The Palm Reader's Last Stand

The fedora lay on her desk like a dead bird, its felt bruised from where he'd slammed it. Elena pressed her palm against the glass door, feeling the cold bite against her skin. Three hours ago, this office had been hers. Three hours ago, Richard had still been her mentor, not the bull who'd gored her career with a single, well-placed memo.

She'd warned them. The palm readings she'd done at the Christmas party—just silly fun, she'd said—had showed her the patterns in everyone's futures. The crossed lines on Richard's palm had promised betrayal. She'd laughed it off. Superstition. But when she'd uncovered the laundering scheme in the quarterly reports, she'd remembered those crossed lines. She'd gone to him, expecting guidance. Instead, he'd called security.

The hat on her desk was a reproach. He'd given it to her when she made junior partner. "You're going places, kid." She wondered where he was going now that she'd forwarded the evidence to the SEC. Probably somewhere with bars on the windows.

Her palm still bore the indentation of the door frame. Outside, the phones were already ringing. The bull was finally caught in his own pen, goring himself on the evidence she'd planted. Elena picked up the hat, feeling its familiar weight. Some endings felt like beginnings. Some prophecies actually came true. She placed the hat on her head and walked out, leaving behind only the ghost of who she'd been before she'd learned to read between the lines.