Two years ago a medium told him that Sheila was most likely buried under a car park in an out-of-town shopping center. Somewhere in the country. “Just look for a body-size patch of recent resurfacing.”
“Needle in a haystack,” he said. “Nothing more?”
She shrugged, tucked the two twenties and a ten into her bra, handed back the photograph.
“Nothing more?” he repeated, “Anything?”
Poker-faced she shuffled the deck, laid out a Celtic Cross spread, stared at the cards. “You should go,” she said.
He’s stopped looking now, but keeps the picture on the wall. Stays away from car parks.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge found here.