Chapter 2: Viral Psychic, Real Crime

“The string of pendants you’re holding belonged to the girl you killed. You’re a murderer, showing off your victim’s things to get your sick kicks.”

You could practically hear the collective gasp. The guy’s face drained of color. The chat froze, then exploded.

The man’s face changed instantly:

“What the hell are you talking about! That’s slander. Watch it, or I’ll sue you! I’m reporting your stream!”

He spat out a few angry words and hung up.

How did I know he killed someone? Because the girl was standing right behind him, glaring holes in his back, her anger practically leaking out.

She looked at me, mouthing "thank you," before fading out. The afterlife has its ways of making things right, sometimes.

The chat lit up:

[What’s she talking about?]

[But why did the guy freak out and hang up? Did she hit a nerve—is he really a murderer?]

[Could it really be that much of a coincidence? He was just mad, right?]

[If he’s a murderer, streamer, call the cops! There’s a reward for good tips! Or are you too scared, faker?]

A reward? There’s money?

My eyes widened. Suddenly, this wasn’t just about karma—there was cold, hard cash on the line.

I jumped out of the livestream and dialed 911, reporting a murder suspect from my stream and giving his info to the police.

I rattled off everything I’d seen and heard, heart pounding. The dispatcher sounded skeptical but took down the details anyway.

The dispatcher was calm and said they’d look into it and keep me posted.

She thanked me for the tip and told me to stay available for follow-up. I hung up, fingers still trembling.

I switched back to TikTok.

Chat:

[Is she acting this out herself? We can’t even see if she really called the cops.]

[This is hilarious. Why not use another phone to show us? Bad acting, faker!]

[Scammers these days can’t even be bothered with props.]

“I’m not a scammer. As for why I didn’t use another phone, it’s because I only have one. I’m really broke, see? I live under a bridge.”

I spun the camera, giving everyone a grand tour of my concrete palace. Home sweet home, right? A couple rats scurried by for dramatic effect.

I panned the camera to show my surroundings.

The chat went wild:

[Just an attention-seeker.]

[Living under a bridge, LOL, that’s a new one!]

[Streamers will say anything for views. Reported.]

[+1]

“When the cops get back to me, I’ll let everyone know. You can follow me and see for yourself—I’m not lying.”

I tried to sound confident, but my voice cracked just a little at the end. The skepticism stung more than I’d expected.

Just then, my stream was cut off.

A message popped up: [Due to multiple reports, the platform suspects fraud. Your stream is now suspended.]

The words flashed in angry red. I groaned and let my head thunk against the concrete. Figures.

I wanted to cry, but what’s the point? The road to saving up was going to be long and bumpy.

Tears welled up, but I blinked them away. If I’d learned anything in three hundred years, it’s that ghosts don’t get to quit.

I curled up under the bridge and spent my first night in the human world.

The city hummed above me, headlights streaking by, the air thick with the scent of car exhaust and rain. I wrapped my arms around my knees and watched the sunrise paint the underside of the bridge in gold.

The next day, I got a call from the police. Thanks to my tip, they’d solved a murder case and caught the killer. They invited me to the station to collect a reward.

My phone buzzed, and when I heard the officer’s voice, I nearly dropped it. For the first time since I’d returned, hope flickered.

I jumped up, full of energy and hope again!

I stuffed my things into my backpack, grinning like a fool, and power-walked all the way to the precinct, ignoring the weird looks from commuters.

At the station, the officer asked a few questions, then handed me a $200 reward and a Good Citizen certificate. A bunch of officers took a photo with me for their newsletter.

The certificate had my name in bold, and the officers all smiled for the camera. I held up the check, trying not to cry. Someone even gave me a donut. Didn’t see that coming.

I headed back under the bridge with my certificate and cash. When I turned on my phone, I saw my stream had been reinstated.

A little confetti animation popped up when I logged in. My follower count was ticking upward, faster than I’d ever seen.

As soon as I started streaming, the number of viewers shot up—thirty thousand and climbing.

The chat was insane:

[Streamer is amazing! That guy really was a murderer, and he’s been caught!]

[I saw the official post from the Chicago PD, streamer is holding the Good Citizen certificate, looking a little lost—so cute!]

[I came from trending. Heard the streamer caught a murderer just by talking—are her skills real?]

[Here for the drama. Streamer’s gorgeous, cool and sharp—my type. Beautiful and brave.]

After yesterday, the chat was a lot friendlier.

It was like I’d been upgraded from internet joke to local hero overnight. The trolls had mostly gone quiet.

“Thanks for all the support. Today it’s still ten bucks a reading. Ask me anything. If I can’t answer, you don’t pay.”

I flashed my certificate for the camera and tried to look professional—well, as professional as you can look sitting on a milk crate under a bridge.

Now everyone scrambled to call in. I picked a random caller.

My notifications were blowing up. I closed my eyes and tapped at random, letting fate pick my next customer.

This time, it was a nerdy-looking guy with square glasses.

He had a stack of textbooks behind him and looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Hey, streamer. I want to know if I’ll pass my grad school entrance exams.”

He sounded desperate, voice cracking just a bit. I could almost smell the coffee through the screen.

I jotted down his question and username.

I wrote it in my little spiral notebook, under "Customer #2." Organization is key, even for broke ghosts.

“That’s doable, but I’ll have to get back to you tomorrow.”

Could I really tell fortunes? Nope. I’d have to go check his fate in the afterlife’s records.