On My Way

by Eve Langlais

  Me. I had put some bullets into somebody.

  I trembled.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” she prodded gently, putting her arm around my shoulders.

  “I shot him.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “I think I shot your father.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “Winnie!”

  “Double fuck,” she exclaimed. “A pronouncement like that deserves a few fucks. And a drink.”

  “Maybe two,” was my weak reply.

  It was three before I stopped shaking.

  Winnie, who’d gotten an edited version of my story—minus the lake monster, no mention of Kane or magic—paced. “We should call the police.”

  “And say what? I shot someone loitering around my house with an unregistered gun?”

  “Not just anyone. He had a bomb!” She waved the liquor bottle, the remaining booze sloshing inside. “Dad tried to kill us.”

  “I don’t know that it was your father.”

  She held out the whiskey. “Wanna bet his fingerprints are all over this? We both know how much Dad hates you. Who else could it be?”

  “Anyone. Keep in mind we don’t actually have any evidence. Until we do, we can’t prove it was him.” Why didn’t I tell her about Kane?

  “Doesn’t really matter who it is. You’ll be able to claim self-defense.” She tried to sound certain and yet in Canada, there weren’t any stand-your-ground laws. I could be found guilty, and in a twist, Martin, taking on the role of victim, could walk free.

  “I’m sorry, Winnie.” I slumped in my chair. “I should have called the police rather than act.”

  She said what I was thinking. “Yes, let’s put our faith in the same people who lost Dad.” Said with a nasty inflection. “I hate him. Why can’t he just die and leave us alone?”

  The good part of me, the part that had turned the other cheek for twenty years, wanted to chide her for the remark. The new me lifted the glass and toasted, “Here’s to hoping he ends up rotting in a ravine somewhere.” I tossed the drink back just as a commotion at the door saw my cat rising from his pillow to glare.

  He settled down as Trish burst inside.

  “I came as soon as Winnie called me. What’s this about Martin attacking you? He tried to burn down the house?”

  I shrugged. I was getting better at the whole nonchalance thing. “I doubt he’ll be trying that again.”

  “Has that fucker been the one harassing you?” Trish exclaimed.

  “Probably.” Yet it bothered me that no one had seen his face. What if I was wrong? What if I hadn’t shot Martin but someone else? Like Kane…

  I resisted the temptation to call and see if he answered. For all I knew, I’d shot Jace.

  “I’ve had enough of that prick! You should have let me hex him,” Trish huffed as she paced my living room. “What are we going to do about Martin?”

  “Nothing. Martin is my problem. If he lives, then maybe he’ll finally get the message.”

  “Wait, what?” Trish frowned and I realized my friend didn’t have the whole story.

  Apparently, my daughter had neglected the most important part. Probably best, given who knew how secure a phone line really was? Anyone could be listening.

  “Mom shot Dad,” Winnie stated.

  “Shot him? Oh. Shit.” Trish grabbed the bottle of tequila and poured herself a shot. Downed it and poured another before sitting hard on the couch. “Are you sure you got him?”

  I nodded. “I shot someone. At least once, possibly twice.”

  “Meaning they might live.” She appeared pensive. “My mom used to say nothing’s meaner than a wounded animal.”

  “In other words, I might have made things worse.” I slumped. “Great.”

  “What should we do?” Winnie asked.

  “Nothing,” my friend baldly stated.

  I glanced sharply at Trish. “What do you mean nothing? I shot a man.”

  “Did you? Only you and that person know that for sure. Where’s the gun?”

  I pointed to my coat. “In my pocket.”

  “I’ll take it with me and ditch it. No weapon, no proof.”

  “I don’t know if you should take it. What if he comes back?” Winnie was the one to voice the main concern.

  But I wasn’t worried.

  The house would provide.

  23

  I didn’t want to go to bed. I also didn’t want Trish to leave, but she insisted since Marjorie was home alone. I paced until she called Winnie to say she’d made it since my purse went missing.

  I think that was the most traumatizing thing of the night. The loss of all my cards, including identification. Maybe if I wandered the path back, I’d find it, but that might mean dealing with those wolves again.

  What of that thing in the lake? How had I never seen it before?

  The best reason of all to not leave the house? I had to guard it.

  I spent a good chunk of that night spying out of various windows, convinced the arsonist would return. I didn’t keep vigil alone. At one point, Winnie and I ended up on the couch together, asleep under a blanket.

  Waking up meant dealing with an epic neck crick. Joints cracked and popped. Screw this getting-old thing.

  Winnie stretched and yawned. “Morning, Mommy.”

  The return to my title from when she was little brought a smile. “Morning, my Winnie boo.”

  “Bacon?” she asked, sliding off the couch, her body already loose-limbed. Ah to be young again when parts of me didn’t creak.

  “As if that’s even a question. I’ll put on some coffee. I need a few cups.” Might as well just hook me to an IV. I had a feeling today would require copious amount of caffeine. As I sipped, I didn’t do a great job of hiding my furtive glimpses through the front cottage window.

  “What are you looking for?” Winnie asked, sliding a paper towel with bacon on it toward me.

  “The truth? I keep expecting to see the police.” I wished I’d kept my mouth shut, as her expression shuttered.

  “You think he made it out of the woods?”

  My shoulders lifted and dropped. “I don’t know.”

  Which made it the hardest part of all. Had I killed someone? Was I a murderer?

  Since sticking close to home and nervously twitching at everything that moved outside the window wasn’t an option, I went to work, my car somehow in the driveway when I woke up. The shop had survived the night unmarked, making me feel a selfish satisfaction that I might have solved the problem.

  I spent the morning updating the website and building in shipping options for the online store. I had a few browsers.

  That afternoon Kane entered the shop, alive and not covered in bandages, although he did have a slight limp and bruising along his temple. Had he been the person I’d shot? It seemed unlikely since I’d left him behind on the beach. What happened after we separated? Who was he really? Because a regular man didn’t run around the woods with a sword.

  Only one of the things I’d ask.

  He took a brief glance around before settling on me. “Hello, Naomi.” Nothing threatening or even seductive about the words, and yet heat rushed to my cheeks.

  My hand went right to my hair. Then to tug at my shirt to make sure it covered the bulge I kept tucked in my pants. “What do you want?”

  “Everything.”

  My chin lifted. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

  “Did you really expect me to obey you?” was his mocking reply. “I see you made it home.”

  “No thanks to you,” I spat. “Do you often get your kicks out of terrifying women in the woods?”

  “Only special ones.”

  I doubted he meant that as a compliment. “How did it feel being shot?”

  Either he was a pro actor or he suffered from genuine surprise. “I wasn’t shot. A few bruises and scratches, but no holes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think I’d notice. Why do you keep asking
? Did you have more trouble?”

  “Only someone trying to Molotov my house. But I took care of them.”

  “I see.” He said nothing more.

  “Care to take off your shirt and prove it wasn’t you?”

  He grinned. “Why, Naomi, if you want me naked, you could just say so.”

  Part of me totally wanted to tell him to strip, but I was still mad at him. Suspicious, too. “Explain again how you ended up following me last night. Where did you go after you left me?”

  “Home.”

  “Sure, you did. Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know,” was his annoyed admission.

  “Since you have no reason to be here, then leave. You know where the door is.” I pointed.

  “If only I could go and not return. Apparently, I enjoy your abuse.” His lips quirked. Before I could retort, he glanced to my windows. “I trust you’re pleased with Brigda’s work. If not, let me know and I’ll have it fixed.”

  “Changing the subject?”

  “It seems pointless to continue. You are convinced I am a liar. So be it. I don’t need you to like me.”

  “Good because I don’t.”

  “Of course you don’t.” He smirked, and a dimple popped up in one cheek. Kane could not have a dimple.

  “I meant what I said before about paying for the repairs.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “If you insist,” I said too sweetly. If he wanted to foot the bill, let him.

  “Your circle needs some work.” He stood on the edge of the one I’d painted on the floor and cocked his head.

  “What would you know about circles?”

  “Enough.” He glanced at me. “More than you.”

  “It’s magic, isn’t it?” I might not like Kane, but he had seen the same things I had the previous night. Had some answers.

  “Magic. Power. There are all kinds of names people use.” He crouched and ran his fingers over the painted marks.

  “Despite what everyone thinks, my grandmother never taught me how to be a witch.”

  “Are you sure of that?” He stood, a looming presence that I refused to cower before.

  “I am pretty sure I’d remember if she ever taught me to cast a spell.” My sarcasm dripped.

  “Oh, she taught you. But I’m beginning to think you were never supposed to recollect.”

  “I remember everything.” There were no gaps in my memories.

  “No, you don’t because otherwise you’d realize just what was done to you during her attempt to circumvent fate.”

  “My grandmother never abused me!” I hotly huffed.

  “No, she did worse. She took your heritage, your legacy, from you. She thought you far enough away to be safe. But you came back,” he stated softly.

  “You talk as if you knew her.”

  “I did. And before you ask, no, she didn’t like me.” His grin had a wolfish hint with a bit of devilish charm.

  “She always did have good taste.”

  This time he outright laughed. “It’s a pity you are who you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that there is no way of stopping what is to come. What you’ve done, I’ve done, will only delay the inevitable.”

  “You think I’m going to die.”

  “I know you’re going to die.” Oddly, it sounded less a threat and more a sad truth.

  “I’m not some weakling.” I held up my hands. “You saw me last night. I can do magic.”

  “Too little, too late. You’re not the woman your grandmother was.”

  The comparison stung. My tone turned quite frosty. “Other than being an asshole, is there a reason you came to my store?”

  “Isn’t that what stalkers do?” He threw my accusation at me. “I told you before I like old things.”

  “I’m not interested in your money.”

  “Are you really going to turn down business?”

  My inner business self struggled with my womanly half. Cold logic won. “What would you like to buy?” I swept a hand.

  “How about those books?” He waved at the trio on my counter.

  “Sorry, but they already belong to someone.” I tucked them out of sight.

  “Then the ring in the window.”

  My heirloom.

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Then why display it?”

  “It’s meant to act as décor and to draw people in.”

  “You admit to false advertising.”

  “Would you feel better if I put a price on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” I pulled out a tag and wrote quickly on it. A sum with many zeroes. I stalked to the window and tucked it by the ring.

  I returned to the counter, snapping, “Satisfied?”

  “Yes. I’ll take it.”

  I blinked. “You haven’t seen the price yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll buy it.”

  “It’s a thousand dollars,” I blurted out.

  “Is cash okay?” He pulled out a literal wad from his coat pocket. I’d never seen so many hundred-dollar bills at once.

  “No, it is not okay. You can’t just buy it. With that.” I pointed at the brown sheaf. In Canada, our money had lovely colors. Purple for tens. Red for fifties. Guess what for hundreds.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s probably counterfeit.” No one actually walked around with that kind of money. “And I misquoted. It’s ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ah, a bit more than I have in my pockets at the moment. I’ll have the sum wired to you.”

  “Why do you want that ugly ring so much?” Did he know its secret? Was it truly valuable?

  “Because you don’t want me to have it.”

  “In that case, I also don’t want you to have that bowl over there.” I pointed to my lopsided masterpiece.

  “How much for it?”

  I should have quoted him some farfetched number. Instead, I said, “Sorry, it’s already sold. And would you look at the time. Time to close up shop.” I skirted the counter.

  “It’s only four in the afternoon.”

  “Yes, but it’s Wednesday. Hump day.” I winced, as it was the only thing to come to mind and spill out of my mouth. “Lots to do.” Which made it sound even worse.

  “But we’re not done with our business.”

  “Sorry. Come again.” I shoved at him, and he went without protesting. The amusement tugging his mouth didn’t impress me.

  Only when I’d shut the door behind him and locked it did I lean and heave out a breath. What was that about? Why his interest in the ring?

  I pulled it from the window and turned it over in my hands. I’d cleaned it up but saw nothing special about it. It felt cold and lifeless in my hand.

  On a whim, I slid it onto my finger. Nothing happened.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Now what?

  I glanced through the blind to see an older couple.

  “Are you open?” the man shouted.

  Heck yes, I was. I reopened the shop with a smile. Ended up closing at almost nine due to people popping in. I drove home without incident. Slept fine if I ignored the part where Maddy visited my dream and crushed me.

  The next morning, I woke up to a dozen orders for my online shop. And even more clients came in that day.

  By midafternoon I’d called Darryl and asked him to bring another load of treasures. It was going to be a very good Christmas. Or so I thought.

  The policeman showed up around dinnertime.

  24

  I didn’t get home until late, and the moment I walked in the door Winnie was waiting for me. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I wanted to lie. So bad. No matter what Winnie might think, the news would crush her, but I couldn’t hide it. I swallowed hard and said, “They found Martin. Your father. He’s dead.”

  Her face blanched, an
d she swayed on her feet. I ran for her and supported her so she could sit on the couch. Then I dashed for a glass of water, my hand trembling only slightly as I filled it from the jug in the fridge. I returned and handed it to her.

  Winnie chugged it and then clasped the glass before saying in a low voice, “Tell me everything.”

  It began with Officer Murphy arriving in the shop.

  He’d entered, looking grim as usual, every inch the cop in his uniform, military-buzzed hair, and clean-shaven jaw. “Ms. Rousseaux. I need you to come with me.”

  My first thought? I was going to jail. Guilty of manslaughter. They must have figured it out. I didn’t even argue.

  “Of course. If you’ll give me a second to lock up.” I gathered my things, not many given I’d lost my purse. Thankfully, I had spare keys, but it would take time to replace the cards I’d reported.

  To my surprise, Murphy didn’t cuff me or read me my rights. Perhaps that would come later.

  In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned him more, but not me. I sat in the back seat, staring out the window, unable to regret what I’d done. I wouldn’t regret anything that kept my daughter safe.

  Confusion filled me when, instead of heading to the next town over and the police station, we drove around the lake and stopped about a half-mile or so from the mill. Murphy opened the door on the cop car and waited for me to get out.

  My heart pounded. “Why are we here?” And why did I see a white van and another police car?

  “We found a body.”

  My heart stopped. “Oh.” It emerged faint and high-pitched.

  “We need you to see if you can identify it.”

  It had to be the person I’d shot a few days ago. Why else would Murphy fetch me? Perhaps he hoped seeing my deadly handiwork would cause me to confess.

  He was quite possibly right. I shook as I followed him through the snow tamped down by the passage of feet. We emerged onto the shore of the lake, the side opposite my cottage and within view of the mill.

  Not a single curl of smoke rose from any of its stacks, but it didn’t hold my attention long. My gaze couldn’t help but stray to the black bag on the ground. Zipped shut. People dressed in protective gear just beyond it, dropping marker cards and taking pictures.