Free Mindwalker by AJ Steiger Page A

to respond is with a joke or a very general remark—then gently steer the conversation back toward the client.
    Steven is watching me with shielded, alert, wary eyes, like a wild animal. Waiting to see if I’ll give him a real answer or a fake one. If I evade this question, I will lose a little of his trust. “I need this,” I say.
    He blinks. A tiny crease appears between his eyebrows. “This?”
    My cheeks burn hotter. “I need to help people. People like you, who are in pain.”
    He frowns, looking baffled. “That’s your drug? Saving people?”
    I toy with a button on my coat, mouth dry. My heart thunders in my ears. “Something like that.”
    â€œI don’t get it. I mean, isn’t that your job? How is that a vice?”
    â€œI don’t know how to explain it, exactly,” I murmur. I shouldn’t even be talking about this. But suddenly, I want him to understand. I want him to see me for who I am. “When I’m helping someone, easing their pain, I feel … useful. Needed.” I stand, hands clasped together in front of me, heart pounding. “People tell me that I must be very strong-willed or motivated or ambitious, to keep doing what I do. But … sometimes, I think it’s just that I
can’t
stop. I don’t know how. I’m afraid that without this, there’d be nothing of me left.”
    There’s a long silence. I can’t guess what he might be thinking, but I can feel his gaze on me, like a steady pressure against my skin. Oh God. I shouldn’t have told him all that. Now he’s going to think I’m weird. Or just pitiful. But when I glance at his face, I don’t see pity or distaste.
    â€œYou said we can get started tonight?” he asks.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo let’s go.”
    As the car drives us back to my house, Steven stares out the window. In the dimness of the vehicle, his large blue eyes are pools of shadow sunken deep into his too-pale, too-thin face. I want to see that face well and smiling.
    I want that very much.

I park in my driveway and lead Steven to the front door. He looks warily around my yard, as if expecting a goblin to pop out from behind the bushes. “Who else lives here?”
    â€œI live alone,” I say. “Well, mostly. There’s Greta—my housekeeper—but she’s not here today.” I unlock the door, which is so old that it has an actual key lock, not a code pad or a biometric scanner. Steven steps slowly inside, eyeing the hardwood floors and brown leather furniture. I tug open the curtains, and light spills in through the picture window, illuminating the living room. A pair of ceramic squirrels—matching salt and pepper shakers from an antiques shop—stand on the coffee table, looking at each other inquisitively.
    I sit on the couch and give him a self-conscious smile. “Make yourself at home.”
    He plops into an armchair across from me, and the leather creaks in complaint. “So, uh. What about your parents? I mean, are they okay with you having your own place?”
    â€œMy father died a few years ago. I’ve been here by myself ever since.”
    Steven opens his mouth, as if to ask something else, then closes it. He glances at the picture on the coffee table, and I feel suddenly exposed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually had a visitor.
    Steven picks up the ceramic squirrel saltshaker and turns it over in his hands. “So, this mind-reading machine of yours is in some kind of secret underground room?”
    â€œYes.” I told him about the Mindgate on the way over. “Before we start, though, how are you feeling?”
    He wrinkles his nose. “You really need to ask that?”
    â€œOf course. You’re my client. It’s important for me to know.”
    His fingers tighten on the ceramic squirrel. “Okay. I’m scared. Is that what you want to hear? I’m