“I’m afraid this is just the truth,” she said with cool resignation. I looked at the conjurer’s tricks on the table. Bags of pebbles scratched with sigils strewn about at odd angles. A pendulum tied to a frayed bootlace.
“I’m going to turn out a murderer?” I scoffed. I mean, of course, I’d thought about those kinds of things. Everyone has. I got up in protest. “You wouldn’t even bet on it.”
“I’d wager two quarters and a 1973 dime your late father gave you,” she called out. I stopped cold. Fingered the coins in my pocket. I slowly moved back into my seat.
She picked up the cards, and something stirred inside her eyes that made me feel excited in ways I hadn’t yet known. “Listen to me, child,” she said, showing me the image of Death, “and I will show you how not to get caught.”
Chalk Snow 