The metallic taste of zip ties against my wrists is the first thing I register as consciousness returns. Blinking away the fog, I find myself in what appears to be an abandoned warehouse—cavernous, nondescript, and thoroughly inconvenient for someone in my current predicament.

My ankles are similarly bound to the chair legs, and across from me, Gus is waking up too, his expression shifting from confusion to horror as he takes in our surroundings.

"Shawn," he hisses, "what did you do this time?"

"Me?" I whisper back, indignant. "I'll have you know I was peacefully enjoying a mountain of chocolate fro yo when we were rudely interrupted. If anyone's to blame, it's you and your obsession with fruit toppings making us easy targets."

Two figures stand before us—one lean blonde woman with intensity radiating from her eyes, and a tall man with a tablet who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. From the office area to our left, I catch glimpses of a third person watching through the blinds.

These aren't ordinary goons. They move with a precision that suggests military or intelligence training. I've seen enough bad guys in my time as a "psychic detective" to recognize the real deal when I see it.

"I don't like it," the blonde woman says, her gaze fixed on me like I'm a particularly challenging puzzle.

Her partner doesn't look up from his tablet. "You just don't like the job, Parker."

"I like the job fine," she mutters. "It's this part I don't like. Can't we just get Tara to do it again?"

"She's neck-deep in a job in Kazakhstan," he replies with the patience of someone who's had this conversation before.

Before I can formulate a plan, footsteps echo behind me—quiet, measured, impossible to hear until they're almost upon us. A voice, rough and familiar in a way that tugs at distant memories, speaks up.

"You say that like you're the one who'd go get her," he says.

Something clicks in my mind—a memory of summer vacations, tackle football in the backyard, a cousin who was always better at everything than me.

Ignoring the protests of my captors, I heave my chair around, scraping metal across concrete until I can see the newcomer. Even after all these years, there's no mistaking him.

"Eliot?" I ask, shock momentarily overriding my fear.

My cousin's lips twitch almost imperceptibly upward. "Hey, Shawn."

The blonde—Parker—looks confused. "You know him?"

"Family reunion," I say with a grin that probably looks maniacal given the circumstances. "Cousins, actually. Though I've got to say, this isn't exactly how I pictured our first meeting in years going. I was thinking more mini-golf and less zip ties."

Eliot's expression remains serious, but there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Recognition. Maybe even a hint of amusement.

"We need your help," he says, cutting straight to the point.

Behind me, Gus makes a sound somewhere between a squawk and a protest. "You kidnap us and now you want help?"

"Not just help," Parker interjects, stepping forward. "We need a consultant. Specifically, a fake psychic consultant."

I blink. "I think you've got the wrong guy."

"No," Eliot says firmly. "We need exactly the right guy. And that's you."

The tall man finally puts down his tablet. "So what's it gonna be, Shawn? You in or you out?"