when he looked up I would see the scar under his right eyebrow where I had hit him in the face with a baseball when we were little.
“I’d like a reading, please.” I placed my elbows on the table and grinned. My brother continued to stare at me. “Paul Michael, when did you start this little business?”
He was silent. His dark eyes searched my blue ones. Two bushy eyebrows scrunched together as he studied me. His nose wrinkled, the tell-tale sign he was confused.
“You always said you didn’t believe me,” he said.
“I said I hoped you didn’t see ghosts because I was afraid they’d tell you to kill your family. But I never said I didn’t believe you.” I had him stumped. I grinned again.
“So, what are you doing back here, Sadie? They kick you out of heaven?”
"Sort of. Apparently, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder.”
“Nah. It’s probably because you’ve sinned.” He always took his namesakes – an apostle and an archangel – very seriously.
“Paul Michael, you are the most uptight spiritualist I know.”
“I’m the only spiritualist you know.” Paul Michael looked down at me with his scarred eyebrow raised, and I could see his smirk in the dim light of the chandelier. Not having a witty retort, I settled for a scathing glare. I stuck out my hand.
“My reading, please.”
My brother cupped my palm in his calloused hands. I pulled back.
“How can you do that?” I asked.