by RJ Blain
“Without throwing up this time?” I asked in a wry tone.
“That would help,” Faraday admitted. “If you must, there is a trash can next to you. I’d rather not have to try to salvage the files on my desk.”
“Your desk?”
Her laughter was sweet. “Mine. Hardass, as you say, likes his games almost as much as he likes his shoes.”
Oops.
Avoiding my responsibility wasn’t an option, not anymore. I lifted my chin and met Faraday’s eyes. This time, I told the story from the moment I left my apartment, leaving nothing out—except my wizardry.
Some things no one needed to know about. I wasn’t suicidal, not yet at least.
Through my long, rambling account of my night, Faraday sat still and quiet. It was well enough that she left me to my own devices, leaving me to fill in all of the blanks I could without interruption. If she had broken my almost tranquil state, where I was disconnected from the reality of what had happened, I doubted I’d be able to finish.
I somehow managed, and I even kept my stomach firmly under my control.
“I have questions,” Faraday said after I fell silent.
“Ask.”
“This Laura woman, you weren’t very clear on her description. Can you remember any details about her at all?”
“I can’t, I’m sorry. Nothing more than what I’ve already told you.”
“And to confirm, this was the first time you’ve ever met Scott?”
“Correct,” I replied.
Faraday retrieved her flashlight, opened a file, and pointed the beam at the photograph of Scott with his friends. She pointed at the young man I had identified earlier. “Do you think this young man had any enemies?”
“Him? I can’t imagine it. From what I remember, he was a quiet person. A hard worker. He did what he was told and didn’t cause any trouble for anyone.” I bit my lip. That was rare enough in the movie industry that it was hard to forget when someone didn’t draw excess attention to themselves.
I noticed things like that, even if it made me a little weird compared to the other actors and actresses loitering in L.A. I suspected that those who were like me, who didn’t want to draw extra attention, noticed me noticing.
“He was murdered tonight,” Faraday announced. She moved her finger over the image to one of the young men I didn’t know. “As was this young man. I was hoping you might know why.”
“I don’t know why. I didn’t really know either one of them.”
Faraday’s sigh was long and heavy. “I didn’t expect you did, but I had to try.”
Courage is a fickle thing. Sometimes it came to me easily, allowing me to stand up to people like Dominic. Other times, it abandoned me, throwing me to the wolves and forcing me to face the fears I didn’t want to acknowledge. I don’t know why my one little question was so difficult to ask, but I struggled with it.
I ended up blurting two, “When? How?”
Faraday leaned back in her chair, toying with her flashlight. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
Then she stared at the open door in silent demand. Taking her hint, I reached back and closed it.
The silence was as smothering as my anxiety and fear.
“Scott, Adrien, and Mitchell all died at the mall tonight,” the woman began, her voice whisper soft and trembling. “They died within minutes of each other, killed in the same horrible way.”
My eyes widened so much I was surprised they didn’t pop out of my head. “Impossible.”
The sound Faraday made wasn’t a laugh. It was far too pained. “If only that were true, Miss Thomas. You’re the only one who was close to one of the victims. The other two boys… they were alone when they died. Other witnesses heard them screaming, but by the time they were found, the killer was gone. Just like that. Gone. Vanished.”
My mouth hung open, and I was powerless to close it.
“Please, Miss Thomas. You’re our best hope. Can you remember anything at all that might help us find out who did this?”
Settling my trembling hands on my lap didn’t still them. Bowing my head didn’t stop the burn of tears in my eyes. I drew deep breaths until I could speak without falling apart.
Then I revisited Scott’s death once again and spoke until my voice abandoned me altogether.
~~*~~
When the lights came back on and Harding returned, I was chewing on cough drops in the hopes of restoring my voice. It worked a little, since I managed to croak answers to Faraday’s questions, not that it helped either one of us figure out anything new about Scott’s death.
I was unsurprised when Harding declared that I had outlived my usefulness. He did, however, earn a few points when he offered to drive me back to the mall so I could fetch my car. Nodding my acceptance of his offer, I gathered my things and followed him out of the police station.
He even held the doors open for me. There were a hundred and one jokes I could have cracked about chivalry, but I was too tired for any of them. At least there was a perk to being exhausted: My powers were as dormant as they got, granting me rare peace from its incessant reminders of its existence.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Harding said as he started the car. The cruiser rumbled to life, and the surge of electricity revitalized me a little.
I clamped down on the desire to steal a little bit of energy to keep myself awake. There’d be time for that later—in my own car, when I knew how to handle a stall in case I burned the battery out and the alternator couldn’t keep up with my greedy ways.
I doubted Harding’s little police cruiser could handle me in my current state. My beat up car would survive the drive back to my apartment. Maybe.
And if it didn’t, that’s what tow trucks and cabs were for.
When I realized he was waiting for me to answer him, I laughed a little at my foolishness. “You’re welcome.”
“Will you be okay to drive?”
“I don’t have far to go. I’ll be careful. I’m tired, but not that tired.” In truth, I would have done almost anything, even endure an entire day of Harding’s questions, if it meant I could take a bath and get clean. My sweater was a goner, and I’d dispose of it as soon as I was in my apartment.
There were some perks to being a wizard, after all.
“As long as you’re certain,” Harding replied with doubt in his voice.
I spent the rest of the ride reassuring him by making good use of my acting skills. At least my car didn’t give me bad looks when I was tired. It just coughed up its battery life and let me do what I wanted. I wished people were as easy to understand as electronics. Simplicity was something I could use in my life. “I’m certain.”
Police swarmed over the mall, with police blockades preventing anyone from getting too close to the place. Harding was waved through without question. “Where did you park?” he asked.
“Front lot near the doors.”
Few cars remained. Mine was parked where I left it, though it was all by itself. At least the cops had kept their promise and hadn’t towed it. Fishing my keys out, I escaped the confines of the cruiser.
I stumbled to a halt, squinting at the windows of my car. That is, I squinted at where the windows should have been. All that remained were a few shards of glass. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Harding got out of his car as though my words had been gunshots. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t bring myself to spew the curses rattling about in my skull. Pointing with a hand that trembled with rage, I considered turning my car into a pile of ash and molten metal. It took me to the count of fifty, each number interspersed with curses, to contain my temper. “I promise you, my windows were not smashed when I parked my car tonight.”
“I'm going to guess you do not typically drive around with your seats slashed either,” Harding said, peering through the remains of my car's windows. “I'm going to call this in. Don't touch anything.”
“Okay,” I replied, staring at the carnage withi
n. Keeping valuables in a car was asking for trouble in L.A., so I hadn't kept anything in it. The sole exception, the car's operating manual, hadn't fared so well. Some of the pages were intact, albeit scattered over the seats and floorboard. It looked like a war had broken out inside my car and the violent battle had left no prisoners. What had my dinky little car done to anyone?
While I stared, Harding stalked back to his cruiser, reached inside, and toggled a dial. In a clear voice devoid of emotion, he requested an investigator. Once finished, he returned to me. “I'm going to spare you a trip back to the police station if I can, if you don't mind answering some questions and filling out a form.”
“Won't hear me complaining.” Glaring at my car didn't reverse the damage done or offer me any answers. What had I done to anger Murphy, so that he would incessantly inflict his law on me? Maybe being a wizard was enough of a reason for the worst sort of karma to haunt me.
I sighed and tried not to think about how much it would cost to repair the damage--or replace the car. While theft was covered by my insurance, I wasn't sure if they'd count a complete dismantling of the interior as legitimate vandalism.
“Do you have any idea why someone would target your car, Miss Thomas?”
“Absolutely no idea. I don't exactly go out of my way to make enemies," I replied, allowing myself one long, gusty sigh. "I'm not exactly prime time. I try to avoid drawing too much attention, you know? It’s a waste of time and effort. When on set, I have a job to do, so I do it. That’s all.”
“Did you have anything of value in the car? Identification? Cash? Electronics?”
I pointed at the shredded operating manual. “That's it. I keep my registration on me.”
“Why?”
“I may not be rich, and I may not be famous, but I don't like strangers poking about my private life. Why keep identification in a car that could be broken into at any time?” There was more to it than that, but I wasn't about to sob out my entire life's story to Harding. If the part about wizards didn't get me committed, I'm certain he'd lock me away for lying to him if I let slip I had once been a singer.
If only being a wizard gave me the power to fix my voice. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried, either. I had, in a constant stream of failures. Longing kept me quiet. Over the years, I had asked myself so many ‘what if?’ questions to last me a lifetime.
All I wanted was to go back to the life I had left behind out of shame and fear.
“I can't say I blame you for that. Look, Miss Thomas, maybe it would be best if you enrolled in California's Witness Protection Program. I do not—”
"No, but thank you.” I wrinkled my nose, unable to hide my disgust. The last thing I needed was to be even under more scrutiny or have to gain yet another identity to hide who I was. Becoming Nicole Thomas had been bad enough. “It’s just a coincidence. A very unfortunate one.” Muttering curses, I dug out my phone, unlocked it, and started to snap pictures of the devastation. To my surprise, the screen lit up with an incoming call. I didn't recognize the name, which caller ID displayed as A.M.; whoever it was, they weren’t local.
“Is something wrong?”
“Just a wrong number, I suspect,” I replied. Wrong number or not, I memorized it. Wrong numbers were a rare thing to my cell, and with my sort of bad luck, it’d get erased from the phone’s memory. My mouth twisted into a rueful grin. If I remembered the number, I could find out who was calling—and maybe why.
“You suspect?”
“My number is private, and I don't know the caller. I don’t answer when I don’t know who is calling me.”
“Maybe there’s more to than coincidence. Answer it, and put it on speaker phone.”
I shrugged, kept quiet about my misgivings, and did as I was told. Cooperation with the police would keep them from suspecting me. While I wanted to, telling Harding to shut up wouldn’t do me any good.
“Thomas,” I answered in my worst rasp.
There was a pause and someone—a man, judging from the deepness of the tone—drew a surprised breath. "May I speak to Nicolina Desmond, please?"
I froze at the sound of my real name. I didn’t recognize the man on the other end of the line. “Who? I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number,” I replied, preparing to hang up. Harding stopped me with a wave of his hand.
The silence stretched on for several long moments, giving me a little time to think. Who had found me? I stared at the ruins of my car. Why would anyone want to find the me from years ago, the girl who had rose to limited fame for her voice, and then disappeared like some modern-day Elvis.
I was supposed to remain an unsolved mystery.
“I do?” More than a little surprise laced the man’s question.
“I’m afraid so. Who were you looking for again?”
“Nicolina Desmond,” the man replied, his tone confused and uncertain.
“Definitely the wrong number. There’s no one here by that name.”
“Oh, I was told this was her number.”
I scowled. “Well, you were told wrong. Sorry. Have a—”
“Wait. I’m positive this is the right number. Do you know her? I really need to talk to her.” There was a hard edge to the man’s voice.
“No, I don’t. Wrong number.”
Before I could say anything else, Harding took the phone out of my hand and hung up on the mystery caller. He turned to stare at me with narrowed eyes. “Do you know who that was, Miss Thomas? Or who he was trying to reach?”
“I don’t know him. As for Nicolina Desmond? Well, sure. Who doesn't?” I replied, flipping my hair over my shoulder. It was a question I never wanted to answer, but I had prepared to answer it—to a degree. There was a trick to knowing how to answer a question naturally versus having it come out as a memorized response. It took a little effort on my part to add the appropriate pause and keep my tone speculative. “She was that singer who up and vanished a few years back, wasn't she? Made quite the stir when she did it, too. Probably got herself killed.” I shrugged, eying my phone, which was still in Harding’s hand. “First time anyone has ever called my phone looking for her, though.”
“Yet another unsolved mystery of the rich and famous.” Harding bounced my phone in his hand. “Do you mind if I keep this? Look through your call records, see if there's anything unusual on it? There might be something important on your phone.”
I pursed my lips together. “If you think it'll help. Laura did make a call on it, as I told you before, but she deleted the number from my phone.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head about that. I’ll take care of it,” Harding promised.
I flushed and muttered a denial under my breath. He didn’t seem to notice.
I really hoped the rumors that the Inquisition had spies and agents in law enforcement were just that: Rumors. With luck, they wouldn't think twice about my odd assortment of apps. Then again, with my unpleasant relationship with Murphy and his wretched law, I suspected they'd see something suspicious about so many programs with high battery usage.
If the rumors of the Inquisition having infiltrated law enforcement were true, I was in a lot of trouble. A shiver ran through me, and I rubbed at my arms to drive away the chill.
I was spared having to say anything as a pair of cop cars drove up and parked next to Harding's. Two cops emerged, circling my car and taking in the wreckage.
“Have a full forensic done on this car,” Harding ordered. “Dust it for prints, and see if you can figure out what they wanted. I want a full report on my desk, ASAP.” With the same no-nonsense demeanor, he shoved a clipboard with a few forms attached to it into my face. “Fill this out.”
Paperwork was something I could handle. I leaned against Harding’s cruiser, writing my information down. Later, I expected he would scrutinize everything, checking into my background to find out who would want to potentially target me and why.
With a grim smile, I capped the pen and handed him the clipboard back. All he would find was a pictu
re perfect existence; a pair of dead parents, no siblings, and a very quiet childhood and adult life.
Being Nicole Thomas had its perks sometimes.
Chapter Four
Harding dropped me off in front of my apartment complex and didn’t leave until I made my way inside. The nighttime security guard, Greg, stared at me with wide eyes, leaning over his desk to watch the cruiser as it pulled away.
“You must have had a hell of a night,” he said, his tone as calm as always. His eyebrows lifted towards his receding hairline. “Dare I ask?
“Better not.” I pulled out my key card for the elevator as I trudged my way across the shiny marble floor. Greg was a nice guy, and the last thing I wanted was to get him involved with me, not so soon after Scott’s death.
“Are you okay?”
At the concern in his voice, I turned towards him and forced a smile. “I wasn’t the one who was hurt.” My words weren’t entirely true, but I didn’t have the courage to say otherwise.
The dead couldn’t feel pain, but I sure could. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d still be alive.
“That’s a relief, Miss Thomas. If you need anything, call the desk.”
In an effort to pretend everything was all right, I tapped my card against my leg. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Nicole, Greg?” A little laugh—a faked, pleasant one—bubbled out of me. “If I need anything, I will.” It was another lie, but I doubt Greg recognized it for what it was.
He nodded and went back to monitoring the security cameras, although I caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I used my card to unlock the elevators and pressed the down button.
The doors slid open, and I retreated inside. I punched the button for the basement floor. The presence of the security camera taunted me. Was Greg watching me, wondering why there was dried blood on my face and caked in my hair? The older man was too polite to be pushy, but there had been questions behind his gaze. Greg, being Greg, would say nothing, but he’d make his curiosity known one way or another. If I did want to talk, he’d listen. He’d been working the night shift as long as I’d been in the building, and had earned himself a bit of a reputation for eccentricity due to his love of late hours.