Strangest of all was that Kit didn’t seem to care. She eyed the door to the butler’s pantry, then grinned at me. “So instead, I’ll take Amari to lunch.”
At the mention of Raziel’s manager, my stomach twisted. “Is she planning to stay long?”
“She’s leaving tomorrow morning to take Raziel’s body to Reno, where I guess his family lives. She’ll be there a few days for the services. She’s coming back after that.”
“For how long?”
Kit pursed her lips. “We haven’t talked about it. I sort of don’t want to ask.”
I nodded but said nothing. The unidentified rock that seemed to accompany any thought or conversation about Amari dropped back into my belly. I still wasn’t sure where it came from. Irrational anger at Penelope aside, Kit was a good judge of character, and she seemed to have strong feelings about Amari. Even now, as she stared at Amari’s closed door, her facial expressions flitted back and forth between happiness and apprehension like a TV on the fritz.
Deep down, I worried about my friend. She’d boomeranged from stress puking at the sight of an old flame to looking forward to spending as much time as possible with that same woman. How long before Amari returned to her real life in Los Angeles and Kit sank back into the low end of that spectrum?
She seemed to sense that something was off and elbowed me gently. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The flat look Kit gave me declared it’d been a pointless lie. She’d been with me when we’d found a corpse in a closet at the Franklin cabin the previous spring, and she knew from experience that finding a dead body wasn’t something you just slept off, especially when you’d been dragged into the sheriff’s station for some late-night conversation afterward. But she’d also been part of my life long enough that she didn’t push me to talk about it. Instead, she followed the Katerina Dyedov method for comforting friends and family.
“So, which apartment will it be?” Her brown eyes glimmered mischievously over the rim of her mug as she took an unnecessarily long sip. It gave me the distinct impression that she wasn’t drinking her coffee; she was drinking it at me.
“Apartment?”
“Yeah. You know, when you two lovebirds move in together. I need to know if I’ll be stealing your cute turret room or just expanding into Graham’s place.”
I rolled my eyes, but the telltale heat in my cheeks gave away my embarrassment. Try as I might to resist, my eyes locked on Graham’s tall form in the backyard. It was true; we didn’t spend many nights apart these days. If I wasn’t sleeping in his bed, he was sleeping in mine. But despite already living in the same house, consolidating apartments was something I firmly defined as a Next Step. It was one down from getting engaged, and there was only one step left after that. The thought sent a thrill of excitement and a jolt of fear down my spine.
I’d only ever moved in with one other person before, a choice that currently held the title of Worst Mistake of My Life. In my heart, I knew Graham would never betray me the way my last boyfriend had, but…
“You should move into his place,” Kit said. “I like your apartment better.”
“Maybe you should move into the butler’s pantry,” I countered.
It was her turn to blush. In answer, she dipped her fingers into her mug and flicked a few droplets of coffee onto my face. I blinked in surprise, startled for a moment. Then inspiration struck. Diving past her, I grabbed the spray nozzle from the sink and knocked the faucet to full blast. Kit ducked, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid the stream of cold water I shot her way. Shrieking, she dove around to the other side of the kitchen island. I steadied my firing hand, ready to spritz her again whenever she popped her head above the counter.
Just then, the door to the butler’s pantry opened. I knocked the faucet back to the “off” position and let the spray nozzle retract into its housing, hurrying to compose my features into an expression of maturity. Kit shot upward from the floor and took a seat at one of the tall barstools that lined the far side of the kitchen island. By the time Amari appeared in her doorway, I was the picture of a calm adult. Kit’s face was equally serene, apart from a murderous twitch in her left eye.
“Morning,” I chirped.
“Good morning.” Amari padded barefoot into the kitchen and took a seat next to Kit. She was dressed much more casually than she’d been at the cocktail party, in an oversized University of Johannesburg t-shirt and orange leggings.
Kit handed her the mug of coffee she’d prepared, and Amari squeezed Kit’s hand. Feeling suddenly like a third wheel, I pulled out a frying pan and got to work whipping eggs in a bowl.
“How did you sleep?” Kit asked.
Amari ran a hand over her shaven head and sighed, but it was a deep sigh of happiness. “Very well. Thank you for suggesting I come here. It’s much quieter than the inn.”
I chewed my lip as I dropped a few pats of butter into the pan. Had Amari heard I was a suspect in Raziel’s murder? Did Kit already tell her about last night’s interrogation? I had to assume that, even if she’d heard the news, she didn’t believe I’d killed Raziel. No way would she be able to sit here with a smile on her face, sipping coffee in the company of someone she thought killed her boss.
That, or she was better at hiding her true feelings than I could ever hope to be.
The three of us sat in silence. The only sounds in the kitchen were the sizzle of butter and the faint strains of Soundgarden from Graham’s studio. We watched him work for a few moments.
“He’s very talented,” Amari said. “Does he do well?”
“Yeah, he sells a lot of pieces at the Afterlife Festival every year.” I poured the eggs into the pan. “And then I helped him make a website this summer. He’s been getting some custom orders through that.”
Her eyes brightened. “Can I see it?”
“Sure. It’s nothing fancy. I’m not a professional or anything.” I pulled out my phone, found the website, and passed it to her.
“No, it’s very good,” she said, scrolling with one long finger. “If you like, I could help you with the SEO.” She noticed Kit’s raised eyebrow and translated, “Search engine optimization.”
I took my phone back. “I couldn’t ask you to—”
“Please.” Amari’s dark eyes were intent. “For Graham. He’s doing me such a favor and won’t charge me rent. I would like to do what I can.”
“Um… sure. That stuff is way above my head.”
“It sounds like Amari’s specialty,” Kit said, a note of pride in her voice. “She’s the marketing genius that made Raziel famous.”
Amari shook her head. “I shone a spotlight, that’s all. He did the rest.”
A hundred questions about her now-former boss sprang to mind, but I pushed them away, focusing instead on grating a block of cheddar. The kitchen filled with the smells of eggs and cheese, scents that never failed to remind me of my mother. Like my ability to see the dead, I’d inherited my limited culinary talents from her. Scrambling eggs was something I pulled off with a medium success rate.
I divided the eggs onto three heavy ceramic plates and carried one to the kitchen table. Kit followed my lead, bringing over plates for herself and Amari, and I tried to word questions in my mind as we ate.
At last, I settled on, “Do you mind if I ask what Raziel was really like? I’ve seen his videos—was that him, or a persona?”
“That was him,” Amari said. “He was truly that passionate. It’s why I wanted to work with him.”
“How did you meet?”
“I was in San Francisco, working at a software firm. They hired Raziel to perform street magic at the employee appreciation party. We talked afterward, and he told me his idea for launching a web series. I immediately wanted to be a part of it.”
Kit had grown quiet and stared down at her eggs.
“So, you’re a fan of magic?” I asked.
“The opposite.” A slight edge sharpened Amari’s v
oice. “I hate it.”
I tried to catch Kit’s eye, but she ignored me. A muscle in her cheek spasmed.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “Why be part of his crew then?”
“Raziel’s show wasn’t about magic. His goals were to show how easily people allow themselves to be duped and to expose the villains who prey on the grief-stricken.”
“People like the Midnight Lantern?” I asked, remembering the video I’d watched before the cocktail party.
Her eyes flashed triumphantly. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t read the specifics. Why did Raziel go after them?”
“Because they ‘specialized’”—she emphasized the word with air quotes—“in finding lost children. Parents from all over the country would pay the owners to locate runaways. We hired six actors to go in with photos of their supposed children. The Midnight Lantern demanded three hundred dollars up front from each customer, and in most cases, these so-called psychics told our actors their children were dead.” She paused, and her dark eyes steeled. “The Midnight Lantern advised them to stop looking.”
My stomach tightened. “That’s awful.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
I waited for her to elaborate. She said nothing.
Eventually, Kit cleared her throat. “More coffee, anybody?”
While Kit refilled our mugs, Amari and I eyed each other. There was another question about Raziel I needed to ask, but I didn’t know if I could handle the answer. Her shoulders were tense, as if she dreaded what I was about to say.
Kit saved me from doing the impossible. In her typical style, she simply said what needed to be said. “He thought you’re a fraud, but Amari disagreed.”
Amari’s eyes widened and her shoulders relaxed. She confirmed Kit’s pronouncement with a small smile.
“You believe me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The simple endorsement stunned me. Despite her friendliness at the cocktail party, I’d been sure she was firmly in Raziel’s skeptical camp.
“Why?” I blurted.
She answered my question with one of her own. “Do you know about real magic?”
I exchanged glances with Kit, who shrugged.
“I’ve travelled the world, and I’ve seen true magic,” Amari said. “Things that can’t be explained in modern terms. Astral projection. Miraculous healing. Once, I even witnessed telekinesis.”
“I don’t understand. If you know those things are possible, why are you so…” I trailed off, narrowly avoiding an unintentional insult.
Amari inferred it anyway. “Hostile toward psychics? I have nothing against the genuine article. But we came to Donn’s Hill for a myriad of reasons, chief among which is that you are swimming with frauds. And I’ve seen firsthand how dangerous they can be.”
Dangerous? I remembered Raziel’s argument with Nick at the cabin. Raziel had said Nick was all smoke and mirrors, and Nick hadn’t denied it. But Nick couldn’t be dangerous… could he?
“How do you know there are fakers here?”
“That’s the easiest part of my job. There’s a simple difference between a fraud and a true intuitive: the fraud will advertise their abilities. Someone with real power guards that secret jealously. It takes months of research for me to find them, and they wouldn’t talk to me if they knew I worked for a celebrity like Raziel, because the spotlight is deadly for someone with true, raw power.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve seen real power. I watched Gabrielle Suntador summon multiple spirits last year.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with her work. For the sake of argument, let’s say she has a legitimate gift and is one of the rare ones who dared to profit from it. She still betrayed the trust of the people who came to her for help. Psychic or fraud, she did the same amount of damage either way.”
I hated to admit it, but she had a point.
“And what about what we do?” I asked. “Are we dangerous?”
Amari’s eyes softened. “I don’t take quite the hard line that Raziel does… did. I adore Yuri. Raziel had a fair amount of respect for him, as well. I know your goal is to truly help people heal, and I admire that.”
“Raziel made it clear what he thought of me,” I said, folding my arms on the table. “But I still feel awful about what I said to him.”
“It might not be too late to apologize,” she said.
My head snapped up. Was she serious? There was no hint of sarcasm or humor in her voice.
Kit stared back and forth between us. “That’s an awesome idea. I’ll get it set up.”
“No.” I shook my head. “No cameras. No crew. Just me.”
“What?” Kit’s eyes flashed. “Why?”
“This can’t be for the show,” I said. “We can’t exploit Raziel’s spirit that way.”
If Kit had been a cat, I swear her hackles would have risen. “We don’t exploit,” she nearly spat the word, “anyone with our show.”
“I know that. But Raziel thought differently. And if I was him and someone tried to reach me while a camera was rolling…” I shrugged. “I wouldn’t reach back.”
Amari rested her hand on Kit’s shoulder. “Please, Kit. Mac is right. Recording an attempt to reach him would be an insult to his memory.” She glanced at me. “I trust you’ll let me know how it turns out.”
She stood and retreated to the butler’s pantry with her mug in hand. Kit followed, and I stared after them, wondering what else Amari had seen in her travels. She’d said there were things worse than telling frightened parents their missing child was dead with zero evidence to back that up. The still-digesting eggs in my stomach politely requested I refrain from imagining what those things could be.
As I cleared the table, a rough plan began to take shape in my head. If last night was any indication, the only evidence Deputy Wallace’s team had pointed firmly in my direction. There was only one person who could point me toward the real killer.
And lucky for me, I knew just how to reach him.
Chapter Sixteen
“Why don’t you come with me?” Hope glimmered in Graham’s eyes. He pulled on my arm, tugging me toward his father’s pickup truck. “It’d be like a little vacation.”
I shook my head. “Wallace was super clear. They don’t want me leaving town.”
“It’s just Chicago,” he said. “It’s not like it’s across the country.”
“Somehow, I don’t think going to a city with a nice, big international airport would look good for me right now.”
I expected him to laugh, but his face darkened.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “Screw the expo. I’ll stay here.”
“Are you serious?”
He nodded. “I can go next year.”
“No. No way. You’re going to that show.”
The early morning sun cast the driveway in golden light as we stared each other down. His eyebrows drew together above his glasses, and I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he cobbled together an argument that would justify skipping out on the opportunity of a lifetime.
Before he could say anything, I reached out and closed his hand around the truck’s keys.
“If you miss out on that show because of me, I’ll never forgive you.” I kept my voice quiet and my tone light but pushed steel through my eyes. “I won’t pretend it didn’t scare the hell out of me, getting questioned like that. But I’m innocent. I know it, you know it, and Wallace knows it.”
“Does she?”
I didn’t allow myself time to mull it over. I had an argument to win. “I hope so. But even if she doesn’t, there’s nothing you can do here. Please, go to Chicago.”
It took several more minutes of convincing and me threatening to cry before he finally climbed into the truck and left. I watched him pull out of the driveway with all his sculptures in tow. For a wild moment, I wanted to run after him, arms waving, and tell him I’d changed my mind. A huge part of me agreed with him. What if I go
t arrested tomorrow and he was all the way in Chicago? What would I do then?
But it wasn’t fair to keep him away from something he’d been working toward on a “what if.” He deserved a shot at greater success. If I kept him here and nothing happened, I’d never forgive myself.
I stood in the backyard for a few minutes after the back of his trailer disappeared down the street. I wrapped my arms around my torso, rubbing my arms against the chill of the oncoming winter. Once I was certain I could trust myself to move without chasing Graham down, I went back into the house for a sweater, some sage, and his car keys.
Graham fondly called his faded yellow Geo Metro “Baxter” and had been nursing the aging car along since high school. Baxter and I were not on good terms. More stubborn than a spoiled cat, the car never cooperated when I was at the wheel. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was territorial and didn’t like me spending so much time with its owner.
Striker shared my feelings about the vehicle. I put her on the passenger seat, closed the door, and walked around to the driver’s side. The second I opened my door, she shot out of the car like a tiny racehorse. She hunched on the picnic table, glaring at me.
“You don’t want to come?” I asked.
Her angry yellow eyes informed me she did not.
Hands on my hips, I considered her for a few minutes. I could trick her into following me back into the house by shaking a treat bag then pop her into the cat carrier and be done with it. But then I’d have to drive to the inn with a howling cat beside me, carry that same raging creature up three flights of stairs, and pray she wouldn’t take her ire out on Penelope’s expensive furnishings.
I sighed. “You win, as usual. Stay out of trouble.”
For a moment, I was pleased with myself for being the bigger person and avoiding unnecessary confrontation. Then, I remembered about the car.
It took several tries to start it, an abnormality Graham never seemed to experience. Then, muttering and swearing under my breath, I coaxed Baxter down our road and onto Main Street. Despite the cold, I cranked the window open and let the breeze swirl through the car, stirring up the clay dust and cat hair that covered every inch of the upholstery. In the end, it took me about the same amount of time to get to the center of town as if I’d walked.
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