Kyle Wilson was having an affair, but I still didn’t have the pictures that his wife likely would need to believe that he wasn’t under a gypsy curse. I had, in fact, talked to the “gypsy” who wasn’t even Romani, just a licensed psychic who used the trappings to bring people in. She crumbled pretty quickly when I pointed out all the things in her shop that had nothing to do with Romani and everything to do with being a practical businesswoman trying to lure customers in with the latest crystals, aromatherapy, and calligraphied gibberish on fancy postcards purporting to be spells.
But Sarah’s not going to believe just that. She’ll need to see proof that Kyle is having an affair.
I looked back over his schedule when the video call app on my laptop sounded. I clicked the button.
“I’m here,” I said, but was still looking over the papers.
“Okay, so, I think I might have found something. Took fucking forever. For reference, thunder to crack the ice works better than lightning to melt it.”
I looked up to see that all the snow and ice in the immediate region was gone, completely swept clean.
“Wow, you know, if you ever wanted to go into business, you’d make a fortune clearing walks or even whole streets of the snow and ice. That stuff isn’t light, how’d you do it?”
“Like I said, some thunder to crack the ice, and a small 200 mph whirlwind. It formed really easily, actually.”
“Seriously, I think this is an untapped business model for storm riders. The snow in Boston sucked.”
“Somehow I don’t think they would want thunder loud enough to shatter windows or pocket whirlwinds that could move cars just to get rid of snow and ice.”
“Maybe. Depends on how bad the storm was.”