Selma opened the order, full on expecting to see another need for her love potion.

That’s not what she found.

The order form was blank. Looked like Norman Rockwell wasn’t in the buying mood. He was however in a ranting mood.

Under the “special instructions” box her customer filled the space with hate.

YOU FUCKING BITCH. THE POTION WAS FOR ME AND HER, NOT HER AND HER FUCKING EX. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I KNOW WHER…

The box didn’t leave more room for him to write, cutting him off.

Her hand trembled as it moved over the mouse to delete the email. She hesitated and decided to keep it in her inbox. Over the years, people had asked for refunds, said her “shit” didn’t work. This kind of hate mail didn’t happen…not to her anyway.

Probably because most, if not all, of her “shit” did work. That would be the by-product of being the real deal.

Obviously this love potion worked…just not for the man giving it.

She glanced at the address she’d been sending the package to. It was a P.O. Box in Bullhead City, Nevada. Not more than a six-hour drive.

The P.O. Box she shipped her orders from was several blocks from her apartment, giving her some space from disgruntled customers. The precaution had been an afterthought when she moved to California. Now, she was happy for it.

She shook Mr. Rockwell from her head and moved on to the next order. When her morning ritual was complete and the coffee in her cup hit bottom, she moved to her supply closet and hand-packed and mixed the herbs for her orders.

When she was finished, she filled her bags for the post office and started from her office. The monitor on her desk clicked onto a screen saver, reminding her she’d left it on.

With her hands full, she concentrated on the mechanics of her computer, willing it to power down.

Nearly as quickly as she thought of turning it off, it did.

The smile on her lips spread. Using her mind, her gift, to control the electronics around her never got old. She even managed to unlock simple mechanical structures…like the front door of a certain police officer’s house.

It was early, and the post office was quiet.

“Hey, Paul,” she greeted the postmaster behind the desk by name.

“Hi, Selma. Lots of orders today?”

“A few.” She hoisted the bags onto the counter and handed them over one at a time.

“Does any of this really work?”

“Of course it does,” she said with a grin.

Paul was in his mid-fifties, and his belly stuck out a little more than nature intended. Seemed like he enjoyed his job and always greeted her with a smile.

“My wife went on your website. Said you sell tea and crystals.”

She placed another box on the counter and waited for him to weigh it and add the price to her list. “Crystals hold energy. And tea or, more precisely, herbs can ease the mind and soul into accepting the truth.”

“Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me. No offence.”

“None taken.” She’d learned long ago to disregard the general disbelief from the public.

“I went to a palm reader once at the county fair. Do you read palms?”

“No.” She didn’t need to look at a palm to have a feeling of the people around her.

“The woman told me I needed to stop smoking or I’d get ill.” He paused with his hand on the package. “I didn’t tell her I smoked. Spooky how she knew.”

Selma stifled a laugh and placed her hand over his. “From the looks of the yellow around your fingers, I’d say you smoke two packs a day.” She released his hand. “Guess you didn’t believe her.”

He stared at his hand as if it were a foreign object. “You think that’s how she figured it out?”

She shrugged and folded up her now empty bag.

Paul gave her a total, which she paid with her credit card. “It’s hard to quit. Try damn near every year.”

When he handed her the receipt to sign, she brushed her finger over his and planted the seed for him to ignore his nicotine cravings. There were no guarantees, of course. But she liked Paul and didn’t want to see the man suffer with cancer.

“Every cigarette you don’t smoke is a victory,” she told him.

“That’s what my wife says.”

“Smart woman.”

She tucked her bag under her arm. “See you tomorrow, Paul.”

He waved and as she turned to leave, she smacked into the man standing behind her in line.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry,” he said. His voice was small even though the hand he’d held out to keep her from falling gripped her elbow.

She looked up to see the man’s face, and he released her and stepped back. Her body shuddered as unease crawled over her skin. His dark eyes didn’t meet hers as he moved around her, dismissing her as quickly as he’d entered her space.

When she stepped out into the hot California sun, she shivered. The thought of her morning email had her looking over her shoulder.

“Paranoid much?” she asked herself.

Yet instead of driving home, she detoured toward Mrs. Dawson’s.

Safety in numbers and all that.

Chapter Thirteen

Helen met her at the door with a bottle of Tums in her hand.

“Oh, boy…that’s not a good sign.” Selma pushed her way inside and wrapped an arm around her new friend’s shoulders.

“I’m told it’s a sign of a full head of hair.” They walked down the hall and into Mrs. Dawson’s parlor, or living room as most people called it.

“Blonde like you or brown hair like Simon’s?”

“Has to take after his father. There’s no way a blonde would come out with a full head of hair.”

“It’s a boy? Are you sure?” Selma sat beside Helen with a huge smile on her face.

“Amber told us last week.”

Selma glanced at the ceiling, envisioning the room above where Amber usually hid. “How is she?”

Helen heaved a sigh. “So much better with Kincaid here.”

“Future-Boy?”

“Excuse me?”

“The guy who showed up at Jake’s? The guy from the future?”

Helen laughed now, getting the joke. “Right. Yeah…” Helen launched into an explanation of what had occurred since Kincaid had shown up.

“So let me get this right. Amber…little miss virginal and innocent has to hold Future-Boy’s hand twenty-four-seven to keep the voices out of her head?” Selma couldn’t imagine.