Power Play (Amanda Byrne Book 1)

by Kimberly Keane

  “Are you able to tell who created the curse?” Mr. Wesley asked.

  She looked down at her lap and threw another worried glance. But she wasn’t looking at Mr. Bradley. I followed her gaze, perplexed, back and forth. She seemed to be looking at someone near Mr. Bradley. Not his lawyer. Not someone behind him in the audience. She seemed to be looking at his nurse. I furrowed my brow and looked more closely at the woman. She was still middle-aged and gray. And her emotions were intense, deep and rich, as if they were close to overwhelming her. They didn’t flow freely, like I’d seen with most others, but were held in close to her, as if she were afraid to lose them.

  “I can’t simply say who made the curse. I have to be close to the person to tell,” Ms. Martinez said, drawing my attention back to her.

  “Are you close enough to Ms. Byrne to tell if she created the curse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Ms. Byrne create the curse?”

  “No,” Ms. Martinez said and flicked her eyes again toward the nurse.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Wesley said and turned to the judge. “No further questions.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Pictures of the reporters’ drawings of the alternate realm splashed the front page of the papers the next morning. Every news carrier from local to national was carrying the story with the headline: PSYCHIC PHENOMENA REAL. The mundane world had come face-to-face with the alternate realm.

  The reporters didn’t let up. They were waiting for us outside the courtroom during every break and after the first day concluded. My phone rang so much that evening, I had to turn it off. The hotel room phone didn’t start ringing until eight that night. Miriam unplugged it after the third call. Bless her.

  Mr. Bradley appeared in court again, still in his hospital bed, an IV of morphine by his side. I’d worked with doctors and nurses enough to know that they only sent you away with a morphine drip when they were waiting for you to die.

  “I call Miriam Rowan,” Mr. Duvall said.

  I watched Miriam rise and stride to the front of the room. She sat straight and tall and took her oath to tell the truth.

  “Ms. Rowan, you are a friend of Ms. Byrne, correct?” Mr. Duvall asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did Ms. Byrne attach the curse to Mr. Bradley?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You believe?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Didn’t Ms. Byrne tell you she gave the curse to Mr. Bradley?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet, you only believe?”

  “I have no reason not to believe her.”

  “Ms. Rowan, you are a professional telepath, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “This means you are able to read minds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you able to read Ms. Byrne’s mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you can tell us, with absolute certainty, if she cursed Mr. Bradley?”

  “No.”

  “Come now, you didn’t read her mind?”

  “Correct.”

  “Really? You aren’t the slightest bit curious?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Amanda is the most honest, upstanding, moral person I’ve ever met. She’s harder on herself than anyone I’ve ever met. Too hard on herself.” She gave me a pointed look and turned her attention back to Mr. Duvall. “She’d throw herself in front of a train for people who don’t deserve it.”

  “And yet, she cursed Mr. Bradley.”

  “Objection,” Mr. Wesley said. “Is that a question?”

  “Sustained.”

  Mr. Duvall continued, not at all fazed. “You expect this court to believe you haven’t read Ms. Byrne’s mind to learn why she cursed Mr. Bradley?”

  “No. Actually, I expect most wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Ms. Rowan, you have promised to tell the truth, and still you claim you don’t know why Ms. Byrne cursed Mr. Bradley?”

  “Yes. And correct.”

  Mr. Duvall shook his head sadly and sat back down at the table. “No further questions.”

  Mr. Wesley rose. “Are the only curses you’ve seen the one Ms. Byrne took from Peter Bradley and the one in Mr. Bradley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if all curses appear the same or if they differ in some way?”

  “No.”

  “So, you can’t say for certain whether the curse Ms. Byrne had is the same curse that Mr. Bradley has.”

  “Correct.”

  “About your gift, do you enjoy being a telepath?”

  “Not particularly. I enjoy that I can make a good living. But, other than that, I don’t care for it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people, in general, are mean and selfish.”

  “But you can tell what people are thinking. No one can take advantage of you or hurt you. I would read everyone’s thoughts all the time if I had the ability. Why don’t you?”

  “No, you wouldn’t because you would hear everything. You would hear the small daily worries that go through everyone’s mind on top of your own. You would hear your wife’s thoughts. How much she wishes you were like someone else. How handsome or attractive you used to be. How it’s probably normal not to want to be married all the time. You’ll hear how your mother thinks if only you would have tried harder in school, you could have made something of yourself. You’ll hear the petty judgments made by everyone every minute of every day. Think about it. What goes through your mind most of the time? Where are your thoughts?” Miriam’s voice cracked. She raised her hands and covered her face. A shudder passed through her. She rubbed her forehead and set her hands back into her lap. “It’s easier not to know. It’s easier to believe that people are really good at heart when you can’t hear everything that goes through their minds.”

  “Do you read others’ thoughts without an invitation?”

  “I read others’ thoughts when I accept a working arrangement, before I answer the phone, and if a friend is in need. Other than that, no.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  By the third day of the trial, I wanted nothing more than to go home. The courtroom’s air conditioning felt like it had been set at Arctic North. The sweater I wore had done nothing but hide goose bumps that rose on my arms, and Mr. Wesley didn’t want me crossing my arms; it would send the wrong message to the judge. I was in for another day of listening to what a horrible person I was, and I got to slowly freeze to death in the process.

  Mr. Wesley had said this was probably the last day of the plaintiff’s case and he expected them to call me to testify. I couldn’t refuse because it was a civil, not a criminal, trial. I also couldn’t plead the Fifth unless my answer would implicate me in an actual crime—Mr. Wesley assured me that it wouldn’t. There was that.

  I sat in the witness chair, looked out at the faces, and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. I had enough judgment of my own; I didn’t need to add anyone else’s. I looked at Miriam and the boys. All dressed up. There for me. I wondered for a moment how they could still care about me after everything that had been said: all the names, all the innuendos. They all smiled at me and it lifted my spirits, if only a little. For much of my life I’d tried to deny that I crave love, connection, and belonging. I’d always thought that made me weak. I thought I had to be the strong one. I had to be the one to prop others up. Except for Miriam. She had propped me up many times through the years, but I’d always felt like a burden to her. This was the first time it made me feel strong, to know that people could care for me this much, and my heart filled with so much gratitude some of it leaked out my eyes.

  I looked at Mr. Bradley and the curse within him. Their breath was labored, and neither appeared to completely comprehend where they were or even that they were still breathing. Mr. Bradley was skeletal, and the curse appeared frayed at the edges. I knew I’d probably have died had I not fused them together, but still, I couldn’t help th
e sympathy and guilt the sight of their suffering birthed inside me.

  “Ms. Byrne,” said Mr. Duvall, drawing my attention to him. “How did you meet Mr. Bradley?”

  “Mrs. Bradley asked for help regarding her son’s illness and he came to the hospital when the two of us were there looking at her son.”

  “Are you a healer?”

  “No.”

  “Then how could you have helped Mr. Bradley’s son?”

  “I work with healing deities,” I said.

  “Are you married?”

  I furrowed my brows. What the helheim did that have to do with anything?

  “Objection,” Mr. Wesley said. “Relevance.”

  “I ask for some leeway, Your Honor,” Mr. Duvall said.

  “Granted, but come to the point quickly, Counselor,” Judge Peterson said.

  “I’ll ask again: are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Were you married at some point in the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you have your husband committed to a mental institution?”

  “Objection,” Mr. Wesley said.

  “Come to the point, Mr. Duvall,” Judge Peterson said.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Duvall said to the judge and turned back to me. “Did you have your husband committed to a mental institution?”

  I looked at Mr. Wesley, and he shrugged almost imperceptibly. Just great.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you work with your healing deities to have him healed?”

  “They said there was nothing physically wrong with him. Nothing they could fix.”

  “Did your ex-husband cheat on you?”

  “Objection.” Mr. Wesley stood. “Your Honor, please, what is the relevance here?”

  “I’ll state it for the record,” Mr. Duvall said. “Ms. Byrne has a history of getting rid of people who inconvenience her.”

  “Denied. Mr. Wesley, have a seat,” Judge Peterson said.

  I sat there with my mouth hanging open. He couldn’t be serious. Making sure the boys’ father was well taken care of damn near brought me to bankruptcy several times. I could have walked away. Washed my hands. Instead I had visited the man and continued to do so. Made sure his life was as good as it could possibly be, given his mental condition.

  Mr. Duvall had started the trial painting me as the worst sort of human being. Now it was going to get worse. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. If I ranted about it, it would make me look all the guiltier. I clenched my teeth together. I’d have to sit here and take it. I’d have to answer the questions even if it made me look like the terrible person Mr. Duvall said I was. I closed my eyes and quickly went through the mental exercises I did when my emotions were running too high to easily use my gifts. It offered me a bit of calm. Enough that I could swallow the last bit of my pride.

  “So, Ms. Byrne,” Mr. Duvall said. “Did your ex-husband cheat on you?”

  I took another deep breath. “Yes.”

  “And then he conveniently had a mental collapse severe enough to have him committed. Tell me, Ms. Byrne, did you have any healers look at him, other than the gods and goddesses with whom you work?”

  “He’s had excellent mental health doctors.”

  “Any medical doctors?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You can’t remember?”

  “The hospital may have had medical doctors in to look at him. It’s been too long. I can’t remember everything they tried.”

  “But you didn’t bring anyone in yourself, did you?”

  “I trusted the hospital’s recommendations.”

  “How much did you pay the doctors?”

  “I’m sorry? Do you mean how much does his continued care cost?”

  “No, I mean how much did you pay the doctors to commit him?”

  “Doctors don’t charge to have someone committed.”

  “Committal isn’t a cheap process though, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why have him committed?”

  “Because I couldn’t continue to work, take care of him, and care for my two young children.”

  “Wasn’t this just a convenient way to get rid of him?”

  “No.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “How many times have you been pregnant?”

  Tears welled in my eyes. Dear gods, he wouldn’t suggest . . . he couldn’t! The modicum of mental calm I’d managed to grasp fled from me. How in helheim was I supposed to get through this? How could he be allowed to open this wound in front of the world? How could he even suggest that I’d gotten rid of my own daughter?

  “Objection,” Mr. Wesley said, and I hoped, if only briefly, that it would work this time. Please, gods, please let this work.

  “Sit down, Counselor,” Judge Peterson said.

  I raised my eyes as if the god realms existed above me. Come on. I’ve worked with you for years. Couldn’t you extend just a bit of grace my direction? A moment passed and then a few more. Nothing, nothing, and nothing. Damn them.

  “Ms. Bryne?” Judge Peterson asked.

  I faced her, tears streaming down my cheeks and then turned to the biggest asshole on the planet. I glanced at Mr. Bradley. Well, the second biggest. Then I answered the question. “Three.”

  “What happened with your third pregnancy?”

  “My son, Ethan, was born,” I said. It was the lamest side step in history, but I did it anyway. Petty? Me?

  “All right then, what happened with your first pregnancy?”

  I swallowed, hard. The stone that had lodged itself in my throat fell to my stomach and weighed approximately a ton. I thought I might throw up. My beautiful girl. My sweet child. The one I couldn’t save.

  “Ms. Bryne,” Mr. Duvall said, his voice full of scorn.

  “My daughter, Sarah, was stillborn.” I dropped my face in my hands and wept. I didn’t care if it made me look guilty. I didn’t care about any of this anymore.

  The judge spoke my name and, when I looked up at her, handed me a box of tissues. I managed to halt the sobbing, if not the tears, and blew my nose.

  “You were young when you got pregnant, weren’t you?” Mr. Duvall continued.

  I nodded.

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Duvall said, and the judge reminded me that I had to answer the questions aloud.

  “Yes.” My voice was barely audible.

  “Were you married at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Where was Sarah’s father?”

  I shrugged and then, remembering the judge’s reprimand, said, “He left me.”

  “So, you would have been a very young single parent, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was convenient she died, wasn’t it?”

  I glowered at him, wishing that my gifts included the ability to vaporize someone . . . in very painful ways. We locked eyes and I thought the judge might prompt me to answer, but she remained silent. I waited. By the gods I would make him realize what he was doing. I couldn’t hurt him, but I was determined to make him feel uncomfortable. Finally, his eyes flicked away from mine. It was a small victory, but I took it. Then I answered him.

  “No.” My voice, even though just a whisper, caused Mr. Duvall to back up a few steps. He turned away from me, walked back to his table, and took a drink of water. I wiped the tears from my face and glared at Mr. Bradley—he’d started all this. The bastard turned my life upside down. Any of the sympathy I’d felt earlier had frozen like an engine block in Montana in the dead of winter. This sorry excuse for a person deserved everything that had happened to him, and more. Even if they found me guilty, even if I lost everything I owned, I knew that I’d do the same thing again and probably smile at the chance.

  I watched the shifting of his form and, for the first time, it didn’t turn my stomach. His form separated and moved and came back together. It was almos
t mesmerizing. Moving slower and slower. In a trance, I fell into the rhythm. Until it stopped. He turned the palest of grays and all emotion drained away. The curse’s eye rolled back, and its tail fell away from Mr. Bradley’s rib cage. It turned to dust, which floated above Mr. Bradley and dissipated.

  I waited to feel . . . well anything. Happy. Sad. Guilty. Instead only a vague sense of relief made itself known, and then that too faded away.

  “Mr. Bradley,” I said, my voice as bland as it ever had been.

  “You’re only to answer questions posed to you,” the judge said, a perplexed note evident in her voice.

  I pointed at him. “He just died.”

  While most people fell silent and looked stunned, the nurse stood and took Mr. Bradley’s wrist in her hand. She dropped it as if she were dropping a cigarette butt, and made no effort to resuscitate him. She turned to me and glared, gritting her teeth so hard the muscles in her jaw moved back and forth. Then she yelled unintelligibly and raised her face upward, breathing heavily. I expected to see sadness or hurt or anger or something. Instead, it looked as if her emotions had solidified, holding steady around her, the same anger I’d seen on her the first day I saw her. Until she finally lowered her head. Then rage erupted from her and I ducked as if it were an explosion.

  “You ruined it!” she screamed and ran toward me, arms extended.

  I startled but sat there as if I’d become part of the chair. Some people talk about the fight or flight response. Most people don’t even realize there’s a third reaction: freeze. And that’s exactly what I did. It was as if she moved at me through water and I could see every muscle movement. She was coming to kill me. I could see it in her eyes. And still, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even tell myself to move. It was as if I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. I could only sit and note the tiniest of details about her as she came to destroy me.

  A few hairs had come loose from the tight bun she wore and floated about her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her skin was mottled with red blotches. She moved quickly and easily, closing the distance faster than I would have thought, even though everything had slowed to a quarter speed.

  The bailiff grabbed her just before she could throw herself completely into the witness box, but her hands reached for me all the same. His arms circled her waist and I saw her hands, curled like claws, pass mere millimeters in front of my eyes before he pulled her away.