I was dead for three minutes.

Long enough to miss a network meeting that could’ve made me famous. Long enough for someone to call an ambulance. Not long enough to stay dead.

The fact that I didn’t stay dead didn’t make life any easier.

After twenty-eight days in a middle-of-the-road rehab facility where the food was forgettable and the group therapy was worse, I, Cora Beane, sit in hell.

Okay. Maybe “hell” is too strong a word for “back in your hometown with your tail between your legs,” but it felt accurate.

As soon as we passed the Welcome to Oria sign, something in the base of my skull started to hum. It only got stronger as my dad drove me through town. In the center of it all, the courthouse loomed above the town like it always had, four stories of limestone and arrogance topped with another four stories of clock tower on top of that. It rose out of the hilltop square like over compensation for an architect’s shortcomings, casting long shadows that moved across the town like a sundial for the damned.

We passed the folksy, Basque inspired buildings surrounding the courthouse, the painted ladies and prairie-style mansions and headed into the post-war neighborhood, crowded with modest ranch style homes and average families. I leaned forward and said, “You missed your turn.”

“Some things have changed,” my dad said, calm as ever behind the wheel, his British accent still incongruously crisp against the backdrop of small-town Texas.

“You guys moved?” I asked. Not quite a question. I’d actually been looking forward to seeing the old house again. Three-bedroom, 1960s ranch with a converted garage. Nothing fancy, but it was home.

“Indeed,” he said. “About ten years ago, your mother had Wade set up a website for her readings.”

Oof. That one landed. I didn’t even know they’d moved. That’s how far I’d slipped off the radar.

I expected him to turn into one of those soulless little neighborhoods where every third house is beige. But then the driveway kept going. Circular. Landscaped. Gated.

We pulled up to a massive McMansion-ish thing with columns, balconies, the whole suburban Versailles starter pack.

He parked in a three-bay garage and shut off the ignition with a deep sigh—the kind of sigh that says, I’ve been waiting a long time to say this out loud.

“This is all your mother,” he said, still crisp and British like he’d just walked off the set of a BBC crime drama. “She’s made quite a name for herself in the last decade.”

“Damn,” I said. “I guess the fortune-telling business is good.”

“You’ve no idea,” he muttered, and led me through a breezeway into a kitchen that could host a Food Network competition.

The air smelled of paprika and garlic—Mom’s chicken paprikash, a recipe passed down through generations of Romanian women. The scent hit me like a memory I didn’t know I still had.

I barely registered the pristine marble countertops before I caught sight of something familiar—my grandmother Baba Vi’s Airstream trailer sitting like a silver tumor in the otherwise flawless backyard. I smiled. Some family traditions were sacred, even with all this new money.

My mother, however, had gotten an upgrade. Sofia Beane’s curls were glossier, her jewelry louder, and her wardrobe more expensive than I remembered. She greeted me with a half hug, then leveled me with the look. The you-will-not-dodge-this-conversation look that had unnerved countless clients over the years.

“So, Mom,” I said, pivoting hard. “Nice place.”

“Thank you,” she said, with just a hint of Romanian in her husky voice. “The internet business is booming.”

“How do you tell fortunes over the internet?” I asked, half teasing her and half serious. In truth, my mother was a real deal psychic—not the parlor trick variety, but the genuine article. The Beane women had always had the gift, passed down from mother to daughter since they left Romania generations ago. My mother could touch someone and see their past, present, and futures unfolding like pages in a book.

All except me, who got the bargain basement version.

“Oh, Cora.” She said, not taking the bait. “What were you thinking?”

“Right into it, then?” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Which was the truth. Most of my life had been a series of choices made on autopilot. Until that night in college when I opened my mouth and everything changed.

It was a dorm party. UCLA. Cheap beer. Bad lighting. I was drunk and loud when I blurted, “The locket is on top of the china cabinet.”

The room went still.

A tiny, porcelain-doll-looking girl stared at me across the couch. “What did you just say?”

I repeated it. She burst into tears and left.

Next day, her older sister—Allison Cantrell—showed up in my dorm room dressed like the afterlife had a dress code: designer cream and tan, no hair out of place. She asked how I’d known about the locket.

I told her I didn’t know. Told her about The Whispers—what Baba called my miniscule gift. That I wasn’t like my mom or Baba Vi with their visions and premonitions. Just the occasional voice in my head when something really wanted to be heard.

Allison wasn’t bothered. In fact, she invited me to meet some people. Dropped her card and vanished like a fairy godmother with a booking agent.

After that, college became optional. I was working parties, reading for producers’ wives, schmoozing at influencer brunches. Booze helped. Downers helped more. The whispers got louder when I numbed everything else, a secret I kept from my family.

By the time I overdosed, I was on the verge of getting my own show. One network meeting away from becoming Hollywood’s favorite psychic trainwreck.

That night, I’d killed two bottles of wine, popped a few extra Xanax, and took something I couldn’t pronounce from a well-meaning assistant.

My heart stopped. The EMTs restarted it. I came back.

During those three minutes of clinical death, the whispers had been deafening—a chorus of voices calling a name that wasn’t mine. I never told anyone about that part.

Allison ghosted me. Rehab was beige and smelled like disinfectant. Everything I owned went back to the agency.

And now, here I was—back in Texas with the same ratty rucksack I’d left with.

That was the condensed version I gave my mom.

“Gadje,” she spat, the Romany word for outsiders carrying all her contempt for the Hollywood types who’d used me. “It’s good that you’re home. But no more drugs.” She pointed a polished fingernail at me like a wand.

“Deal,” I said. I would tell God to his or her face that I wasn’t an addict. I didn’t feel like an addict, anyway. It occurred to me in rehab that if it were true that I wasn’t an addict, then I was just stupid. That stung worse than anything else.

Baba Vi swept into the room like a whirlwind in a silk caftan, trailing the scent of sage and tobacco. She lowered her wiry frame onto the couch beside me, wrapped her arms around me, stroked my hair.

“You are home now,” she said in her thick eastern European accent. “You are safe.”

The way she said it made me wonder if she meant safe from myself—or from something else. The Beane women had always known things others didn’t. Had they seen something coming?

Mom broke the moment, steering me toward the stairs. “She is not a child anymore, Baba. Let her rest. You’ll feel better in the morning,” she told me.

I already felt fine, but I didn’t argue. Solitude sounded better than therapy.

The bedroom surprised me. Not a trace of my mother’s usual over-the-top style. No jewel tones, no oversized art or gilded mirrors. Just an antique black iron bed frame, dark green walls, and a white comforter that looked too clean to touch. Minimal. Unexpected. A soft landing.

I kicked off my black low-tops and crawled beneath the covers. The mattress dipped under me like it knew what I needed.

Through the window, I caught a slice of the courthouse tower—its silhouette long and dark against the last light of dusk. The shadow reached toward the house like a pointing finger.

That low hum I’d felt earlier, somewhere between a vibration and a memory, returned. Fainter now. Softer. Almost like a lullaby.

I didn’t know if it was in the air or in my bones. Didn’t care. I let it carry me down. And I dreamed.