He had already used every connection at his disposal to mount a nationwide search for his son, but nothing had turned up. I knew that the odds of the senator coming onto my TV show and letting me do a live reading were slim at best. So I used the weapons in my own arsenal: I contacted the wife of the Maine governor, whose daughter was now in remission. Whatever she said to Senator McCoy’s wife worked, because his people called my people; and the rest, as they say, is history.

When I was little, and I couldn’t trust myself to tell the difference between a spirit and a living being, I just assumed that anyone and everyone had something to say to me. When I was famous, I knew very well how to tell the difference between the two worlds, but I was too distracted to listen.

I should not have gotten so cocky. I should not have assumed that my spirit guides would come whenever I called. That day on the show, when I told the McCoys that I had a vision of their little boy alive and well, I lied.

I didn’t have a vision of their boy. The only thing I was seeing was another Emmy.

I was used to Lucinda and Desmond covering my ass, and so when the McCoys sat across from me as the cameras rolled, I waited for them to tell me something about the kidnapping. Lucinda was the one who pushed Ocala into my head. Desmond, though, told her to keep her mouth shut, and after that, they said nothing. So I improvised, and told the McCoys what they—and America—wanted to hear.

And we all know how that turned out.

In the aftermath, I secluded myself. I did not turn on the TV or radio, where my critics were having a field day. I did not want to talk to my producers or to Cleo. I was humiliated, and worse, I had hurt a couple that was already devastated. I had given them the possibility of hope, and ripped it away.

I blamed Desmond. And when he finally showed his sorry spirit ass to me again, I told him to take Lucinda and go away, because I never wanted to speak to them again.

Be careful what you wish for.

Eventually, some other scandal took the place of the one I had created, and I went back to my TV show. But my spirit guides had done exactly what I’d asked, and I found myself on my own. I made psychic predictions, but they were overwhelmingly wrong. I lost confidence, and eventually I lost everything.

Aside from being a diner waitress, though, I was completely unqualified to do anything but be a psychic. And so I found myself in the position of those I’d once sneered at. I became a swamp witch, setting up tables at country fairs and posting flyers on local bulletin boards, hoping to attract the occasional desperate client.

It’s been over a decade since I had a true, electrifying psychic thought, but I’ve still been able to scrape by, thanks to people like Mrs. Langham, who comes every week to try to connect with her dead husband, Bert. The reason she keeps returning is that, it turns out, I have a skill for faking readings just as much as I once had a skill for legitimately performing them. It’s called cold reading, and it’s all about body language, visual cues, and some good old-fashioned fishing. The basic premise is this: People who want a psychic reading are highly motivated to have it be successful, particularly if they’re trying to connect with someone who’s passed. They crave information as much as I want to be able to provide it. This is why a good cold reading says way more about the client than about the swamp witch performing it. I can throw out a whole stream of non sequiturs: Aunt, the Spring, water-related, an S sound, Sarah or maybe Sally, and there’s something about education? Books? Writing? Chances are my client will react to at least one item in that list, trying desperately to make it significant to herself. The only supernatural power at work here is the ability of the average person to find meaning in random details. We are a race that sees the Virgin Mary in the cut stump of a tree, that can find God in the twist of a rainbow, that hears Paulisdead when a Beatles song is played backward. The same intricate human mind that makes sense of the nonsensical is the human mind that can believe a fake psychic.

So how do I play the game? Good swamp witches are good detectives. I pay attention to how the things I say affect the client—a dilation of pupils, an intake of breath. I plant clues with the words I choose. For example, I might say to Mrs. Langham, “Today I’m going to present a memory you’re thinking of …,” and then I start talking about a holiday, and lo and behold, that turns out to be exactly what she’s thinking about. The word present is already lurking in the back of her mind, so whether or not she realizes it, I’ve just cued her to think about a time she received a gift, which means she’s remembering a birthday, or maybe Christmas. Just like that, it looks like I’ve read her mind.

I take note of flickers of disappointment when I say something that doesn’t make sense to her, so I know to back off and head in another direction. I look at how she is dressed and how she speaks, and I make assumptions about her upbringing. I ask questions, and half the time, the client gives me the answer I’m looking for:

I’m getting a B … Did your grandfather’s name begin with that letter?

No … Could it be a P? My grandfather’s name was Paul.

And bingo.

If I don’t get enough information from the client, I have two options. Either I can Go Positive—create a message from someone dead that anyone in their right mind would want to hear, such as Your grandfather wants you to know that he’s at peace, and he wants you to be at peace, too. Or I can “Barnum” the client, with a comment that would apply to 99 percent of the population but that she is bound to interpret personally: Your grandfather knows you like to make decisions carefully, but feels that occasionally you rush to judgment. Then I sit back and let the client feed me more rope I can run with. You’d be surprised how people feel the need to fill in all the gaps in the conversation.