by Lily Webb
“I assume you know how to get there,” he said.
“Hilarious.”
Duncan smirked and rolled his eyes at me as the elevator doors sealed shut.
“Ms. Clarke,” Rowley’s voice thundered, and I turned to find him looking less than happy to see me again. That seemed to be a pattern developing among NWA members, which must’ve meant I was doing something right.
“Hello again, Mr. Darkmoore,” I said, beaming as I approached. He looked like the polar opposite of the man I’d met previously. Where before he wore a freshly pressed pinstripe suit, now he sported a wrinkled, untucked white button-down shirt and a scowl that would’ve frightened any reasonable person — but not me.
“Duncan told me you wanted to speak to me about Brendan Norwood again,” he said, and gestured toward his open office door. “Have there been new developments?”
“You could say that,” I said, and waltzed into his office like I owned it. If I could’ve shaken his hand and given him an intimidating squeeze just to get back at him, I would’ve done it with a song in my heart, but I needed his information, not his humiliation.
Rowley slammed the door shut behind me, and I resisted the urge to jump. I needed him to see me as confident, as having the upper hand, because I did. The only way I would get him to admit anything was under pressure.
“Well? What’s happened?” Rowley asked, playing the fool like an award-winning actor.
“Have a seat first,” I said, and his scowl deepened, making his face look like someone had carved it from the stone of a mountain. He fell into his chair with a huff and slammed his arms over his chest.
I perched on the corner of his desk and rested my hands in my lap. The last thing I needed was for him to see the sweat beading like dew on my palms.
“I’m surprised you haven’t already heard. Brendan is missing and someone destroyed his home from the inside out,” I said, and the thick brows that hung over Rowley’s eyes parted as fast as storm clouds after a torrential downpour.
“Are you sure?” he asked, and I had to bite back my laughter.
“Absolutely. There’s no sign of him anywhere, but I found this,” I said, and reached into my ropes for the copy of Magical Liberty in Peril I’d lifted from Brendan’s desk. I flung it at Rowley, and he snatched it out of the air like it was a fly.
He thumbed through it quickly, page by page, until he got to the center and the handwritten letter fluttered out onto his desk. Confused, he unfolded it and held it out to read.
“What’s this?” he asked as his eyes raked over it.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” I answered and stared him straight in the face. His expression alternated from confusion to rage and back again in less than a second.
The magazine slapped against his desk, and again I had to resist the instinct to jump.
“I don’t have the faintest idea. We should have this analyzed,” Rowley said, clutching the piece of paper.
“For what?”
“I don’t know, fingerprints or magical signatures or something,” he snapped.
“And why would we need that?”
“To figure out who sent this message,” Rowley said, his expression twisting.
“See, I was wondering if you might already know who sent it,” I said, and though it took everything I had not to look away, I stared him straight in the eye.
“Are you implying that there was some conspiracy here?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m only asking questions,” I said. “It just seems a little strange to me that one of your members would end up with a copy of this magazine and a threatening letter stitched inside.”
“It could just as easily have been a coincidence,” Rowley said, but I wasn’t buying it in the slightest.
“It could be, but out of curiosity, do you recognize the handwriting?”
“If I’ve seen handwriting like this before, I don’t recall,” he said, and though he had regained most of his composure, he still seemed more uncomfortable than he should have if he were telling the truth.
“Is it possible that someone in your organization might know more about this?”
“If you’re asking me whether one of my colleagues might’ve been the person who wrote this letter, I refuse to answer the question,” Rowley said.
If Rowley was nervous about getting himself into hot water, it showed. Why else would he refuse? He must’ve known something; otherwise he would have come clean. Innocent people don’t dodge questions.
“Why not?”
“It would be irresponsible of me to speak with you further about this without legal advice. I don’t want to put my entire organization in jeopardy.”
“That makes it sound like there’s risk involved in speaking to me,” I said, and Rowley leaned forward in his chair.
“Look, I don’t know what you think you have or what you’re after, but I’ll tell you this: you don’t have a clue,” he said.
“I know I don’t. That’s why I’m here speaking with you,” I said. “I didn’t show up here by accident. An anonymous source pointed me in your direction, and I’m sure that wasn’t an accident either.”
“Anyone who wouldn’t sign their name to a statement is probably not worth trusting,” Rowley said, his expression clouding as he retreated inward.
“Why should I believe you over my source? You haven’t exactly given me any reason to trust you either.”
“I’m the president of one of the most powerful organizations in Moon Grove. If that doesn’t speak to my credibility, then I don’t know what will.” Rowley’s credibility wasn’t in question; his honesty was.
“When was the last time you saw Brendan Norwood?”
“I can’t recall. It’s been quite a while,” Rowley said, and though I didn’t believe him, I had to take him at his word.
“What about the day Brendon got expelled?”
“Yes, I remember the day we removed him from the NWA, but as far as I can remember, I haven’t seen him since then,” he said. “I would have no reason to associate with him after that, as I’m sure you understand.”
“So you maintain that you know nothing about his disappearance?”
“No, nothing.”
“Okay. But I’m curious, if you had misgivings about Brendan, why did you tell me who he was and where I could find him? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you left me breadcrumbs, almost like you wanted me to visit him.”
“There was no hidden meaning or purpose behind the information I shared with you. You asked me a question. I gave you the answer.”
“Fair enough. The other thing I haven’t been able to stop wondering about is whether Brendan left the NWA on his own or if someone forced him to go. Can you clear that up?” I asked, playing stupid. The more I seemed like a confused witch, the more likely Rowley was to give me the information I needed.
“Yes. We asked Mr. Norwood to leave.”
“And he did so without a problem?”
“More or less.” Rowley’s eyes raked over me, but I didn’t back down.
“More or less? It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Darkmoore,” I said.
“Brendan wasn’t happy about our request, no,” he said. “Before we expelled him, he made promises to change and be better, but the rest of the management team and I had already decided he was too much of a liability to keep around.”
“Why?”
“His views didn’t align with those of our organization, and we feared he was giving us a bad name among the public,” Rowley said. At least that part of things lined up with what Damon had told me.
“And what did Brendan do when you told him there wouldn’t be another chance for him?”
“He threatened us,” Rowley said, and my eyes snapped to his.
“How?”
“He said the NWA’s days were numbered and that when he was finished with us, we would be irrelevant. He swore he represented a new generation of activists and he wouldn’t rest until he s
aw each of us destroyed for what we’d done to him,” Rowley said.
“Did you always know he was violent?”
“Not exactly. At the start, he was eager to prove himself and we value the entrepreneurial spirit here,” Rowley said. “He didn’t show his true colors until his progression within the organization slowed.”
That also matched up with what Damon had told me. So far, we were on the same page.
“I didn’t realize members could move up,” I said.
“They can’t formally, but if a member gives their time and talent to our organization, we give them further responsibility in return,” Rowley said.
The more I learned about the NWA, the more I agreed with Damon’s assessment: they were effectively a gang. It also made me wonder whether someone forced Brendan out because of his extreme beliefs or because they were too close to home for those in charge.
“What sort of responsibilities did you give Brendan?”
“At the start, simple tasks. We asked him to pass out pamphlets, hang attack ads. Grunt work.”
“And what sort of things was he doing for you by the time he was expelled?"
“Brendan had become my personal assistant,” Rowley said, and my breath caught in my throat.
Everything slid into place all at once. No wonder Rowley didn’t want to talk about him. Brendon was his protégé. All the questionable things Brendan had allegedly said and done reflected poorly on him and therefore on the entire NWA. So Rowley had no choice but to throw him out, despite his personal attachment.
Though it was difficult to drum up sympathy for a murderer, I had to admit I felt sorry for Brendan.
“Did you see Brendan taking over your role as president at some point?”
“We never discussed it, but the thought crossed my mind. As unusual as he was, Brendan had a whip-smart mind and was often three steps ahead of the rest of us in terms of planning and strategy,” Rowley said.
“Even in terms of his beliefs?”
“What beliefs are those?”
“My source told me that Brendan believed the only way for wand rights activists to accomplish their agenda was to ‘blow up’ the Moon Grove Council and start over with warlocks in charge,” I said. Rowley scoffed and shook his head.
“I won’t deny that he said things like that, which ultimately led to our parting with him, but no. There are no plans or ambitions among the NWA and its leadership for that. We accomplish our mission with the ballot box, not with violence.”
“Are you afraid of Brendan? Personally, I mean,” I said.
“Who wouldn’t be after the things he said? Not to mention his proclivity toward armed violence against the Council,” Rowley said.
“That brings me to my next question. Do you think Brendan has it in him to murder? Or were the things he said nothing more than bluster?”
Rowley raised an eyebrow at me. “Why do you ask?”
“I think Brendan murdered Lydia Crowe. The only question I have left about him is whether he ran away to escape punishment for murder, or if someone was after him and he ran for his life.”
“Which are you leaning toward?”
“I think he ran because he was afraid of something or someone. I just don’t know who or what,” I said.
“It’s impossible to say. Honestly, Zoe, I thought I knew Brendan and that I could trust him, but now I don’t feel like I ever knew him at all.”
“So do you think it’s possible he committed the murder?”
“I don’t want to say for legal reasons. But I will tell you it wouldn’t shock me if he had.”
“Out of curiosity, how would the NWA handle something like that? I mean, given Brendan’s troubled history with the organization, wouldn’t it reflect poorly on you if it came to light that he had in fact murdered someone?”
“Hypothetically, if something like that happened the NWA would distance itself from the person,” Rowley said.
“Would that include trying to slander the individual? You know, to make them look more guilty to the public?”
“We don’t slander, Ms. Clarke. But would we publish unflattering facts about the individual? Sure.”
“I see. And if Brendan really did murder Lydia Crowe, why do you think he might want to do something like that?”
Rowley went rigid. He hadn’t expected the question, but to be fair, I hadn’t expected to ask it until now. Brendan had ideas of his own, some of which weren’t shared by the NWA’s leadership, but the vendetta he carried toward Lydia must’ve come from somewhere.
“I couldn’t possibly answer that question,” Rowley said. “Who can ever say why a murderer chooses a particular target other than the murderer themselves?”
“Good question. But on the topic, did Brenda ever mention Lydia in particular? Did he have any reason to want to hurt her?”
“He said more than once he considered Lydia and her sisters to be the biggest threat to wand rights. If I had to speculate, and let me be clear that that’s exactly what I’m doing here, I would assume that’s the reason he targeted her. But I also want to be clear in saying that whatever his motivations might have been, if Brendan killed Lydia, he acted alone.”
“Understood. One last question, Mr. Darkmoore, and then I’ll get out of your hair. If Brendan ran, regardless of the reason, where do you think he might’ve gone?”
“I have no idea. As close as Brendan and I became, he kept his personal life to himself. As far as I know, he doesn’t even have a living family, not that he would run to them after something like this anyway,” Rowley said.
Well, that explained Brendan’s thirst for acceptance and a sense of belonging. Having gone through a similar experience as a child, I understood that.
“Sorry, just one more question, I promise. Do you think Brendan is still alive?”
Rowley swallowed hard and looked away from me. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt for what seemed like an eternity before he finally returned his gaze to mine.
“I don’t know, but I hope so. Are you going to find him, Zoe?” he asked, which caught me off guard. Maybe Rowley and Brendan were closer than he had let on; if Rowley had really considered grooming Brendan to be his successor, I could only imagine how much it must’ve hurt to see him turn out the way he had.
“I’ll try, that much I can promise you,” I said. Whether Brendan was alive or dead, the keys to the mystery of Lydia’s death were still in his hands. If I found him, I’d find everything else I needed to put the pieces together. I was sure.
“I don’t have proof and I can’t tell you why, but I have this feeling in my gut that the Crowe sisters have something to do with this. Wouldn’t you want revenge on your sister’s killer?”
“I don’t have a sister, but that’s a good point,” I said. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but maybe my lack of a sibling was why it hadn’t. I had no idea what it meant or how it felt to have a deep connection to a sibling. Maybe it was time I talked to Eden and Ivy again — and the meeting I had scheduled with them to discuss the announcement of our partnership would give me the perfect opportunity.
“Thank you for the help. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but it won’t happen again,” I said, feeling strangely sure of the statement. Despite my lingering suspicions of the NWA as a whole, something told me they had no connection to Brendan’s disappearance.
But if they didn’t, who did?
Chapter Twelve
“Okay, it isn’t perfect, but I think that’s the best I can do given the time we have,” Mallory said from the couch in my living room.
She passed me the single-page draft of the press release she’d been working on for hours. I read it over halfheartedly, barely absorbing any of it. If it satisfied her, that was good enough for me.
“Looks good,” I said, and handed it over to Raina for her seal of approval. She seemed much more engaged than I was, anyway.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Raina asked as the paper fell backward
over her hand like a wilting flower.
“I’m sure, but even if I wasn’t, we don’t have time to reconsider,” I said, pointing at the clock above our front door. Raina, Mallory, and I were supposed to meet Eden and Ivy at the Crowe’s Keep in less than twenty minutes.
“Nothing’s final until the ink is dry, dear,” Raina said. “And even then, it’s not too late.”
“She’s got a point, Sugar. It ain’t over till the fat kitty sings,” Grandma said from the couch as she scratched the top of my cat’s head. It was the first time she’d spoken since my team arrived, but it wasn’t uncommon for Grandma to shut down when we got into the nitty-gritty of politics — probably because she hated it as much as she didn’t understand it.
Luna, our talking black cat, laid curled in Grandma’s lap, purring so loudly I could hear it over everyone else. Her neon blue eyes fluttered open and she let out a jaw-popping yawn.
“Hey, who are you calling fat?” Luna grumbled up at Grandma, who burst into laughter.
“And here I thought you were dead to the world,” Grandma said. “You know, it’s been a while, but I still ain’t got used to havin’ a talkin’ cat in the place, much less a sassy one like you.”
“Who are you calling sassy? I was here first,” Luna said, and I joined everyone else in laughter. After everything that’d happened, and given the intense pressure I felt with the election just two days away, it was nice to have something to laugh about.
What I didn’t share with anyone else was that even if I could’ve canceled the meeting with Eden and Ivy, I wouldn’t have. After my talk with Rowley, all the leads I had on Brendan had dried up, leaving just the surviving Crowes. I didn’t necessarily suspect them of anything — someone murdered their sister, after all — but I had nothing else to go on. Besides, they might have gotten information I hadn’t from the police or other sources. As Lydia once told me, they knew many people.
“Well, if I can’t talk you out of it, I suppose we’d better get moving,” Raina said.