Dream Puppet

(CW: indicated substance abuse, mention of murder that is not shown)

I’m a freelance Dreamscryer.

If that word means nothing to you, then you’re in the same boat as most people. On the off chance you do know what I speak of, you’re likely a member of the Pierdelle City Police Department.

I’ve been hired for several cases. The first time I offered my services, everyone thought me a fraud. How else could they respond to a person, especially one previously employed there, jabbering on about her ability to see people’s dreams and put them on display?

Yet, after a demonstration, I could not be ignored. In fact, for the first time in months, I’ve been requested for a new case. Which is more than welcome, being that money is hard to come by for freelancers. At least, for ones who work in dreams.

Slipping my hands into the pockets of my taupe wool overcoat, I stride along the sidewalk, parts of it slick with patches of ice. The seaside city of Pierdelle is lively this morning despite the cold brought in by biting ocean winds.

When I finally reach the brick-walled building, I let out a breath and head inside. After nearly four years of service, no introduction is needed. The officer at the front desk makes a quick call, and my friend (who also happens to be the Lead Homicide Detective) Cela Tremblay approaches with a warm smile. Her blonde waves are tied in a neat bun, her detective badge shiny like she polishes it daily. I wouldn’t put it past her.

Cela shakes my hand. It’s soft, more like our hands are exchanging an embrace. “Good to see you, Phoebe. It’s been much too long.”

“Truly,” I agree, smiling.

“This way. I have a briefing prepared.”

We make our way to a smaller conference room where another familiar face waits: Detective Berenice Daves.

She is one of Cela’s best detectives. Figures she’d be here. Her short hair is tied out of her face in mini twists. Her uniform is without a single crease.

Cela clears her throat. “You know Detective Daves, Phoebe.”

I bite my cheek. “Of course. Nice to see you, Detective.”

Berenice gives a stiff smile. “Ms. Darnell.”

The other woman is about as fond of me as she was during our training days. Once upon a time, I wanted to make it to detective. It was how I met Berenice and Cela. Though I lost the job before a promotion, revealing my powers paved a new path to cases.

“Here’s what we have.” Cela hands me the case files. My eyes catch the last name. Archer. “The victim is a sixty-eight-year-old male, Kenneth Archer. Two of the staff reported he and his family arguing the morning before. Around the time of death, we have concluded that the victim’s wife, Evelyn Archer, and their three adult children, Constance, Ford, and Buck Archer, were in the house. The staff have been cleared, but not the Archers. We have enough to hold them short-term, but not without more evidence according to Lakely Isles Law. This is where you come in.”

I carefully scan the files for specifics, though I am already certain where to start. Evelyn Archer, sixty-six. Constance Archer, thirty-nine. Ford Archer, thirty-seven. Buck Archer, thirty-three. Along with the murder, Mr. Archer’s will and money he had intended to leave behind are missing.

“Do you recognize the name?” Berenice asks, lifting a brow.

“Of course,” I confirm. “They own the beach mansion. The four of them are here?”

Berenice doesn’t take her hazel eyes off me as Cela nods.

“I’ll bring you to them,” she says.

The three of us head to the holding cells. According to Lakely Isles Law, the rules by which the collection of islands surrounding Pierdelle are governed, suspects may not be held for more than two weeks without solid evidence. Who gets to decide what is ‘solid evidence,’ I’m not certain. There will always be bias in law so long as biased minds create them.

But someone decided that dreams pulled from the mind are sound evidence, and that has kept a roof over my head, among other things.

The first holding cell we come across contains Ford Archer. Nearing forty, his brown waves are slicked back. He lifts his head at our approach.

“Mr. Ford,” Cela begins, “this is our colleague, Ms. Phoebe Darnell. She will assist the remainder of our investigation.”

Ford meets my eyes. He rubs his lightly bearded chin, shaking his head. “Fine, then.”

We lead Ford to a gray-walled interrogation room with a large screen. After he is seated, Berenice hands me a cable that connects to the screen.

I step toward Ford. “Shall I tell you what to expect?”

He hardly looks at me. “I will experience it soon enough.”

“Very well.” After receiving permission from Cela, I place two fingers on Ford’s temple. My opposite hand curls around the cable. Though I can only see recent dreams related to my desired topics in this state, I have done this enough to know they are being projected for the others.

Dreams are telling. They seem random, and perhaps sometimes, they are. But other times, they show our fears, desires, frequent thoughts. Everything we suppress during daylight.

Ford’s dreams are oddly quiet. The first is short. He stands alone in a suit and tie. No floor, no ceiling, no walls. Just a bright white that stings my eyes. Then, he falls. But he doesn’t panic.

Suddenly, he’s in the Archer mansion. Kenneth Archer stands before him.

“This house is yours,” Kenneth says, his voice strangely disembodied as though it’s coming from somewhere else. He looks taller than a person should, an effect of the dream. “Everything is.”

“What of Buck and Constance?” Ford asks. Beside his father, he appears small, almost child-like. He no longer wears a suit and tie but rather a racecar t-shirt, shorts, and neon sneakers. “Where’s their share?”

“You are my eldest son.” Kenneth puts a hand on Ford’s shoulder, and I can feel the fear it stirs in his soul. There’s an unnatural glimmer in Kenneth’s blue eyes, the eyes he and Ford share. “Act like it.”

Kenneth shoves Ford back, and the floor turns into water. Ford crashes into the depths. The distorted figure of his father stares down at him as he sinks. I have what I need. I release my hold on Ford’s dreams.

Ford exhales sharply, sweat beading across his forehead.

I gather my grip on reality before nodding at Cela, who takes over.

“The will left everything to you. Is this correct?” Cela asks.

Ford wrings his hands. “Yes.”

“Why not tell us this earlier?”

“I was…ashamed. I wanted nothing to do with it. I planned on leaving the money to Buck and Constance when the time came. I didn’t anticipate Father’s early death.”

Cela eyes me, and I give her a nod. This harmless guilt was precisely what I felt in his dreams.

Cela goes on, “Detective Daves? How do you interpret our new evidence?”

Berenice folds her arms. “All due respect, I hardly find an assortment of dreams to be evidence. But Mr. Ford’s verbal revelation, we must take into account. If the will was written to him, there is no motive for stealing it or the money. Our time is better spent speaking with those who weren’t included in the will.”

I lift my lips at her. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Cela casts Berenice and I a tired look, having grown used to our strain by now, before she focuses on Ford.

“We need to finish processing your family. Thank you for your cooperation,” she says.

Ford doesn’t say anything as he’s escorted back to his cell. Brought to the screening room next is Buck, the youngest. His windblown curls of dirty blond hair hang around his forehead. He studies me with a pair of dark eyes, his mother’s eyes.

“How much longer can you legally keep us here?” he questions, his lips twisted as though our very presence is leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

“Five more days, Mr. Buck,” Cela answers. “Now, my colleague will complete your processing. She—”

“I know who she is,” Buck cuts her off. “This is ridiculous. Dreams don’t mean anything.”

“Then you should have no issue showing them,” I remark as I press my fingers to his temple, and he flinches.

His dreams are less clear than his brother’s. A collection of unintelligible voices, swirls of color, and locations that don’t make sense. It’s chaos. There are periods where there are little to no dreams. And then, all I see is Buck drinking at a bar in the middle of nowhere. Another shot. Another. Another. He starts throwing the glasses at the wall, laughing as they shatter.

“I need more money,” the bartender says. When he turns, he has Buck’s face. “Give me money.”

Buck throws his glass at him, and I pull myself out of the dream. I know Buck is innocent. He is guilty of other things, but not murder.

“You’re a bunch of prodding rats,” Buck mutters, glaring.

Ignoring the insult, Cela questions, “Are you aware of your place in your father’s will?”

Buck lets out a dry laugh. “I have no place. I already told you my father cut me off, and you believe a stupid dream instead?”

“You needed money,” Cela persists. “What were you willing to do?”

“I begged. Constance started helping me financially. I asked Ford to help me persuade Father, but Father went and died before he could. Not that he would’ve had the guts to follow through.”

“That is the sense I got,” I add. “He is irresponsible but innocent. What about you, Detective Daves?”

Berenice’s voice is taut. “Though we must question Mr. Ford to confirm his statements, Mr. Buck gave us nothing conclusive. We should speak with Ms. Constance.”

Buck’s jaw tightens as he’s led back to his cell. Constance Archer, the eldest of the children, takes his place. Her and Ford could be mistaken for twins, same brown hair with swirls of caramel, same blue eyes and fair, freckled skin.

She sits, poised like a statue you’d find at a palace, the only motion the twitch of her fingers.

“Ms. Constance,” Cela starts, “Ms. Darnell has come to aid our investigation. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Constance’s voice is low and smooth. “You’ve already exposed my brothers’ dreams?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I assure you, it is harmless.”

Constance’s gaze drifts. “Perhaps physically.”

A cold silence washes over the room. I insist, “It is in the pursuit of truth.”

Constance tilts her head. “Whose?”

Berenice’s expression softens. “Ms. Constance. If you would speak to us, we could avoid the dream-scrying.”

I whirl on her. Both she and I know that Cela would order the dream-scrying regardless. She relies on it, as do I. Constance must know too, because the woman doesn’t speak. Berenice wilts.

I put my fingers to Constance’s temple. “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

Constance mumbles, “The innocent have the most to fear. The guilty know the truth.”

That is the last thing she says before her dreams cloud my mind. She’s inside the mansion. It’s barren. Gray. Still, she’s searching every drawer, every crevice. I can feel her desperation. Money. Where’s his money? Why is the safe empty?

The floor shatters beneath her, and she falls into a tangle of chains and rope. They curl around her limbs. She’s buried in restraints.

“Pull yourself together.” A woman’s voice. “He isn’t worth the trouble. He’s just like your father.”

I need not search any further. I back away, resting a hand on Constance’s chair. She returns to her straight posture, though it withers slightly.

“Who is just like your father?” Berenice asks.

“My brother. Buck,” Constance admits. “But it’s not true. Not in full.”

“In what part, then?”

Constance hesitates. “The drinking.”

“Is that why you stole from your father?” Cela intervenes, her features sharp.

“I only took small amounts. What I needed to help Buck pay for rehab. But one day, the safe was empty. It was the same day Father died,” Constance explains. She looks at me. “That is the truth.”

“It is,” I repeat. “Was that your mother’s voice in your dream?”

Constance doesn’t say anything, but the dreams said enough.

“Then, it is her turn,” Cela declares.

Berenice leads Constance out, casting me a look. She returns with Evelyn Archer. Her gray-white hair is cut short, curled behind her ears. She reaches toward her neck as if to grab jewelry that isn’t there.

“Well? Have you found your killer? You’ve kept us here long enough.” Evelyn huffs, pursing her lips. Her dark eyes land on me, and fear contorts her features. “Don’t tell me you’re using her.”

Cela lowers her brows. “If you are innocent, this will be in your favor. We ask that you cooperate.”

“This is a violation of my rights. My privacy! Would you consent to being dream-scryed? Would you give up every thought you had if your freedom was on the line? This is ludicrous, beyond foolish! What a joke you officers are.” Evelyn’s tone is frantic.

Cela doesn’t backtrack. She gestures me forward, and Evelyn shakes her head repeatedly.

“You can’t do this!” the older woman begs as I rest my fingers on her temple. “You—”

Her dreams silence her. A roiling anger consumes them. A piece of paper hangs front and center. Kenneth’s will. Only one name is written on it. Over and over, filling every blank space. Ford Archer. Ford Archer. Ford Archer.

Evelyn tears the paper to shreds. A shrill scream rips through her throat. As before, I sense pain, not malice. Kenneth Archer was a cruel man. Evelyn is no saint herself. None of us are.

When Evelyn reaches for a knife in a drawer with a shaky hand, I let the dream end. That is enough.

I feel Berenice’s eyes on me.

“What do you make of her intentions, Phoebe?” Cela asks sincerely.

I stare at Evelyn for a long time. “I sensed a lot of malice in her behavior. Revenge. Anger. It connects to her children’s dreams. Ford gets the inheritance. He plans to share with his siblings. She kills Kenneth and steals the money and will to bury the truth.”

“What?” Evelyn shouts. “That’s not—I didn’t! My husband was a vile man, but I didn’t kill him. Yes, I was angry, but I didn’t!”

“You felt slighted being left out of the will, yes?” Cela questions.

“Wouldn’t you?” Evelyn pleads.

“You took a knife with the intent to hurt your husband. Is this so?”

“I took it in the heat of the moment. But I put it back promptly! That dream is a lie!”

“Dreams don’t lie.” Cela’s voice sharpens. “People do. Detective Daves?”

“I still feel we need more,” Berenice says firmly, sorting through her notes. “We didn’t see Mrs. Archer kill her husband. We saw a dream insinuating she did.”

“Most evidence insinuates. Ms. Darnell felt her very intentions.”

“But we did not. So we rely on biased words.”

Cela agrees, “Of course. The investigation isn’t complete. But we have enough to hold Mrs. Archer longer. That is what we will do.”

Evelyn bursts with terror. “Are you out of your mind?”

Cela ignores her. “Detective Daves, if you would?”

Berenice’s throat bobs. She stares at me, and I don’t look away.

“Detective Daves?” Cela repeats.

Berenice peels her eyes off me and strides toward Evelyn. “Certainly,” she says through clenched teeth as she leads Evelyn out with an expression made of stone.

Evelyn points at me, cries wracking her body. “This is your fault! You’re feeding a broken system more places to crack! You liar…” Her panicked voice fades down the hall as Berenice leads her away, leaving Cela and I alone.

Cela sighs, rubbing her temple. “Thank you, Phoebe. I am happy to still have you as an ally. As a friend.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “It is admirable that despite no longer being on the force, you contribute a gift you could have kept a secret.”

I smile. “Perhaps I was never meant to be a detective. I was meant to help in my own way. Today has gone better than I ever could have…well, dreamed of.”

“How clever.” Cela laughs and checks her watch. “Ah. I need to make some calls. But good work. Talk soon?”

“Always,” I assure her, and I wave until she turns her back on me. Taking a deep breath, I check out at the front desk and leave the police department behind.

Later at night, I buy a fine bottle of red wine. I cradle it on the park bench, taking a long, well-deserved sip. Familiar footsteps draw nearer, and I don’t bother turning.

“I know what you did, Phoebe,” Berenice seethes. “Mrs. Archer didn’t kill her husband. She didn’t take that will or money. She’s not the one who needs it. How many times have you done this?”

“You heard Cela. Dreams don’t lie,” I remind her.

“But people do.”

A smile crawls across my face. “No one will believe you.” I enunciate slowly, each word a cut. “Maybe you found one of my truths. But I have all of yours.”

“Sometimes, one truth is all it takes,” Berenice counters.

“And sometimes, one lie can turn it on its head.”

Berenice stares down at me like a hawk. “The next case will be yours.”

I raise my wine bottle to her. “Cheers to that, Berenice.”

I watch Berenice leave until she disappears in the night. Maybe she’ll catch me, maybe not. Maybe I left a trail. Even so, Cela only ever asks for the dreams of the innocent.

She never asks to see mine.