by V. V. James
“Almost there,” I tell her. “A tiny bit longer. Are you okay?”
I point to the chair my clients take during consultations. Half the town has sat there at one time or another. But Harper ignores me. She prowls over to the ritual table and stares at the chart.
It doesn’t hold her attention for long, though. Harper’s childhood fascination with witchcraft just disappeared one day. I don’t remember exactly when, but it was before her thirteenth birthday. When, on that day, I performed the Rite of Determination and discovered she was giftless, it nearly destroyed me. I was terrified it would destroy her, too.
But she coped. She seemed almost relieved. And looking back, I understood that withdrawing of interest in my work was because she already sensed her own lack of gift. She was training herself to stop loving something she couldn’t have. Of course, we’ve all done that, but it breaks my heart that my little girl had to learn it so young.
“What the fuck is this?”
She’s seen the baggie containing Daniel’s sample.
“Language, Harper.”
“What’re you doing with the hair of a boy who died two days ago? Whose death the cops are investigating. Do you have any idea how suspicious that looks? One of them turned up at the hospital earlier to talk to me.”
A cop questioning Harper? We’ll need to talk about that. But she has to calm down first. Her voice is rising, and a doctor warned that shouting and strain could leave her with permanent damage. I could probably fix it, but I’d rather she didn’t hurt herself in the first place. My fingers shape a low-level sign of pacification I usually reserve for bite-happy dogs and ornery parking attendants, but she notices.
“Don’t do that shit on me, Mom.”
“Harper, please. The potion’s nothing sinister. I just… It’s for you.”
“For me?” She peers into the iron pot. “Ugh, it stinks.”
The smell of sorrow. Even people who know nothing of magic can detect the essence of a potion. Ones for love, joy, or happiness are honey sweet. Brews for sorrow, sadness, and despair both smell and taste bitter. Those of anger or revenge are almost undrinkably foul.
“It’s to help you and Abigail. It’s comforting. Just a plain old tranquility draft with a side order of heartsease.”
The last grain has slid through the hourglass, and I reach for the seven strands I counted out. I drop them in, one by one, my fingers sketching a different shape in the air after each falls. The symbol at this point on the chart is ancient Greek. The words I chant are fragments of a song of farewell—someone standing on the banks of the river of the underworld, watching as their loved one is rowed away.
My heart aches as I do it. I’m saying goodbye to Daniel, too. He’s been a part of my life since before he was born, when Abigail and I met at prenatal class. He and Harper grew up side by side, with Izzy toddling around after them, just a year younger. He had sleepovers at my house. Ate breakfast at my kitchen counter. Just two days ago we were toasting his bright future. And now he’s gone.
It’s done. My hands drop to my sides, and I feel empty. Like an athlete, my body is my work, and a brew as complex as this leaves me drained. It’s why we witches have covens—nonmagical assistants who share their energies.
Harper’s been watching. But it’s not the eager look from her childhood. It’s something I can’t place. Don’t want to place. Something almost like contempt. I see this in her sometimes, and it cuts me deep. As if in teaching herself not to love magic, she came to despise it.
A faint mist rises off the brew. Its bitterness drifts between us.
“It needs to cool. It’ll help you make your peace with what happened to Daniel, so you can start to get over him.”
“Get over him? Jesus. I wish you’d brew me an elixir of oblivion or something so I can forget he ever existed.”
I stare at my daughter, shocked at the violence of her grief. She needs this potion more than I could have imagined.
“It’ll be ready tonight,” I tell her.
“Well, I won’t be here tonight. I’m getting out of this place for a couple days, away from it all. I just came to tell you.”
“Out of Sanctuary? What? Wait—”
I reach for Harper, to tell her that running away from her pain won’t fix it. But she evades me again. The yard door bangs shut behind her, and I’m alone.
Eight
Maggie
Some cop skills you don’t learn in the police academy—you learn them in high school. And one is that when a girl won’t talk to you, maybe her best friend will. According to the partygoers’ statements, the best friend in this case is one Beatriz Garcia, a.k.a. Queen Bea.
“Can I help you?”
The Garcia house is an all-glass affair by that fifties architecture school that screwed real estate prices for normal folks around here. Bea opens the front door with the air of a sorority president eyeing uninvited guests on social night. She’s in an oversize monogrammed sweater and her makeup is immaculate, though it can’t fully conceal the puffiness around her eyes. A lollipop sticks out the corner of her mouth, a phone is in her hand, and… Is that a criminology textbook under her arm?
“Preparing for my visit?”
I point to the book. It’s a joke! But Beatriz remains stone-faced. I was trying to put her at ease. She’s lost a classmate and childhood friend, and now has a cop on her doorstep. But maybe Bea doesn’t do humor. Or maybe it just wasn’t that funny.
“Required reading. I start at Cawden in the fall—political science and prelaw. Please wait there.”
She pivots on her heel and yells, “Mom!” The walls and floors are polished concrete, and Bea’s voice reverberates.
“It’s you I’ve come to see, actually. I’m the detective looking into Daniel Whitman’s death.”
Her eyes lift sideways, as if she’s too unimpressed even to do the full roll.
“Of course. But I’d like to have my mom with me, if you don’t mind. I’m pretty shaky from what happened and don’t want to say something that could get anyone in trouble.”
When Beatriz says anyone, the word my cop brain hears is me. But it’s a reasonable request. And she’s going to be studying law. I once saw a kid in hysterics over a parking fine because he thought it’d destroy his prospects of a legal career.
Julia Garcia joins her daughter. She’s dressed as though she followed Abigail Whitman around the Saks apparel department saying: “Do you have that in black?” each time her friend bought something. She lifts her glasses and inspects me.
“Officer.”
Without the glasses, her face is…familiar? I’d had a similar sensation when Abigail Whitman and her pal Bridget showed up, and figured it was because I’d seen photos of the Whitman family. But I’ve seen no pictures of this woman.
“Officer?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Garcia. I just had the strangest feeling I’d seen you somewhere before.”
“Well, I gather Tad Bolt told Abigail that you’d been posted here some years back. Sanctuary’s such a small place, I’m sure our paths would have crossed plenty of times at…”
She bats away the thought, as unable as I am to think of a single place that she and I would have had in common. Her accent is West Coast, flattened by years in the East.
“May I come in?”
“We’d love to help, Officer, but can you keep this short? You can imagine what a shock this has been for all of us. Dan was the first friend Bea made in fifth grade, when we moved here from San Diego, and I’m close to his mom, Abigail. In fact, I’m due to go check on her soon—we don’t want her left alone for long.”
I give a noncommittal nod. This will be as short or as long as it has to be.
As Julia fixes us fragrant Japanese tea, I make small talk with Beatriz. It seems that while her architect dad and technical illustrator mom are “creati
ve” types (that gets air quotes), Beatriz wants to make a difference—at a top corporate law firm. Half my brain listens, and the other half studies the house’s jaw-dropping interior.
This living room is glass-walled, and it doesn’t look over a backyard so much as a full-on birch forest. Photos and artworks cover the walls, including two soppy marital portraits of Julia and her husband, prominently displayed. As my gaze slides over them, another piece catches my eye. I excuse myself to go to the restroom and take a closer look as I pass.
It’s a witch’s chart.
“Exquisite, isn’t it?”
Julia is right behind me with the tray.
“It looks like a…”
“A spell chart? Yes. It isn’t one, of course.”
“No?”
“No. You could say it’s ‘inspired by.’ Sarah Fenn is a dear friend. You obviously know that our daughters are, or have been, close. As an artist, I find Sarah’s charts fascinating and beautiful, and she let me copy some. I have others around the house. Only a witch can make a chart that possesses magical properties, though.”
I’m dying to ask more, but she’s said only one thing that’s relevant to my inquiry.
“Have been close? Have Beatriz and Harper fallen out?”
Her smile is tight. “You know what teenagers are like, Detective. Dramas from one week to the next. And for that pair, sad to say, it was always going to happen. Harper’s a bright girl, but…different aspirations. Bea’s always taken her studies very seriously. She’s got her heart set on Harvard Law for postgrad.”
Julia’s face glows with pride as she looks over at her daughter. The textbook is open in the girl’s lap and she’s studying it, seemingly oblivious to our conversation, though something tells me she’s listening in. The lollipop rolls in her mouth as she turns the pages, the phone gripped in her other hand. Beatriz Garcia is already multitasking like a CEO.
So, things have cooled off between her and Harper? It must be recent, if the school network still pegs them as best friends. But is that remotely relevant to Dan’s death?
I give them the pitch: routine investigation, interested in any untoward events at the party, et cetera. Beatriz watches me over the rim of a tea bowl doubtless crafted by a hundred-year-old Kyoto artisan.
“I spoke to a cop already,” she says when I’m done. “Do I really have to go through it all again? It’s hard to talk about, and we’ve got final exams, and…”
“The local officers took short statements from a number of partygoers, yes. But your friendships with Daniel and his girlfriend Harper go back years. All your moms are close, too, right? So I’m hoping you might be able to…”
“It’s Jake you should be asking. He’s Dan’s bestie. Likes to stick close.”
Bea’s tone is neutral, but her lip curls.
“Jacob Bolt? So was he with Dan at the party? You saw them?”
“I guess he was. I didn’t see much of either of them.”
“No?”
“It was a good party. Lots of people to hang out with.”
“Two things happened: Daniel’s fall and the fire. Is there anything you can tell me about either of those?”
“I’m sorry, Officer, but not really. I was downstairs getting myself a soda when it happened. I was downstairs most of the night, actually. It wasn’t as noisy.”
She’s maintaining her poise, this smart girl, but something flickers in her eyes as though she wants to close them.
As if she wants to unsee something.
What is she not telling me?
My radio crackles. Of all the bad timing. I apologize and turn down the volume, but the radio is insistent, and amid the repetition of my name, I hear the word urgent. I excuse myself, and step outside to respond.
“This had better be good.”
“Trust me, you want to hear this.”
I recognize the voice of Asshole Cop, but there’s something off about his tone. He sounds agitated. Maybe even…scared?
“Chief has a witness at the station to see you. Says Dan Whitman was murdered at the party, and he’s got proof who did it.”
Lordy. My underage drinking/accidental death case just escalated.
“A weirdo, or someone to take seriously?”
And when the desk sergeant replies, I understand why he sounds so fearful.
“Definitely not a weirdo. It’s Jake Bolt. The chief’s son.”
Nine
Maggie
Tad Bolt collars me as soon as I step back into the station. I haven’t seen him since he greeted me at the burned-out shell of Sailaway Villa. After that, he went home to be with his son.
And it turns out his son had news for him.
News that changes everything.
“Homicide?” I say. “In the middle of a crowded party. There would have been dozens of witnesses, so how come no one else has mentioned this? You told me yourself you thought it was an accident. A fire, a panic, a fall. Easy-peasy. So what’s changed?”
“What’s changed is that Jacob has recovered sufficiently from his trauma to tell me the truth about what happened.”
“But murder? That’s a huge allegation. What if the point is that he hasn’t recovered, and this is his trauma talking?”
We’re shut in the chief’s office, just the two of us. Bolt’s huge frame fills half the space, and the eyes in his fleshy face are sharp and bright. He could be—he is—intimidating. But I’m not the rookie who does coffee runs anymore. I’m the state detective on this case, and I stand my ground.
“Even an outsider like me can see how this death has hit Sanctuary hard. And as Dan’s best friend, your son must be really suffering. But have you talked to him about what an allegation like this would mean?”
“We’ve done nothing but talk for the last twenty-four hours. I had to make sure he understood what the consequences would be for him. What it’d mean for Dan’s mom and dad. For the whole town. And when I took a break from talking to him, Mary-Anne was praying with him. Jakey feels this is his duty. And he’s got proof.”
Proof?
That’d certainly make Jacob’s allegation more than the grief-stricken fantasy of a bereaved boy. But still I struggle to get my head around it. An accident is what this looks like. I’ve entertained the possibility of suicide.
“But murder?” I say aloud.
Bolt nods grimly. “I told Jakey he had to be absolutely certain. So he showed me, and as a lawman, I couldn’t be arguing with him once I’d seen the evidence.”
Ten
POLICE TRANSCRIPT: JACOB BOLT
Interviewing officer: DETECTIVE KNIGHT, MARGARET
Attending: BOLT, THADDEUS (father)
DET. KNIGHT: Beginning interview of Jacob Paul Bolt. Attending in a parental capacity is Thaddeus Bolt, the interviewee’s father. Interviewee has come forward voluntarily to provide testimony. Jacob, please can you confirm that’s all correct.
BOLT: That’s correct, ma’am.
DET. KNIGHT: Thank you, Jacob. So, you’re here on account of what you witnessed at the party three nights ago, at which Daniel Whitman died. Can you tell me what you saw?
BOLT: She killed him. I saw that bitch kill him.
DET. KNIGHT: Who are you referring to, Jacob?
BOLT: Harper. Harper-fucking-Fenn.
PARENT: Jacob…
DET. KNIGHT: And you saw this?
BOLT: I was right next to her when she did it.
DET. KNIGHT: So you were with Daniel…
BOLT: Not Daniel. Harper.
DET. KNIGHT: Harper. Okay. So where were you both?
BOLT: At the bottom of the stairs.
DET. KNIGHT: And Daniel was…?
BOLT: On the landing.
DET. KNIGHT: The landing is where Daniel fell from. But if you and Harper were at the
bottom of the stairs, then how…
BOLT: Witchcraft. She killed him with witchcraft.
[The footage described can be accessed in the digital evidence database.]
DET. KNIGHT: What I’m seeing here is cell-phone footage that you say you shot at the party. You consent to it being examined by our analysts?
BOLT: I do.
DET. KNIGHT: Thank you, Jacob. So, we are close up on Harper Fenn. You look to be no more than a foot away. Correct?
BOLT: Correct.
DET. KNIGHT: And why did you start filming Harper at this moment?
BOLT: Because she’s just seen it. I thought her reaction might be worth getting.
DET. KNIGHT: And “it” is?
BOLT: Some filthy tape. Her and Dan at another party a few weeks ago. Look, you’ll see a bit in a minute.
DET. KNIGHT: The image isn’t very clear, but you’ve turned your phone on to a wall projection that appears to show a boy and a girl engaged in sexual intercourse.
BOLT: Yeah.
DET. KNIGHT: And we’re back on Harper again. She’s speaking, but it’s inaudible. She appears to be pointing at the projection.
BOLT: Yeah, she was furious.
DET. KNIGHT: About the projection?
BOLT: Keep watching. It’s coming. You’ll see her…
DET. KNIGHT: Harper’s still shouting. Gesticulating. Both hands raised now. She’s looking around, like she’s searching for someone or something, then she’s back staring at the projection. She’s sort of…wringing her hands? And now—ah!
BOLT: That’s him. Jesus.
DET. KNIGHT: Now people are screaming. The angle of the phone camera has shifted, and we’re seeing Daniel Whitman on the floor in the center of the atrium, apparently having fallen over the banister at the top of the stairs. The screen has darkened. Harper has moved further away from you, and there’s smoke. I presume this is your voice we’re hearing now?
BOLT: Yeah. I…
DET. KNIGHT: You’re calling his name. “Dan. Dan.” Correct?
BOLT: Yeah. Christ. Sorry, can we stop a moment?
DET. KNIGHT: And the recording ends.