Interference: Odessa Baker Psychic Mysteries, #2

By Valérie Larouche

Sometimes, the convoluted path is the only one available...
Dee is back home in Montreal and trying to make a living out of her ability, but she can't see a single case through as her dreams are being hijacked by visions of a woman trapped in a glass room.

And if that wasn't bad enough, a troublesome family member shows up on her doorstep looking for a place to stay just as Dee takes on the biggest case in town.

Will she manage to get her dreams back on track? How much trouble will that new guest prove to be? Who is the woman in the glass room and why is she reaching out for Dee?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valérie Larouche
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215349854

Valérie Larouche

Valérie Larouche is a traditionally published author who’s made the jump into the indie world. A fan of Agatha Christie and Edgar Allan Poe, her genre of predilection is psychic/paranormal mystery, but she dabbles in Gothic literature and urban fantasy as well. Obsessed with dreams, hauntings, and a good eerie ambience, she writes stories where shadows move and nightmares have meaning. When she’s not writing, Valérie can be found bingeing murder mystery TV series, playing eerie video games, or wishing she was at Walt Disney World going in and out of the Haunted Mansion ride in an endless loop. Valérie lives in the Greater Montreal area with her fiancé, a ton of books, and way more stationery than anyone could need in a lifetime.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Istood stranded in the desert, watching a car shrink on the horizon. A second later, the only proof I had that a car was ever there was a dissipating cloud of dust in the distance.

But I didn’t panic. In fact, it all felt very familiar; I had been here before. And as I turned around, I saw him, just as expected.

There was a man in the desert.

He stood immobile a few feet away from me, his clothes in disarray and his short brown hair a mess. Dark circles the size of oranges were swallowing the space under his eyes. He might have been handsome at some point in his life, but right now he only looked haggard, sickly, and confused as hell.

On the brink of death, said a pessimistic voice in my mind.

I shook the thought out of my head.

Hi, I said, trying to jumpstart a conversation. Do you know where we are?

The man didn’t reply. His eyes were fixated on the point where the car had vanished, as if in disbelief.

Do you know who was in the car?

No reply.

And then the wind picked up.

Oh, come on! Already?

I had to get this guy to talk to me. Maybe some sort of emotional jolt?

They’re gone, Francis, I yelled to him over the sound of the wind. They’re gone and they’re not coming back. You’ve been stranded. But I can help! Just…prove to me you’re not dead. Talk to me. I can’t help unless you talk to me!

An impossible amount of sand washed into my mouth. I spat and coughed it out, and when I looked up again, the wind had pushed heavy gray clouds into the sky, hiding the sun. The temperature dropped so quickly that I began to shiver.

I only had seconds left.

I grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him.

"Francis! Talk to me! Tell me something, anything!"

But he didn’t look at me. Didn’t budge. Didn’t even seem to notice the storm building up around us.

Black clouds were now crowding above, blue lightning bolts hopping in and out of them like dolphins in an electric ocean.

I knew it was coming—unavoidable.

A bolt of lightning landed nearby with a blinding flash and a deafening crack. In reflex, I turned myself into as small a shape on the ground as I could be, head between my knees.

And the storm died out instantly.

Gone was the wind and the sand in the air. Gone were the clouds and the dance of the bolts. But the sun refused to reappear.

I was now standing…nowhere, a void where nothing existed. The desert, in its vast entirety, had disappeared.

As had the man.

Crap.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted. I saw edges in the void, glints in the darkness.

I sighed.

With tired movements, I bent down and touched the ground: glass. I let a frustrated groan escape my throat.

Every time? I yelled to the void. What do you want? Why can’t you just leave me alone?

With my arms splayed on each side of me, I ran. My fingers grazed an invisible, glassy surface that followed me wherever I went. I knew it was futile to run—there was no escape from this place—but it felt a lot better than just standing there and taking it.

And soon enough, it appeared before my eyes, materializing out of thin air like mist above a pond: a bed.

It was one of those ornate brass bed frames with keys and swirls embossed in its headboard and footboard. The mattress was covered with a thick, soft-looking white comforter and pillows as fluffy as clouds.

The rest of the room, however, would make any decorator cringe. There were potted bamboo sticks next to a hundred-year-old rocking chair, and somehow, someone had managed to hang frames on the glass walls, all of them holding pictures of cars in different art styles. Something cold touched my feet, and I realized I was standing in a small puddle of freezing water.

A woman appeared on the bed, sitting quietly and petting a white rabbit.

When she saw me, her eyes seemed to light up. She put the animal on the floor, and it hopped away. She walked toward me. I wanted to run, but it felt like someone had cut the wires that connected my brain to my feet. So I stood there, hyperventilating and preparing myself for what was to come.

The young woman was beautiful, with long blonde hair and wide blue eyes. She was wearing an outfit that reminded me of something I couldn’t place.

She stopped a couple of feet away from me and whispered, Help.

In the next second, a dam broke above us, and liters of water poured into the glass room. I had lived through this countless times and yet, as the choppy cold water quickly climbed my body, panic rose within me.

I’m going underwater, I thought. I’m going to be submerged. I’m gonna see the blue faces!

My brain finally took control of my body and I dog-paddled my best to stay at the surface. But I reached the ceiling of the glass room in no time. With nowhere else to go, I knew I had no choice. I drew in as big a breath as I could and went under the water to try and find an exit.

Oddly enough, nothing in the room was altered. The comforter and the pillows rested neatly on the bed, unmoved, as if they’d been weighed down with lead. The lamp on the nightstand shone with a golden aura in the misty water. Even the picture frames remained in place. It was as if the water didn’t exist anywhere but in my mind.

The young woman had experienced the water, though. She was floating in it without moving, like a discarded doll. Blood oozed from her head and swirled around her body. In a flash, the water turned red and thick. With my hands held out before me, I swam in a direction that I hoped was the ceiling. I kept bumping into stuff until my hands found glass.

On the other side was a face, an evil grin deforming its features. It grabbed my hand and branded my palm. The searing pain traveled my entire body.

I woke up screaming.

And a minute later, I was hugging the trash can.

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The room spun around me. Violent cramps contracted my stomach. I focused as best I could.

Seconds into minutes.

Minutes into hours.

Hours into days.

Days into nights.

After a short while, the spasms subsided. It had been a good idea to only have a light dinner last night.

I set the soiled trash can on the floor, propped the pillows up behind me, and leaned back against them, catching my breath. The images of my dream were hazy, as usual, but the feeling of failure was real enough. I felt empty, defeated, useless.

With a sigh, I reached for the water bottle I kept on my nightstand and took a careful sip while my bedroom slowly made its way through the last banks of sleep fog. My first realization was how bright the room was, much brighter than it should have been on a mid-October morning.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time: 10:32 a.m.

And three missed calls, all from the same number.

Shit.

With dread in my heart, I checked my voicemail: two new messages. I listened to the first one.

Hello, Dee, it’s Simon. Call me back when you get the chance.

Not bad. Normal.

I played the second message.

"Dee? Simon here. Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’ve left you multiple messages over the last few days and you still haven’t gotten back to me. Call me; we need to discuss our deal."

Well, he doesn’t sound too angry, I thought, so I guess it’s not that bad.

My phone rang as I exited my voicemail, but I didn’t recognize the number. Maybe it was a new client! Business was a bit slow, so this would be a blessing.

I picked up.

Hello? Dee Baker here.

Ha! I fucking knew it!

Oh. Hi, Simon.

I knew you were avoiding me!

I wasn’t avoiding you, I just—

Don’t bother, okay?

I just need more time to—

More time? It’s been two months!

Well, connecting with a missing person isn’t exactly like picking up the phone. It can take a while before—

What’s wrong? Your ouija board’s outta sync?

I raised an eyebrow. Ouija board?

"You know what, you’re just like all those other shams. I’m gonna do what I shoulda done from the beginning: I’m gonna hire a real investigator."

Why didn’t you do that in the first place? And if you don’t believe in what I do, why did you even come to me?

Francis’s wife insisted we call you. She was all, ‘Oh, what she’s done for that little boy, it’s a miracle,’ he mimicked. "But I’m done listening to that good-for-nothing housewife. I’m pulling the plug. And don’t even think about billing me for those wasted two months."

Wasted? I did work for you!

And where are the results?

I gave you info, didn’t I?

A desert. Big deal! You can’t even tell me which one. You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops. But bill me and you’ll see.

I’m not—

We’re done, I said. Stay away from us.

But—

The guy hung up before I could even form an argument. I let out an angry yell and threw my phone on the bed.

That’s it, I said, I’m switching to payment upfront.

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The rest of the day pretty much kept in tone with how it had started.

I got up, started a pot of coffee, fed the cat, and launched the call history on my phone.

There wasn’t much in there—you’d think I was a hermit or something—except one number that repeated again and again.

I selected it and pressed the dial button.

An automated service picked up. I smiled, remembering the first time I called and how long it took me to reach a human being after listening to countless options. Now that I knew my way around the electronic maze, a human voice answered the phone after just a few taps of my finger.

Saint Eugene’s Prison, the voice said.

Yeah, hi. I’d just like to know if Daisy Chalifoux is taking phone calls now?

Just a sec.

I was put on hold, the music coming through the phone at odds with where I was calling.

No matter how often I’d called the place, how many times I’d said the name, it still made me want to put my fist through a wall. How people like her were allowed to live was beyond me.

Not only was she deranged and dangerous enough to have kidnapped my best friend’s son, but she was also withholding information about my sister’s disappearance.

I know what happened to Paris.

She had dropped that bomb just before our last meeting ended and then refused all visits and phone calls after that. I’d been trying to get in touch with her for months now.

Ma’am? said the voice on the phone, startling me.

I’m here.

Yeah, she’s not talking to anyone. Sorry.

Wait! Can you at least write down my name and phone number so she can call me when she changes her mind?

Can’t promise anything, the voice said flatly.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew they never wrote anything down; I’d left my info countless times before. Still, I left my name and phone number once again, and the line was disconnected before I could say anything more.

After that disappointing phone call, I spent hours glued to my laptop, searching for prospects and hoping an email would come in, that someone would be willing to give me a chance. But my inbox remained cruelly empty—and my bank account was drying up.

When I finally got a notification chime on my phone, it was not a good one. A new comment had been posted on my business page: a three-hundred word rant written by A guy whose brother is still missing.

I didn’t want to care, but this was my third bad review in the last two months. In fact, if it weren’t for Alma, I’d only have bad reviews.

Is it really worth it? Jake’s voice echoed in my head. You can’t help everyone, and you’re killing yourself, Dee.

I won’t stop.

Take a break, then.

I need the money, Jake.

What money? All I see is you having restless nights and puking!

It’s not a freaking landline! Establishing a connection takes time.

Yeah, and in the meantime, Scrooge lived lavishly compared to you.

You’re exaggerating.

It’s forty-five degrees in here and you won’t turn on the air-conditioning. You refuse to switch on any light before eight p.m., and you only eat food that comes out of a can without a brand name. Then again, seeing as you throw up every night, it’s probably wise not to blow what’s left of your money on a prime steak.

You’re making it sound worse than it is.

Jake cocked his head to the side. You really think I haven’t seen you rummaging through recycling bins for bottles to return?

I’m not ashamed of that.

Oh yeah? Then why do you do it at least two streets away from here?

No reply came quickly enough. Jake sighed.

Look, this is no way to live your life. If you won’t listen to me, then think about what your Uncle Lee would say if he saw you.

Don’t you dare—

And on top of it, what you’re doing is dangerous, Dee. It’s twice now that I’ve had to nurse you back to health because you were dehydrated from all the throwing up.

"Well, what would you have me do? Get a nine-to-five? Is that what you want for me?"

What’s so wrong with getting a regular job for a while?

It might be fine for you, but I’m wired differently.

That’s just bullshit. You’re the same as the rest of us. You think we all like getting up in the morning and going to sit in traffic for an hour to get to a job we don’t even like?

"And what do you know about that? You don’t have a nine-to-five. Why force me to get one?"

I’ve done it, Dee—for a very long time.

So have I! We’ve paid our dues and now you’ve got your dream job. It’s my turn to do something I like.

My job is not perfect.

Look, I can’t, all right? I won’t do it.

Why not?

Because I won’t go back to being useless!

I heard the door slam in my memory as something furry brushed itself against my leg, startling me out of my thoughts.

Back in my dark living room, I saw Baba’s glowing eyes staring at me.

Hey, I greeted him. Wow, is it that late already?

I closed my laptop and stretched to reach the table lamp beside me. One flick of the wrist and the room illuminated.

You want food, huh?

As if he understood me, Baba walked into the hallway and waited for me to follow him. We headed to the kitchen together, but it wasn’t until I opened the cupboard and saw the empty spot that I remembered we were out of cat food.

Crap. Sorry, doof; looks like dinner’s gonna be delayed.

Under Baba’s watchful eye, I put on my coat, scoffing at the fact that we’d been battling the tail end of a particularly tenacious Indian summer just a few weeks ago. Now, the thermometers dipped below zero at night.

Outside, the lampposts shone down on the sidewalk already. I slid in and out of the light, like a magician’s unskilled assistant who can’t quite manage the disappearing trick. A cold breeze forced me to zip my coat up to my chin and switch to a brisk pace.

The nearby grocery store was packed with Joes and Janes picking up some food on the way home from work. I zigzagged through the crowd and snatched a bag of cat food. All the registers were busy, of course, so I picked what seemed to be the fastest line…and wound up waiting almost ten minutes before my turn came.

I looked around to see if the other registers were clearing faster, but people with full carts were already lining up everywhere. I stayed put and cheated my boredom by letting my eyes wander the covers of the magazines on display. My attention was drawn by a letter-size sheet plastered on the column above the magazine rack.

It was a missing person’s poster.

A young woman named Marion Remblais had been missing since June. Her picture showed a pretty girl with a warm smile and bright eyes who seemed ready to take on the next adventure.

I’d seen that poster before, and the name appeared on every missing persons site I scoured. When the crème de la crème went missing, people pulled all the stops looking for them.

That poor girl, an elderly woman tutted behind me. Such a shame, she added.

We never know what’s waiting for us, I said with a polite smile, hoping to end the conversation.

That is so true. I guess rich people aren’t better off after all.

The word was not an exaggeration; the Remblais truly were among the richest families in Montreal. They were politicians, CEOs, and all sorts of government officials; the holiday dinners must have been pretty boring at the Remblais table.

May I help you? the cashier said, looking a little annoyed.

I paid and left the store, my mind going a mile an hour.

Sure, I’d seen that poster before and I’d tried to contact Marion Remblais, but it was always just in passing; I had clients who came first back then. Besides, I never really believed I could reach her. The girl had been missing for almost four months now. What were the odds of finding her alive anywhere?

But I had no other case at the moment.

And if I could establish a connection and maybe even find her, who knows just how grateful her rich family would be?

CHAPTER TWO

Itried reaching Marion for three nights. I couldn’t decide whether she was unreachable or if my ability was on the fritz because, for three whole nights, I didn’t dream about the glass room either.

Three whole nights of unusually peaceful, undisturbed sleep.

It had the advantage of waking up well rested but the disadvantage of feeling like my time had been wasted.

On this third day, I was becoming truly worried that my ability was now completely out of order. And my morning just kept getting better; Daisy still refused my phone call and I got a few alerts that a pre-authorized payment had been declined. As I was holding on to the foolish hope that a change of luck was just around the corner, I kept charging everything to my credit card, but the damn thing was so full now that it almost looked bloated in my wallet.

I was reviewing my list of expenses to see which luxury I could cut (I was down to buying one six-roll pack of toilet paper every month already) when my phone rang. It wasn’t a number I recognized, so I picked up right away, hoping it could be a new client.

Odessa Baker, I said.

Are you the Odessa Baker who finds missing persons?

Are there any others? (I was kind of hoping there would be; maybe I could blame some of my bad reviews on a case of mistaken identity.)

The man at the other end of the line probably thought this was a rhetorical question; he left it unanswered.

I would like—well, my wife and I might want to hire you. Can you come over to discuss our situation?

Can’t you tell me a bit over the phone? I asked, picking up a pen and paper.

Well, it’s our daughter. She’s been missing for fourteen weeks now and—

"Fourteen weeks? Sir,