“What’s their motive?” I ask, unconvinced. I don’t know either of them well. They’re both on the soccer teams—Cameron on the boys’ and Taylor on the girls’—which makes me wonder if Gemma’s soccer conspiracy theory might hold some weight. “I don’t think I’ve said two words to either of them outside of class.”
Gemma reaches for the next tab and turns the pages for Benton, who blushes when she leans against him for a closer look. She squints at the pages. “What about that one?” She reaches for the threatening letter on the table and holds it next to the yearbook. “The you’re looks similar.”
“Wait, let me see.” I perch on the loveseat’s arm and peer over Benton’s shoulder. There, in all caps, is a message written in oddly familiar handwriting. YOU’RE THE SHIT. NEVER CHANGE. —NA
My best friend sighs. “Nolan Abbott,” she grumbles. “If he threw that brick through your window, I’ll kick his ass.” Though she doesn’t say it, especially not in front of Benton, I can practically hear the ugh, I can’t believe I made out with that jerk running through her head.
“I thought his handwriting looked the closest, but what’s his motive? Do you think he blames you for the fire at his house? He must know you’re not responsible.” Benton glances up at me. “Right?”
At first, I shrug. If this is about what happened at Nolan’s party, a cryptic message thrown through my window is a weird way to get revenge, but could he be the Witch Hunter? I considered as much this morning at the coven meeting, but why would he toss a brick through my window, declare me his next target, and then go after Veronica the next day? It doesn’t make any sense.
Gemma scoffs. “Nolan might be angry enough to threaten you, but he’ll never go through with it. Trust me, he’s all talk.”
“So, what do we do now?” Benton asks. “Call the police?”
I shake my head. “We don’t have enough for that, and I doubt they’d care about a broken window.”
“I don’t know, Han. Whoever it was threatened the ADA’s daughter. I imagine the police take that kind of thing seriously,” Gem says.
“If we go to the police, I want to bring real evidence. We need more than an amateur handwriting analysis.” After my interrogation with Detective Archer, I have zero interest in talking to the police. But if we can get better proof against Nolan, maybe Lady Ariana can get the Council to check him out, just in case he is the Hunter.
“Are there traffic cameras or something we could use? See if his SUV was in the area that afternoon? I can drive by his house and get the license plate number,” Benton suggests, closing his yearbook and setting it on the table.
I leave my perch on the loveseat and flop back into the couch across from Benton and Gemma. “We don’t have traffic cameras in Salem,” I remind him. “But my neighbors have security cameras on their garage. Maybe we could use that.”
“Do you think they’d give you the footage?” Benton asks.
My excitement deflates. The neighbors in question left a few days ago for a camping trip in the Adirondacks. They’ll be completely unplugged until they get back in a few weeks. But then I remember a certain new coworker’s skill set. “They’re out of town, but I might know someone who could hack into the feed. There’s this guy at work. Supposedly, he has some serious computer skill—”
“Oh my god, Hannah!” Gemma says, cutting me off and sitting up straight on the loveseat. “I’m the worst best friend in the entire universe. I completely forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“Your date!” She scrambles over to the couch and sits beside me. “How did it go? Did you click? Did you fall in lurve?” she croons.
“You’re ridiculous.” I laugh, but the feeling quickly dies. I glance at Benton, who’s suddenly hyper-focused on his pizza. We probably shouldn’t talk about this in front of him, but Gemma shows no signs of backing down until she gets the full play-by-play. “Actually, I kinda blew it.”
Gemma falls still. “What do you mean? What happened?”
“Veronica kept calling and texting me.” I stare at my hands, trying to figure out how to explain what happened around two Regs, especially since one of them has a rather unfortunate crush on me. “I had to leave in the middle of our date.”
“You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.” Gemma leans in close, bringing the smell of chlorine with her. “I thought you were over her.”
“I was. I am. But . . .” She was in trouble. A Witch Hunter tried to kill her. “There was an intruder in her house. What was I supposed to do?”
Benton perks up. “Are you serious? Is she okay? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. We’re both fine. She was a little shaken, you know? Her parents are out of town, so she stayed over at my place.” Memory of Veronica’s advances and accusations sours my mood further. “Or at least, she was supposed to. We got in a fight and she took off.”
“Holy shit, Hannah. Why didn’t you say something?” Benton wipes sauce from his hands and reaches for his phone. “Do you think this is connected to the fire? Could it have been Nolan?” He pulls up his notes app.
“Wait, we can get to that later.” Gemma waves Benton’s questions away. “Did you at least text Morgan to explain why you bailed?”
“Umm, no?”
“Hannah Marie Walsh,” Gemma says in a perfect imitation of my mother’s voice, “you need to apologize to Morgan if you want a second date.”
“I know.” I groan and flop back against the couch, staring at the exposed beams of the pool house ceiling. “But I can’t just text her. That seems too small for what I did.”
“Why not?” Benton asks. “A text is better than nothing.”
Gemma ignores him. “We’ll think of something perfect. A grand gesture that says ‘I’m sorry’ without looking like you’re trying too hard.”
“It has to be soon though. It’s already been over a day.”
“But why—” Benton tries, but we both shush him.
Gemma’s eyes grow wide. A grin lights up her face. “I have just the thing.”
* * *
• • •
When I go to work the next day, Lauren won’t stop looking at me. A few days ago, I might have chalked up her interest as the worry of a highly perceptive boss. I couldn’t muster my usual level of cheer when I clocked in this morning, and I’m sure the forced curve of my lips set off her Concerned Adult mode.
But now my mind goes to a more insidious place.
What if Lauren really is a Witch Hunter? It’s possible she noticed Veronica spelling the air that day before the bonfire.
I shake the thoughts away and focus on my work. The display of tarot and oracle decks is already meticulously ordered, but I adjust the angles again anyway, making sure they’re perfect. I turn to work on the runes and nearly jump out of my skin.
Savannah stands before me, a hand cocked on her hip and a scowl on her face. She looks pissed, but I have no idea why.
“Hi, Savannah. I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” I say, my face flaming. “Can I help you find something?”
“You want to help me? Stay away from Veronica. You’ve done enough damage.”
“Damage?” I have no clue what she’s talking about.
Savannah rolls her eyes. “You heard me. She told me everything. How you flirted with her and got her hopes up just so you could reject her again. You humiliated her.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Save it.” She comes in close, her flowery perfume overpowering. “If you don’t leave Ronnie alone, I will hurt you.”
There’s nothing I can say to convince her she’s wrong—Veronica clearly spun what happened to make me the bad guy—so I keep quiet. Savannah seems satisfied by my silence. She turns on her heel and slips out the front door.
“What was that about?” Lauren’s voice startles me, and she reaches out
a steadying hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. Do you need me on the register?” The shop is busier than usual, and Cal casts a frazzled look our way as his line grows to five customers deep.
Lauren glances back at the front counter, a frown pulling at her lips. “Maybe in a minute. I wanted to ask you about something.”
“Ask about what?”
Lauren fidgets, fussing with the pentacle she wears around her neck. “Your energy is different today. Withdrawn.” She steps closer and lowers her voice as a customer wanders past. “Is everything okay at home?”
“Home is the least of my worries,” I say without thinking. I stumble over what to say next. It’s not like I can tell her about yesterday’s coven meeting or the threats hanging over us.
“Something else then?” she prompts. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m worried about you.”
Her concern blossoms a seed of guilt in my chest for thinking she was a Witch Hunter. But maybe that’s what she wants? I sigh internally. Being suspicious of everyone is exhausting.
The bells chime above the door, and I use the excuse to turn away. “I should really help with the register.”
“Hannah.”
“Hey, Lauren,” a man says behind me. Chills run down my arms. I know that voice.
Lauren’s cheeks flush pink. “Ryan. Hi.” She brushes her hair out of her face. “I didn’t think I’d see you until tonight.”
Detective Archer smiles, his attention focused on my boss. He seems genuinely happy to see her, but I can’t stop the bad feeling that crawls across my skin like a legion of bugs. What if he’s the Witch Hunter? None of this started until he showed up in town.
“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by and see if you were free for coffee.” Detective Archer—who’s apparently Ryan to my boss—rests one hand on his belt. The movement pushes his navy suit jacket back enough to display his badge. And his gun. He glances down, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Miss Walsh, I forgot you worked here.”
“I do.” I stare up at the detective who nearly had me confessing to witchcraft in an interrogation room. Exactly the sort of thing a Witch Hunter would do. Somehow, I doubt my presence here is truly the surprise he’s pretending it is.
Lauren glances between us, a smile plastered on her face. “Hannah’s a fabulous employee. She’s always on time, and she’s learned a ton since she started working for me.” Lauren continues to gush, like she’s a mother bragging about her child getting into advanced classes, which adds thorns to the blooming guilt in my chest. Finally, she takes a deep breath. “So, how do you know Hannah?”
Detective Archer shifts, his jacket falling forward to hide his weapon. He considers me a long moment before responding. “Our paths keep crossing around town.” He smiles at Lauren, and his crush would be cuter if he wasn’t such a likely suspect.
I clear my throat, interrupting the weirdly intimate staring contest they’ve got going on. “What the detective means to say is that he almost arrested me last week.”
“He what?” Lauren’s jaw practically hits the floor. Detective Archer glares at me, which only eggs me on further.
“He thinks I’m the one who tried to burn down Nolan’s house.”
“Oh, Ryan.” Lauren puts a protective hand on my shoulder. “There is no way Hannah’s involved in something like that. She’s as good as they come.”
The detective runs a hand through his hair. He heaves a sigh that goes all the way to his toes. “I can’t talk about an open case, but it’s a matter of public record that I didn’t file charges against Miss Walsh. She was only in for questioning.”
Lauren’s eyes go wide, and when she looks at the detective again, there’s a hint of suspicion in the pull of her brow. “Goddess, Hannah. No wonder your aura is so subdued.”
The bell on the front counter rings. The three of us turn to look. Cal nods to the growing line in front of him, his shoulders high and tensed.
“Hannah, why don’t you help with the line? Ryan and I are going to talk in the back for a bit.” Lauren practically pushes the detective toward the STAFF ONLY door, ignoring his protests. Her shoulders are set, her brows pinched together. She’s in full-on mama bear mode. I should bake her thank-you cookies. Plus a sorry-I-thought-you-were-a-Witch-Hunter cake.
I weave my way through the cramped store and take over the register, doubling the speed of the checkout line while Cal bags up purchases.
Once we’re through the line, Cal glances toward the back of the shop. “What’s the deal with you and Detective Archer?”
“He’s convinced I’m some kind of delinquent.” I lean against the counter, but then something about Cal’s question trips me up. “Wait, how do you know him?” I don’t remember mentioning his name to Cal.
Cal shrugs, though his pale skin flushes pink. “The detective’s in here a lot. I think he has a thing for our boss.”
I don’t understand the embarrassment riding high in Cal’s tone. “Do you have a crush on him or something? I thought you already had a boyfriend.”
“Eww, god, no. The detective is way too old for me.” Cal pulls out his phone and flips through his pictures. “Besides, my boyfriend is way cuter.” He shows me a photo of himself standing next to a considerably taller boy with dark hair, light brown skin, and a prominently squared chin.
“He’s cute,” I agree, “for a boy.”
Cal laughs and tucks his phone away.
“Could I ask you for a favor actually?” I glance behind me to make sure we’re alone. “If you’re as good with computers as you say you are, that is.”
“Depends.” Cal considers me, his brow knit. “You don’t want me to break into a bank or something, do you?”
“Nothing so scandalous, I promise.” I fill him in on the brick incident. “My friends and I were hoping you might be able to get access to my neighbor’s security camera and see if Nolan’s car makes an appearance around that time.”
“Couldn’t you just ask your neighbor for the tapes?”
“They’re out of town until—” The bell on the counter chimes, cutting me off.
“Excuse me? I’m looking for my best friend. Maybe you’ve seen her around somewhere?” Gemma says, and I turn around. “She’s about this tall and suffers from a chronic case of sarcasm. It’s very unsightly.”
I roll my eyes. “Hey, Gem.”
She grins. “Got a minute?”
“Umm.” I turn to Cal, who nods. “And about the camera?”
“I’ll think about it. Now go ahead. I’ll ring the bell if I need you.”
“Thanks.” I lead Gemma down the book aisle where there’s the fewest customers. “What’s up?”
“Do you have everything ready for Operation: Apology Ambush?” Gem steps back and sweeps her gaze over my outfit. “Please tell me you packed a change of clothes.”
“Of course I did.” I’m not going to beg for forgiveness wearing the same work uniform I wore to the disastrous first date. “And I finished my apology gift this morning. It’s in my bag.”
“Perfect!” Gemma reaches out and straightens my name tag. “How much longer do you have in your shift?”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and check the clock. “About twenty minutes.”
“And you know what you’re going to say when you see her?”
Not exactly. My apology works on a surface level—she can’t blame me for being worried about an ex who was under attack—but if she digs into why I went to her house instead of calling the police, things get tricky.
“Hannah.”
“I’ll think of something,” I say, not altogether confident in my ability to pull this off.
Gemma shakes her head. “This has to be perfect. Come on, practice on me.”
“Do we have to
?”
“Yes.”
I groan, but we practice until my apology is perfect.
15
I HOLD A SMALL box tied with ribbons and stand immobile outside the dressing room door. I can’t believe I let Gemma talk me into this. Tonight’s the dress rehearsal for their spring dance recital, and Gemma thought this would be the perfect chance to surprise Morgan with an in-person apology. The grand gesture sounded exciting, but now I feel ridiculous.
The door swings open, and Gem sticks her head out into the hallway. Her blonde hair is pulled into a perfect dancer’s bun with enough hairspray to set fire to the whole building. The exaggerated makeup looks cartoonish close up but will make her features pop when she’s onstage.
She scowls at me. “Hurry up. We have to be backstage in five.”
“Perfect. I’ll be ready in ten.”
“You’re impossible.” Gemma rolls her eyes and reaches into the hall. She latches on to my free arm and drags me through the door.
The toxic, too-sweet smell of forty kinds of hairspray assaults my nose. Dancers of all ages, from four-year-old baby ballerinas to high school seniors in pointe shoes, mill about the room.
Now that I’m here, the hustle and bustle of the dressing room seems like the worst possible place to apologize to someone for ditching them in the middle of a date.
“She’s over there, with the level two kids.” Gem gestures vaguely to the right and hurries off to a group of dancers whose bright-pink tutus match hers.
I glance in the direction Gem pointed, but I don’t see Morgan anywhere in the crush of flustered parents. “Where?”
Gemma spins back to face me, rising into the air as she balances on the toes of her pointe shoes. “Over there. With the six-year-old tap dancers.”
This time when I look though the scrambling masses, I spot kids in black sparkly costumes and tap shoes click-clacking on the hardwood floor. Among the older adults adjusting bows and tying ribbons, I spot a flash of red hair.
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