely not a manicure type.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re pretty well-educated—at least finished high school, right?”

I glanced at her hands again. That thick callus on her middle finger, the kind you get from years of writing, not just typing. It stood out, especially for someone who looked like she’d spent most of her life stocking shelves or hauling boxes.

A high school diploma in the ’90s meant something, but she looked like someone who’d done manual work for years. Never really put down roots, maybe. Probably has a favorite booth at the local diner, though.

Maybe the breadwinner in her family fell ill, and she had to take over? I dunno, maybe…

I stroked my chin, watched her reaction, and continued, “But something happened in your family later. Maybe your father, but more likely your husband. He got sick, or maybe ran off with someone else.”

“You have a child. You probably came here to ask about your child.”

After saying that, I picked up my mug and took a sip of coffee.

I let the words hang, waiting for a flinch or a sigh. For a woman her age to spend money so easily, it’s usually for her son or grandson.

“You really are gifted. You got most of it right.”

She introduced herself—Marlene Foster. Used to be a college student, then a teacher, now runs the local grocery store. Said it all with this kind of matter-of-fact pride, then moved right on.

Her voice softened for a moment, almost nostalgic, then snapped back to business.

“But I didn’t come about my son. I want to ask about myself.”

That caught my attention. “Go ahead.”

“Last Friday, I killed someone. Afterward, I dumped the body in the woods. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting old or because it was my first time and I got nervous, but I forgot where I dumped the body. Can you help me figure out where it is?”

I frowned. “Ma’am, if you think the price is too high, just say so. Why mess with me like this?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but my heart was pounding. People joke about dark stuff sometimes, but this—this was next-level.

“I’m joking, young man. Don’t you have a sense of humor?” She laughed, and the chair creaked under her. “How about this—tell me how long I’ll live.”

Her laugh was rough, echoing off the crystal displays. I tried to play along, but my nerves were shot.

“No can do. Lifespan readings are off-limits. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

I glanced at the wall clock, and to fill the thirty minutes, I suggested, “But I can check your fortune for you.”

I took her palm and studied it.

“Well?”

“A life of hard work.” I shook my head. “You’ll work yourself to the bone for your kids.”

I traced the lines, letting the silence stretch. Sometimes, people fill it with their own confessions.