Perhaps they feared Bianca now—worried the same supposedly violent tendency in her father had been passed onto Bianca.
After the group had disbanded, and Amber had said goodbye to the Here and Meow Committee, she lingered so she could talk to Jack. He’d said he’d been “wondering” about something. Now her curiosity was piqued.
She met him at the counter and ordered a pair of raspberry-and-orange scones. He seemed slightly less flustered when he had a task to complete, and by the time he was ringing her up, the pink in his cheeks had faded.
“How’d the meeting go?” he asked as he counted out her change.
“No screaming match this time, so pretty good,” she said, taking both her change and the small white bag with her pastries in it. She fussed with the bag but didn’t say goodbye. Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the quiet. “I know we haven’t figured out what this is, but maybe the next time you watch a movie, you can let me know? I can bring popcorn.”
His grin was so wide, she was sure it must have hurt. “That sounds great. I can’t promise I won’t pass out during the opening credits though. I’m apparently a boring old man now.”
“Passing out on the couch actually sounds incredible.”
He nodded once, his brows furrowed.
She gasped with unnecessary dramatics when her phone buzzed in her back pocket, startling her. It snapped her out of the very vivid daydream of her and Jack passed out on the couch together, her head on his shoulder. “I’ll, uh, see you later?”
Jack wished her a good night, frowning. She knew he was worried about her and her obvious lack of sleep, but he couldn’t chase away her nightmares any more than he could have chased away Kieran Penhallow. She hated that she was causing those lines to mar his forehead, but she was also grateful he hadn’t truly given up on her yet.
As she headed for the door, she held her bag of pastries with one hand and fished her phone out of her back pocket with the other. She got the door to Purrcolate open with an elbow and had just managed to answer the call before it went to voicemail.
“Hey, Amber.”
Startled, she said, “Hey, chief. What’s up?”
But Amber didn’t hear his reply, because someone behind her called her name when she’d only made it a few steps outside.
“Hang on a sec, Owen,” she said, then grimaced. Since when did she call him Owen? Amber turned, expecting to see Jack, but instead found his brother.
Larry had his hands on his hips. “I’m going to make this quick. You know I like you, Amber. I always have. And I like you for my brother. But whatever has been happening between you lately needs to stop.” He sliced a hand through the air. “I don’t like seeing Jack like this. One day he’s running around clicking his heels together because you deigned to say hello to him, then the next day, the two of you refuse to look at each other and he’s so down in the dumps that all he does is mope around his apartment. Now he’s back to staring at you like he’s a lovesick puppy. Figure out what you want from him and stick to it. The guy is completely head over heels for you, and if you’re not head over heels too, you have to cut him loose so he can grieve this in peace and move on.”
Amber stared at him, openmouthed.
“I hope you choose him,” he said, then turned and walked back inside the shop.
It took her a few stunned seconds to remember that the chief was still on the phone. Amber pressed the phone to her ear, then beelined for her car, her face on fire. “You still there?” Please don’t still be there …
“Ouch,” the chief said.
Groaning, Amber said, “Can we please talk about literally anything other than me getting schooled by Larry Terrence?”
He chuckled. “I was calling because I think I need Cassie Westbottom’s help.”
“Really?” she asked, curiosity crowding out her embarrassment. “What for?”
“I got a call from Wilma Jameson this afternoon—Chief Jameson’s eighteen-year-old daughter,” he said. “I met her several years ago at some function when Eric and I worked together. She said she doesn’t trust the police force in Marbleglen and suspects the guy in custody isn’t who killed her father.”
“Whoa,” Amber said. “That makes three people in the Simon Was Framed category. Why does Wilma think Simon is innocent?”
“Wouldn’t tell me over phone,” he said. “Can Cassie join me tomorrow? Wading into this whole thing has already got me nervous; someone coming with me who can assure that the person I’m talking to is telling the truth would put me at ease.”
“Cassie Westbottom would be honored,” Amber said. “Oh, and don’t be mad—”
“I hate when you start sentences that way …”
“I went with Bianca to her father’s arraignment today.”
He was silent for a long time. “And?”
Amber explained the low bail amount, the house arrest, Chief Daniels’s reaction to the sentencing, and the fact that Simon had used magic to obviate being stuck in jail until his court date.
“Honestly,” the chief said, “the part that worries me the most is Daniels’s reaction. If Simon is truly being framed, and Daniels is part of it, who knows what he’ll do to Simon now that he’s out of jail. If Simon’s memory comes back before his court date, that could throw a wrench in Daniels’s plan. Daniels might decide that the best course of action is to shut Simon up for good. We have to tread carefully here.”
“I agree,” Amber said.
Yet, as Amber hung up with the chief and made the short drive home, she worried that she, Bianca, and the chief were already in over their heads.
Chapter 9
Amber was in the midst of getting ready the following morning when Bianca called.
“What’s happening?” Amber said, snatching up her phone and answering immediately. “Is he home?”
“Hi, Amber.”
“Simon!” Amber said. “How are you?”
“As well as a man can be after being in jail for three days.”
Amber winced.
“Listen,” he said quickly, his voice hushed. “I don’t have long. My parole officer is here in the house talking to Bianca and I slipped into the bathroom to call you from her phone. I’m guessing I have five minutes tops before he gets suspicious. Anyway. My best guess is that I was roofied. I’ve heard women mention that Rohypnol makes you feel like your magic is dying. A huge chunk of my memory is just … gone. Do you think you can unlock it? That’s the Henbane affinity, right?”
“It is, but I don’t know if—”
“All I’m asking is that you try,” he said in a rush. “We’ll have to get you on the approved visitor list, which could take a few days. Then you can come here and see what you can find, okay? I’ve got an ankle bracelet on and can only travel to the grocery store at this point. Plus the Marbleglen police force is, let’s say, furious that I’m out on bail. So they’ll be watching me even closer than my assigned officer will be.”
Amber swallowed, her head spinning. “Okay.”
“Great. We’ll be in touch.”
The call ended.
Amber already felt like she needed a nap and she hadn’t even had her meeting with Chief Brown and Wilma Jameson yet.
At just after noon, Amber pulled into Parking Lot C of Sorrel Garden. As she’d driven to Marbleglen, she’d changed her appearance in waves. At an empty intersection, she switched her eyes from brown to green. At a stop sign, a quickly uttered spell and a hand waved in front of her face widened her nose.
Changing her hair was what could potentially shock someone the most should they happen to witness her long, dark brown wavy hair suddenly shrink up into an A-line bob and then turn blonde. When she reached Parking Lot C, she still hadn’t changed her hair color. Luckily, the lot only had four cars in it, all but one empty. And the occupied one had the chief in it. Amber quickly altered her hair, and then climbed out of her car, walked to the passenger door of the chief’s personal car two spots away, and let herself in.
&
nbsp; Chief Brown was dressed like Owen today: jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap. It was always so strange to see him in plain clothes rather than his uniform. He seemed to have a similar reaction to her appearance, as he lightly wrinkled his nose at her. “Cassie,” he said in greeting.
“Owen,” Amber said, dropping her purse to the floor and strapping herself in. Once the chief pulled back out onto the road, she said, “Do you have any idea what to expect with Wilma?”
The chief shook his head, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel. The afternoon light glinted off his wedding band. “I hadn’t spent much time with Eric recently. We worked the beat for a while, like I told you, but he was here in Marbleglen while I was in Portland. We met up for drinks when I first got the position in Edgehill, but it didn’t go beyond that. He was a nice enough guy, but it’s clear he had problems. I just don’t know if his death was caused by problems of his own making or if trouble found him this time.”
Amber mulled that over. Last night, she’d done as much research as she could on Jameson but didn’t turn up much more than the chief had already told her. It seemed like once the hotheaded man had been transferred to Marbleglen, he’d stayed out of the spotlight.
Wilma Jameson lived in a small apartment building to the west of Sorrel Garden. It was a bit tucked away from the nearest main road, and while the property boasted several large beautiful trees, the complex itself was the first run-down place Amber had seen in the town.
The chief parked at the curb. Across the street was a row of tiny weather-worn houses, most ringed in black iron fences. A man in shorts and a dingy white T-shirt, the armpits yellowed, stood on his porch, watering his lawn with a hose. An unlit cigarette hung from his mouth. When the chief offered the man a wave, the man merely stared at him, water splashing onto his tiny patchy lawn.
The asphalt parking lot for the ten-unit complex was cracked, weeds poking up through the spaces. The wooden fences that encased the five downstairs apartments had been painted a sickly light brown; it looked like the job had been completed by someone who had had much better things to do. Hints of salmon pink peeked out from beneath thin streaks of brown. One of the downstairs units had a garden, but the vines were browning and hanging limply over the fence, likely wanting to escape this dingy place as much as the residents did.
Amber walked alongside the chief across the cracked driveway. A dog yipped incessantly from one of the top floor apartments.
“She’s in Unit 3,” the chief said, strolling forward with a confidence Amber didn’t feel herself, even while wearing a face that wasn’t hers.
Unit 3 was on the direct opposite side of the parking lot from the street entrance. An older model Honda sat in the spot for the apartment. Amber wondered if Wilma was usually off work or school at this time of day on a Friday. Maybe she was just home for lunch.
The chief led the way past the fenced-in patio and the cement stairs leading to Wilma’s upstairs neighbor in Unit 4. Wilma’s door was painted the same sickly light brown as the fences. Both the light and the temperature dropped; Amber and the chief now stood in the shadow of the floor above them. A thick doormat—unadorned with anything but dirt—lay in front of the door. The chief knocked.
A rail-thin young woman with long, stringy brown hair opened the door a few seconds later. A small white dog bounded out, all wagging tail and flopping tongue, as it hopped around Amber and the chief’s feet.
“Get back in here, Scooter!” the woman said.
Scooter complied, darting back into the apartment and then yipping excitedly. “C’mon in!” Scooter seemed to be saying. “My home is your home.”
“Sorry,” the woman said, stepping to the side to let them in. “He really likes company.”
The chief removed his baseball cap as he stepped over the threshold, then stood in the middle of the living room. The carpet was a light gray and dotted with faint stains. Amber wondered if those were courtesy of Scooter. The furniture was a mishmash: a futon with a black mattress and frame, a chunky brown recliner that looked like a relic of the 1970s, a rectangular light-brown coffee table with an open laptop on it, the image on the screen frozen. There was no TV. There was one bookshelf that was mostly stuffed with odds and ends, rather than books. A dying houseplant sat beside it. The futon sat below a cutout in the wall, beyond which was a small kitchen. A hallway led from the living room toward the kitchen and the rest of the apartment.
After closing the door, the woman hurried past them and cleared the pillows and blankets off the futon, piling them on the side. Scooter immediately launched onto the pile of blankets with all the enthusiasm of a kid diving into a pile of autumn leaves. He turned in three circles, then plopped down and closed his eyes.
“Please, have a seat,” Wilma said, motioning to the futon. As Amber and the chief did so, Wilma herself perched on the end of the recliner’s cushion. Then she popped back up. “Did you want something to drink or anything?”
“No, no,” the chief said, sitting beside Amber, resting his elbows on his knees. He still fiddled with his hat. His blond hair was a bit mussed. “So, Wilma … can I call you Wilma?”
Wilma sat down again, hands on her knees. “Sure. I know it’s an old lady name, but I kinda like that about it. I don’t like to be called Wil or anything, if that’s what you mean. It was my grandma’s name.”
“All right, Wilma it is,” the chief said. “This here is Cassie Westbottom. She’s a consultant I bring with me on more … unique cases. She’s a psychic.”
Amber bit down on her bottom lip to keep herself from flinching. She never knew when he was going to add in that extra tidbit.
Wilma’s gaze shifted to Amber, eying her from blonde head to ballet-flat-clad feet. Then the young woman nodded. “I’ll take all the help I can get. I’ll be the first to admit that Dad and I didn’t always have the best relationship. We don’t—didn’t—live that far apart, but I hadn’t seen him in almost six months—not since my mom’s funeral. He called, though. For a while it was just on birthdays and holidays and stuff, but after Mom died, he started calling once every couple weeks. For the past month or so, he called every couple days. It was kinda nice, since I’ve been missing my mom pretty bad. My parents divorced when I was eight, and it was mostly just her and me until a little bit ago. Her heart gave out on her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the chief said, and Amber wondered which part he’d meant. Maybe all of it.
Wilma shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, well. It’s all a lot of crap, really, but what can you do? My mom left my dad because he had a real bad drinking problem. He wasn’t abusive or anything, but he spent a lot of money on booze. Spent even more gambling. Mom finally had enough and left him when he spent both of their paychecks from one month within a few hours of cashing them. All we had to eat that month was ramen.
“I’m telling you all this because even though he wasn’t the best guy, and he was a crap father, he deserves better than what he got. He was even kind of trying there at the end. He kept talking about retiring early. Said the job just wasn’t what it used to be. But I don’t think it was the job. I think it’s because that force of his is awful. Two times last week, he said he thought one of his officers would just ‘take him out,’ if he could.”
“Daniels?” Amber asked, recalling Bianca’s drunken speculations.
Wilma looked at her in surprise.
“Yeah, him. I mean, maybe he meant him. Hard to know—Dad didn’t use names.” Wilma scratched the side of her nose, then rolled her shoulders. She eyed her sleeping dog still perched on top of the mound of blankets piled beside the couch. “But one of the cops, yeah.” Wilma’s leg started to bounce.
Without saying anything to the chief, Amber got off the futon and squatted before Wilma, drawing the young woman’s attention. Amber offered her hand to Wilma, palm up.
Swallowing hard, Wilma placed her hand in Amber’s. The young woman had small, delicate hands. They were cold to the touch. �
�I’ve never met a psychic before,” Wilma said in a hushed tone.
Neither have I, Amber wanted to say, placing her second hand over Wilma’s. Pulling her magic to the surface, Amber poured her energy into a truth spell. “What has you so nervous about Nicolas Daniels, Wilma Jameson?”
“He came here yesterday,” Wilma blurted, then her eyes widened. “Daniels, I mean. I know he’s the new chief now, so I guess he can do whatever he wants, but it felt … weird that he was here.”
As Amber’s magic retreated, she nodded in a way she hoped was sagely. An “Ah, yes, I thought so” nod. Standing, Amber let Wilma’s hand go and then rejoined a bewildered-looking chief on the futon. “You can speak freely with us. We just want to help.”
When Wilma still hadn’t spoken, the chief asked, “What was the nature of Daniels’s visit?”
Wilma scratched the side of her nose again. “You won’t tell anyone you were here, right? You’re not like, chief buddies, with Daniels?”
“Definitely not chief buddies,” he said. “I hardly know the guy.”
Wilma let out a slow exhale, then readjusted herself on the end of her cushion. “Okay, so at first, I thought he wanted to ask me if I knew anything about this Simon Rice guy.”
“Ricinus,” Amber said.
“Yeah, him,” Wilma said. “But Daniels didn’t mention Simon at all. He just kept asking how often I saw and talked to my dad. He said they were going over his phone records and that they saw Dad had called me more in the last couple months than he had in a long time and wanted to know why.”
Amber’s brows furrowed.
“I just said we were discussing stuff with my mom’s affairs, since I figured that was a safe answer,” Wilma said. “But it didn’t feel like Daniels was asking me anything about suspects or motives or alibis or any of that other stuff they talk about on cop shows. Daniels claimed he was just trying to take over Dad’s old case load since he was the new chief now, but I don’t buy it. He asked me like six different ways if Dad ever discussed cases with me. Don’t they rephrase questions to see if you always give the same answer even if the question is a little different? Like that’s how they try to catch you in a lie? Well, I said no each time, ’cause Dad hasn’t really talked about cases, but I also didn’t want to tell that Daniels guy anything. He gave me the creeps.”
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