Chapter 9: WORD OF MOUTH
The flood started on Thursday.
Karen had told friends. Those friends had told other friends. And suddenly, my phone was ringing with inquiries from people I'd never met, all of them saying some variation of "Karen said you're magic" and "I've been single for two years and I'm desperate."
By the following Tuesday, I had three new clients sitting in my apartment at different hours, and my FP was approaching critical levels.
Sarah Chen arrived first. Thirty-one years old, elementary school teacher, hadn't been on a successful date since her college boyfriend turned out to be married. Her string led somewhere in Queens—faint but present. She paid three hundred dollars, which the system quietly tripled to nine hundred, and left with hope in her eyes.
Mike Donovan came at two o'clock. Software developer, twenty-eight, so awkward around women that he'd developed a stutter whenever he found someone attractive. His string was brighter than Sarah's, pointing toward Brooklyn. Nine hundred dollars joined the first nine hundred.
Janet Reyes closed out the day. Divorce lawyer, thirty-four, recently divorced herself, absolutely certain she would never trust anyone again. Her string was the most complicated of the three—tangled, knotted, leading in multiple directions. I couldn't get a clear read.
"I'm not sure I believe in any of this," she said, sitting in my folding chair with her arms crossed. "Karen swears you're legit, but I've seen a lot of charlatans in my line of work."
"Fair enough." I kept my voice steady, professional. "What would convince you?"
"Results." She leaned forward. "I don't need you to tell me I'm compatible with someone. I need you to find someone who won't destroy my life. Can you do that?"
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying before she arrived, though she'd tried to hide it. The divorce wasn't as distant as she pretended.
"I can try," I said honestly. "No guarantees. But I can try."
She studied me for a long moment. Then she opened her purse and counted out three hundred dollars in cash.
"Don't make me regret this."
After she left, I collapsed on my couch. The ceiling fan turned slowly above me, casting shadows that moved like strings in the dim light.
[FP Status: 23/125]
[Warning: Extended ability use detected. Recovery recommended.]
[Current Regeneration: 10 FP per hour]
My head was pounding. Three full readings in one day, plus the ongoing tracking for Karen and Daniel, plus the ambient drain of just existing in a city full of romantic connections. I'd pushed too hard.
The Red Bulls I'd bought that morning—four of them, consumed between clients—had been a mistake. My heart was racing even as my brain felt stuffed with cotton.
But the money was real. Twenty-seven hundred dollars, after the multiplier. In one day.
I closed my eyes and let myself drift.
The knock on my door came at 7:43 PM.
"Ethan? You in there?"
Marshall's voice. Concerned.
I pulled myself off the couch, checked my reflection in the hallway mirror—disheveled, exhausted, vaguely haunted—and opened the door.
Marshall stood in the hallway, looking uncomfortable.
"Hey, uh, sorry to bother you. But I heard... crying? Through the wall. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay."
I blinked. Processing.
Janet. She'd cried during the consultation. The walls were thin—I'd discovered that on day one, listening to Ted's romantic meltdowns. I just hadn't considered that the transmission worked both ways.
"Client consultation," I said. "She was going through some stuff."
"Client?" Marshall's eyebrows rose. He peered past me into the apartment, where my "office" setup was still visible—the card table, the folding chairs, the lamp positioned for optimal professional ambiance. "Wait... is this for the matchmaking thing?"
"Yeah. It's been a busy day."
"Dude." He stepped inside without asking, which was very Marshall of him. "You're like, actually doing this? With the office and clients and everything?"
"Trying to."
He studied the setup with the appreciative eye of someone who had once considered going into business law. "This is cool. Way cooler than I thought. Ted said you were doing some kind of aura thing, but this is like... legitimate."
"Ted thinks I read auras?"
"He thinks lots of things." Marshall shrugged. "You know Ted. Everything's got to be mystical and meaningful. Last week he spent an hour explaining how the blue French horn was a symbol of his eternal devotion to Robin."
I remembered the blue French horn from that first night—the story Ted had told while I listened through the walls. The grand gesture that had somehow worked.
"He's not wrong about the devotion part."
"No." Marshall's expression softened. "He's really not."
He left shortly after, satisfied that no one was being murdered in 4C. But the damage was done. By the time I got to MacLaren's that night—dragged by Ted for "important gang business"—the whole group had theories about what I did.
"He's a psychic," Ted announced to the booth. "I've been saying this for days. He reads auras. Probably past lives too."
"He's a con artist," Barney countered, sounding almost proud. "A really good one. The matchmaking thing is a front."
"He's a matchmaker," Robin said dryly. "Which is what he told us. Maybe we could try believing people when they explain themselves."
"Where's the fun in that?" Lily's eyes were fixed on me, that familiar calculating look I'd seen since day one. "I think there's something he's not telling us."
Everyone turned to look at me.
I was exhausted. My FP was still recovering. I'd spent the day swimming in other people's romantic desperation, and now I was being interrogated by people I'd started to consider friends.
"I just help people find compatible partners," I said carefully. "No magic. No auras. No past lives. I'm observant. I ask good questions. That's it."
"But how do you know?" Lily pressed. "Karen said you took one look at her and knew what she needed. That's not normal observation."
"I have a system."
The phrase came out automatically—my deflection of choice since the first week. But this time, Lily didn't let it go.
"What kind of system? How does it work?"
"Proprietary."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer I have."
We stared at each other across the booth. The rest of the gang had gone quiet, sensing the tension. Even Barney had stopped scheming.
"Lily," Marshall said gently. "Maybe let it go."
"I just think—"
"Let it go."
She deflated. Not defeated—Lily Aldrin was never defeated—but strategically retreating. "Fine. But I'm keeping my eye on you, Ethan Cole."
"I know you are."
The conversation drifted to other topics. Ted's latest Robin strategy. Marshall's concerns about environmental law. Barney's ongoing campaign to get me to teach him "the secrets."
But I could feel Lily's suspicion like a weight on my shoulders. She knew something was off. She didn't know what, but she knew.
I'd have to be more careful.
At 11:30, I made my excuses and headed home. The city was quiet at this hour—relative quiet, anyway. The strings that crisscrossed the streets were dimmer in the dark, easier to ignore.
I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, fumbled with my keys, and collapsed face-first onto my bed.
[FP Status: 38/125]
[Recovery Continuing]
[Note: Extended rest recommended. Ability effectiveness reduced at low FP.]
My phone buzzed. I considered ignoring it. Then checked anyway.
Karen: "UPDATE."
Karen: "Daniel asked me out. Officially."
Karen: "Dinner on Saturday. A real date."
Karen: "I don't know what you did, but thank you. Thank you thank you thank you."
[Quest Progress: Make Your First Match]
[Status Update: Official date confirmed]
[Quest Completion: 75%]
[Final Step: Successful relationship establishment (minimum 2 weeks sustained contact)]
I smiled into my pillow.
Three new clients. A suspicious Lily. A gang that thought I was everything from a psychic to a con artist. And a first match that was actually, genuinely working.
Tomorrow, I'd start tracking strings for Sarah, Mike, and Janet. I'd deal with Lily's suspicion. I'd figure out how to pace myself so I didn't burn out my FP reserves every day.
But tonight, I'd let myself feel good about this.
One match almost complete. Hundreds to go.
The ceiling fan turned slowly above me.
Through the wall, I heard Ted's voice—muffled but earnest—practicing what sounded like a speech. Something about architecture and destiny.
I put in my earplugs and let sleep take me.
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