BEHIND THE GLASS

Mira Gregory had been at her new job for less than an hour when she noticed the law office was quieter than it should have been. Phones still rang. Printers hummed. Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm, a strange silence lingered. Conversations paused as she passed. She caught people looking when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Mira always paid attention. Friends called it a gift or intuition, but she said it was simply a knack for noticing what others overlooked.

“It’s the dress,” she thought.

Johnathon Sligh hired Mira before the memorial flowers along the Spring Common bridge railing began to wilt. Witnesses had seen the sedan drift across the empty roadway, then break through the guardrail and vanish into the river below. There were no signs of foul play, only a dozen unanswered questions that died with the woman behind the wheel. Although Jonathon was never accused of a crime, the gossip kept circling back to the same place. Mira’s boss.

“Everyone knew they were having an affair. Did they interview his wife?” someone whispered in the elevator as Mira stepped off.

Peggy, the Human Resources manager, hesitated before pointing to an empty desk outside Jonathan's office. “That’s where you’ll be working.” Mira followed her gaze and understood the awkward pause when her eyes fell on a cardigan draped over the back of the chair. A white coffee cup with the company logo sat half-filled. Family photos lined up neatly beside the monitor. “We’re still boxing up a few things,” she said, her voice measured.

Mira set her purse on the desk, feeling almost intrusive. A faint chill brushed the back of her neck despite the July heat pressing against the windows. She rested her fingertips on the polished wood, and the instant her skin touched the desktop, her breath caught. A flash of water. Flower blossoms. A woman slumped at the steering wheel. The vision had been too brief to make sense of, but one detail refused to leave her mind.

Jonathan Sligh’s face.

During her interview, his eyes were the first thing she noticed. Steady. Intelligent. Impossible to read at a glance. He wasn’t merely handsome; he had an understated presence that made people trust him instinctively. Until now.

Jonathan emerged from his office carrying a legal folder.

“You’ll be working on the Sullivan file first. Nothing complicated.”

He handed her the file without meeting her gaze and adjusted the knot in his tie. Mira noticed. Every sentence sounded rehearsed. Every movement restrained, as if reminding himself how to behave until he disappeared into his office.

Two legal assistants were bent over a copier around the corner.

“Look. His next conquest is here,” one said loud enough for Mira to hear.

Mira didn’t know who was speaking, but she knew it was about her. She’d heard it all before. Everything about her appearance fit together in perfect harmony, striking a balance that made people look twice. Sunlit blonde hair. Her eyes, a clear blue, held an easy confidence that made people feel both welcome and slightly unsettled, as if she could read more than they meant to reveal.

She looked up and found Jonathon watching her through the glass wall between them. Their eyes met, and he looked down at the papers in his hands, his focus exaggerated. His shoulders sagged with weariness his Canali suit couldn't hide.

Mira couldn’t dismiss the gossip, but she couldn’t accept it as truth either. She felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.

“If you’re innocent,” she whispered to herself, “this must be a nightmare.”

Mira was checking her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tugging at the hem of her dress, when the door swung open. She smiled at Fiona, the only woman who had spoken to her that morning after leaving a covered container of homemade soup on Jonathan’s desk. Beside it, a handwritten note wishing his wife a speedy recovery.

“I realized this may seem scandalous after what he did, but trust me,” Fiona had whispered. “It’s not for him. I’ve known Elizabeth for years, and she’s been so sick.”

Mira gave another tug to her dress, frowning. “It’s too short, isn’t it? I should have worn flats,” she said. Fiona smiled, though she smiled at everyone, showcasing her newly capped teeth. She ran a hand through a tumble of copper-red hair that refused to be tamed as she turned with a grin.

“Seriously? You go, girl. You’re not wearing that dress; it’s wearing you,” she said, smiling, of course. “Hey, just a friendly warning. Watch out for Johnathon; he’s got a thing for blondes with big ta-ta’s. That’s probably why he hired you.”

Mira blinked. Every accomplishment she’d been proud of suddenly felt swept away by a single sentence.

“What?”

“It’s a joke, it’s a joke,” Fiona said convincingly. Another smile. Beside her, Fiona’s slight build barely reached Mira’s shoulders, and she studied the contrast between their reflections in the mirror. “Well, we’d never be mistaken for sisters.”

Mira glanced back into the mirror, frowning at her reflection.

“If you were my sister, you wouldn’t dare let me leave the house in this dress,” Mira said, laughing.

They stood comfortably beside one another, and a new friendship was born.

In the weeks that followed, their conversations always veered toward the mystical. Over glasses of wine, Fiona taught Mira to read tarot cards and explained the differences among crystals. She listened attentively as Mira openly shared her past visions until the suggestion landed so casually it almost slipped by.

“We should go to that witch store together on Elm,” Fiona said, curling up on the couch.

Mira’s smile flattened.

The witch store.

She had passed it dozens of times without ever looking directly into the windows. Dark curtains hid most of the interior, and something that looked like bones hung beside the door. Whether it was or not hardly mattered. Some doors don’t need to be opened, her grandmother used to say.

“Fiona, you don’t really mess around with that kind of thing, do you?”

Fiona laughed.

“Quit being so dramatic. The lady told me it's only white magic. You know, innocent spells for little things like money and boyfriends.”

“It’s a slippery slope, Fiona. And for the record, you’re not very good at it because you don’t have either,” Mira said with a grin.

Fiona folded her arms, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.

“I was just thinking how good you’d be at it. Seriously. Maybe you could learn a spell to get rid of my ex-husband. Oh, stop looking at me like that,” she said when Mira knitted her brow. “It’s a joke. It’s a joke! Don’t tell me working for Mr. Wonderful has ruined your sense of humor. How’s it going with him anyway? Has he made a pass at you yet?”

The question came wrapped in a smile even too polished for Fiona.

“No.” The answer came quickly. “Absolutely not.”

Fiona studied her face, as though searching for the slightest crack.

“Calm down. I just assumed he’d try to make you his next conquest. The man’s an absolute snake.”

Conquest.

The go-to word in the office since her arrival.

“You’re impossible. And no…I'm not going to any witch store.”

Fiona paused to consider her words until she grinned.  

“All right then, chicken. Then, you’re going with me to Ernestine’s.”

Ernestine was Fiona’s most trusted psychic. Fiona would stop by Mira’s house after a reading, always with bottles of their favorite Merlot and a cassette recording of their conversation. Mira enjoyed hearing about Fiona’s future. She simply didn’t want to hear about her own.

Mira folded her arms. “Didn’t she say some guy was gonna whisk you away on his motorcycle and you’re gonna move near the ocean? I don’t see any ocean. And that biker-guy you were flirting with at The Rig rode a Euro Scooter. Hardly the same.”

That comment elicited a genuine pout. Mira was aware he never kept his promise to call her, while Fiona continued dreaming about living with him in a beach house on Hilton Head.

“Okay, I’ll go,” Mira said reluctantly. “But I’m driving. You take us everywhere. Girl, you know I don’t even know where you live.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And no bars. I paid dearly for all those tequila shots last Thursday, and Jonathon noticed. I’m surprised he didn’t fire me.”

“Or kill you.”

Mira rolled her eyes.

“You need to stop. Honestly? I don’t think Jonathon would hurt a fly. He—”

“Girl, that man was having an affair with Amanda. Why can’t you believe I heard her threaten to tell his wife? Everyone left for the day, and I was making copies…they didn’t know I was there. I told those detectives, but you know how men are all part of the good-ol’-boys club.”

The vision came the way it always did—not as a story, but as a handful of puzzle pieces. Candlelight. A crystal decanter holding what looked like red wine. A bowl of berries. Again, Jonathan Sligh’s face. Mira never knew whether she was seeing the past, the present, or something that hadn’t happened yet. She couldn’t shake the nagging conviction it all fit together somehow. It always did. Usually far too late.

The pieces were fitting together so uncomfortably she began to think she should start looking for a new position. 

“Thing is, Jonathan never looks at me that way,” she said, more to herself. “He—" 

“Oh, trust me. I see him checking you out. He loves those big ta-ta’s. A bit of friendly advice. You’d better not lead him on if you don’t want to end up in that river, too.”

“Lead him on? And you gotta get over your obsession with my breasts. Anyway, the guy’s married. Not my style. And his poor wife? She’s getting worse by the day. Her doctors still don’t know what’s wrong with her. I heard she can’t even get out of bed.”

“Well, they better check for poison. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Mira turned her head as if considering it. But this was the same man who thanked the receptionist every morning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. He had looked up from his paperwork before she left for the day, and a small, polite smile crossed his face before he returned to his work. That gesture made her stomach tighten. He hadn’t done anything suspicious, but she knew how much a smile could conceal.

“Alright, enough of this. What time do we need to be at Grenadine’s?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Ernestine’s. I’ve told you a hundred times, Ernestine. Eight o’clock.”

Mira grabbed her purse, heading for the door when she heard Fiona’s beat-up hatchback pull into the drive. She stepped onto the porch, scowling.

“Really? We agreed I would drive.” 

Fiona smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t want to end up in Kentucky. Come on, let's go. She won’t give us a reading if we’re late. And…she still wants the money,” she said over her shoulder.

As though on cue, a low rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning lit the sky when Fiona pulled into the driveway of an old mansion on the west side of Youngstown. Cement lions stood on either side of the porch steps. Candles burned in the windows. Mira turned down the music, staring in disbelief.  

“Cliché, much?”

“Stop being so judgy. It adds to the mystique,” Fiona said, peeling three twenty-dollar bills from her front pocket. “Get your money ready. Remember, you can’t ask questions about anything except yourself.”

“Sixty dollars? Well, that explains the mansion.”

A gust of wind stirred the hanging ferns beside the doorway, carrying the faint scent of Nag Champa through the cracks in the frame. Traffic hummed somewhere behind them. Fiona reached for the tarnished brass knob, hesitating before her fingers touched it.

“Ready?”

Mira nodded.

Inside, the house looked less like a business and more like somewhere that had slipped through time. The foyer opened beneath a soaring ceiling crossed by dark wooden beams, and a magnificent staircase curved upward toward a shadowed second floor. Persian rugs softened the hardwood floors, and curious artifacts and leatherbound books were scattered throughout. Mira grinned at the velvet, Dracula-red draperies framing the tall windows, yet the mansion felt unexpectedly welcoming. 

“Leave your money on the table,” Ernestine said in a gentle Jamaican lilt as she entered the room. Her silver-threaded curls were wrapped in a vibrant gold-and-emerald headscarf, and she greeted them with the relaxed ease of someone welcoming guests into her home. Her rings clicked softly as she reached for Mira’s hand, greeting her by name. Her hand lingered, and the silence stretched as Fiona shifted uneasily. The confidence she’d walked in with vanished.

When booking the reading, she hadn’t mentioned Mira’s name. 

“Whose first?” Ernestine asked softly, releasing Mira's hand.

Fiona left the room behind her as Mira settled onto a zebra-print sofa against the wall. She could hear only the gentle hum of Ernestine’s voice, so she moved to a nearby chair to eavesdrop. She heard Fiona laughing. She caught words like boyfriend, money, and travel. Ernestine’s words rang out clearly only once. Though they'd just met, she sensed the woman was nearly angry. “Someone close hides a terrible secret so deep even those near it cannot see it clearly. The truth tends to come back when it’s least expected."

When Fiona returned, her smile was more like something she wore than something she felt. Not the toothy smile, but more like a mask of suspicion.

“She told me he did it,” she whispered. “She practically begged me to tell you to stay away from him.”

“What?” Mira folded her arms. Studied her expression.

“She said I couldn’t tell you I heard it from her. Something about legal ramifications.”

Mira shook her head. “I don’t understand; she just came right out and said it?” Her voice carried no accusation, only genuine bewilderment.

“Listen. I’m sorry for dragging you here. Let’s just leave,” Fiona said unexpectedly. “I can tell how freaked out you are. We can—”

Mira was already on her feet. It wasn’t that she doubted her. She had to hear it for herself.

Ernestine was seated behind a desk in a dimly lit room with Renaissance-style wood paneling on the walls. Candles flickered, and photos—likely of her family—rested on a credenza nearby. She sat in an armchair opposite the desk as Ernestine inserted a cassette tape into the player and pressed record.

She spoke about Mira’s past with stunning accuracy. She named her ex-boyfriends. The pets she used to love. Her desire to be a writer. All by design to earn her trust. Mira sat quietly as Ernestine rummaged through a desk drawer until she seemed to find what she was looking for. She pushed the pause button on the cassette player, then held up a clear, water-filled ball.

“This is what I see when I look at you,” she said. She switched it on and shook it as the light hit the glitter, sending a riot of color ricocheting across the walls. “You should have known better. You’re a seer, like me. I’ve been sending you messages. Tell me, Mira. What did you see?” she whispered.

Mira’s heartbeat quickened. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she replied, matching her hushed tone.

Ernestine looked at her with profound concern. “My child…” she said softly. “You have crossed paths with someone carrying a darkness that does not rest easily.” She closed her eyes, as if listening to something far away. “A life taken. Violence. Regret…or perhaps the absence of regret. The vision is clouded.”

Mira leaned forward.

“Who? Who is it?”

“I cannot tell you, but you see it, don’t you? Jealousy. Obsession. Nightshade. Someone behind glass isn’t who they seem.”

Behind glass.

The words made her dizzy.

“This individual isn’t finished,” she said. “A woman has fallen deathly ill, but her recovery is possible with your intervention.” Ernestine’s final words came almost as a prayer. “Walk carefully, child. Sometimes the greatest danger lies not in what we see—but what we think we understand before the truth reveals itself."

On the drive home, Fiona reassured Mira that her friend from another company might help her find a new job. Frustrated, Mira looked away as Fiona continued talking about Johnathan getting what he deserved. She instinctively sensed the ill woman was Johnathan’s wife, but she hesitated to tell Fiona, unsure of her reasons.

“You coming in?” Mira asked.

“Collin’s file,” she said, reaching into the back seat. She fumbled for a moment until she retrieved both their handbags. “Seriously, I need a raise.”

Mira stepped into the house and immediately reached into her purse for the cassette. Near panic, she dumped the contents on the dining room table.

“Damn it! It must be in Fiona’s car.”  After a quick Google search for Fiona’s address, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

Mira climbed the duplex's porch steps, raised her hand to knock, but paused. The front room's curtain had been left partly open, and her eyes drifted through the narrow gap. At first, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.

Black iron candleholders on every table. Glass jars filled with roots and polished stones. A cast iron cauldron on an altar. The far wall was covered in photographs and newspaper clippings stretching across the wall in a sprawling, obsessively organized mosaic. Heavy crystal vases were scattered throughout the room, filled with long, dark green stems with clusters of black pearls.

Nightshade.

She leaned closer.

Behind the glass, photos of Johnathon. Elizabeth. Amanda. Random women.

And Mira.

Every uneasy feeling she ignored and every warning she rationalized merged into one unbearable truth as a shiver ran up her spine.

“I should have known better.”