The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything away; it just moves the filth from one gutter to another. I sat in my office, the kind of place where the dust has its own zip code and the only thing that ever arrives on time is the disappointment. My name is Leo Vance, and I make a living by telling people where their missing wives are.

I don't use a crystal ball. I use "statistical intuition." Which is a fancy way of saying I track their credit card spending, check the local motels, and then tell the husband I "felt a psychic pull" toward a specific address. It’s a clean game. I get paid in cash, and the husbands get the satisfaction of thinking their marriage was salvaged by a miracle.

Then she walked in.

She was a blonde who looked like she’d been carved out of a block of ice and dressed in a dress that cost more than my car. She called herself Elena. She didn't want to find a missing husband; she wanted to find a missing "truth."

"I've heard you're the man who sees the invisible, Mr. Vance," she said, her voice like silk sliding over a razor blade.

I gave her the usual routine. I talked about the "energetic signatures" of loss and the "psychic echoes" of betrayal. I played the part of the mystical detective, leaning back in my chair, letting the smoke from my Chesterfield curl around my head like a halo of lies. I had her pegged in five minutes: wealthy, bored, and looking for a thrill. She was the perfect mark.

For three weeks, I led her on a chase through the underbelly of the city. I "predicted" sightings of a mysterious figure in the shadows of the Bradbury Building. I "felt" a presence in the derelict theaters of Downtown. Every "discovery" was carefully staged—a dropped handkerchief here, a whispered tip from a paid informant there. I was the puppet master, and Elena was dancing to a tune I had written.

I was preparing the final act—the "revelation" that would cost her another ten thousand dollars—when I found the folder in my desk.

It was a manila envelope, unmarked, delivered by a courier who didn't leave a name. Inside were photos. Photos of me. Not just recently, but for the last six months. Photos of me taking bribes, photos of me staging the "evidence" for Elena, and a detailed log of every "psychic pull" I had ever claimed to have.

Attached was a note in a handwriting that made my blood turn to slush.

"You're very good, Leo. But your patterns are so predictable. You always lean left when you're lying about the location. You always blink twice when you're about to ask for more money. I didn't hire a detective; I hired a specimen."

I looked up to see Elena standing in the doorway. She wasn't the fragile seeker anymore. She was looking at me with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a moth in a jar.

"The game is over, Leo," she said. "I don't care about the 'truth.' I just wanted to see how long a man could live in a house of mirrors before he forgot which reflection was real."

She didn't call the police. That would have been too simple. Instead, she handed me a check for the full amount of my fee, plus a generous tip.

"Keep the money," she whispered. "It's the price of your education. You're not the predator, Leo. You're just a very expensive toy."

As she walked out, I looked at the check and then at the photos. I realized that for the first time in my career, I had no idea what was going to happen next. And for a man who sold certainty, that was the most terrifying feeling in the world.

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