Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  BOLT: I went to help him.

  DET. KNIGHT: Daniel Whitman?

  BOLT: He was dead, man. He was already dead. That fucking bitch.

  [Inaudible. Cries.]

  PARENT: We’ll stop there. My son needs a break. Gonna take him home. An evidence technician already made you a copy of that footage.

  DET. KNIGHT: I’ll need the device for exa…

  PARENT: My son’s lost his best friend. He and the other guys are getting each other through this. No way in hell are you taking his phone. Come on, buddy, let’s go. And Mags?

  DET. KNIGHT: Yes?

  PARENT: Jakey just gave you everything you need. Don’t go screwing it up.

  [Interview concludes]

  Eleven

  Abigail

  Julia’s been and gone. She told me the cop had visited, asking questions. More digging.

  Then Sarah stopped by. She brought me something, bless her, as she always does when one of us is suffering. The label reads Heartsease. It’ll help, she said as she watched me take a first dose before she left.

  Nothing will help.

  But I do feel clearer. Calmer. I was a wreck when Bridget found me this morning. I’ve held things together all day, thanks to my friends’ company. But now that I’m alone, the memories of Daniel that were such a comfort before are crowding too closely around me, hungry and fierce. Only Sarah’s brew is keeping them at bay.

  Should I call Michael? Try again to tell him that I need him more than his faculty does? But Michael’s work is everything to him. And I’ve only myself to blame for that.

  No husband. No son.

  My hands shake, and I reach for the potion bottle, then lean back on the couch as gentle comfort washes through me. Sarah has bottled up her love. The tightness in my chest loosens, and my breath comes deep and even. Heartsease.

  The next I know, I’m startled awake by banging at the door.

  “Sorry to intrude, Abigail,” Tad Bolt says.

  He’s standing there with Jake. The boy’s lank hair and dark-circled eyes tell me he’s in a pit of his own. Emotion surges in me, despite Sarah’s calming brew, and I have no name for it. Do I take Jacob in my arms as we sob over our shared loss? Do I spit on him for walking out of that burning house alive, without my son?

  I can’t deal with this. I begin to shut the door, but Tad jams in his foot.

  “Jacob’s just given a statement to the police. We thought you and Michael should be the first to know.”

  So it’s that. What tale has Jake tattled? I thought he loved Dan. I freeze, indecisive, before letting them in. Better to hear it and know.

  But none of what Jake says makes sense.

  “Harper? They were dating.”

  “Not for a few weeks now. He dumped her after she acted like a complete ho. A recording of it somehow got played on the wall at the party. Harper was furious. She’s been mad for ages, but that was the final straw. She must have thought Dan put it up… I dunno. She was scary.”

  Jake pulls up his T-shirt to wipe his snotty lip. I look away, before the sight of him sends me tumbling back down into darkness again. I need to stay alert and make sense of this. I’ve heard about the sex video—the one the journalist asked about, and the cop is digging for. So it was real. And…Harper killed Dan because of it?

  My friend’s daughter killed my son?

  I wasn’t happy when Dan started dating Harper. She’s attractive, but hardly daughter-in-law material. No witch-folk are. It’s in their nature to be a little…loose. Sarah always says witches are born with more love to give than most people. I never made an issue of it, though. High school romances always run their course, and Dan wasn’t short of more suitable admirers. Beatriz never made any secret of how much she liked him.

  Bea would have been a better match. Harper is strange and free-spirited, always disappearing on weekends. I know that used to drive Dan mad, because she’d never watch his games and cheer him on, as a girlfriend should, and they’d fight about it.

  But for things to get so bad between them that she’d kill him? It’s unthinkable.

  “You mean they had a fight, and it was an accident? She…slapped him? Or pushed him? And he fell.”

  Jake shakes his head. His father nudges him.

  “Tell her, son. She deserves to know.”

  “It was deliberate.” Jake says. “She killed him with witchcraft.”

  I exhale and sit back. Because Jacob has gotten it wrong.

  “You know that’s not possible.” There’s strangely little relief in saying it, and I realize how much I wanted an explanation for what happened to my boy. But I don’t want this explanation. “Harper doesn’t have the gift.”

  It’s the overwhelming sadness of Sarah’s life. No mom ever feels like she truly deserves her kids. We all imagine we fail them in a hundred different ways. Julia worries whether she did the right thing uprooting her family from California. Bridget frets about how much of Isobel’s shyness is due to her split from Izzy’s dad. I know my mistake, and have wondered ever since what I might have chosen if Alberto hadn’t made the decision for me.

  But Sarah never had a choice, and we’ve all told her so. It was just bad luck. Sarah’s own mom didn’t have the gift. It’s not uncommon for it to skip a generation. And it skipped Harper.

  Jake pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Got to warn you,” the boy says thickly. “You see where Dan…”

  I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not without some help. I reach for the bottle of heartsease again and swig. The chief eyes me curiously.

  “That a brew? One of Sarah’s?”

  “She brought it around this evening.”

  “I see. And it helps?”

  “It does. Takes me out of myself a bit. Keeps me calm.”

  Bolt frowns. “Calm, huh? Well, I’m not gonna get ahead of myself here, Abigail. But when you’ve seen this, you might ask if there’s a reason Sarah Fenn would like you calm and ‘out of yourself.’”

  Is he serious?

  Jacob hits Play. Harper fills the screen, but I pay no attention. I want to see only one thing: my son. And then I do. I see his body on the floor as kids scream, as smoke billows and partygoers run for safety, leaving him behind. Did Jake run too?

  “You saw it?” says the chief. “What she did with her hands? I know you’re part of Sarah’s coven. You recognize that witch stuff, right?”

  “I didn’t see. I just… Please, show me again.”

  I wipe my eyes, and this time I do pay attention.

  And I see it. Harper’s hands in the air. I’ve seen Sarah making witch signs often enough when we meet, the three of us friends lending her our energies as she channels her gift.

  It’s…magic. Despite everything Sarah’s told us, Harper is doing magic.

  The girl gestures. Then my son is dead on the floor.

  I shake my head. It’s too much to take in.

  Sarah has lied to me—to all of us—for all these years. She’s kept her daughter’s gift a secret.

  As I lean toward Jake, I catch a scent of the body spray he’s wearing. It’s the same one Dan used. I flinch, feeling sick, but touch his phone screen and hit Play. Then again. And again. I want this seared into my memory.

  My son dumped his cheating girlfriend, and she killed him for it.

  And the woman I thought was one of my dearest friends. Who has touched my life in so many ways and helped smooth it into the shape I wanted—or thought I wanted. She knew her daughter was capable of this and told no one.

  Sarah. How could you?

  I pick up the brew bottle and hurl it. It smashes against the white wall, and something thick and bittersweet drips down. My breathing comes fast and harsh, and my heart is racing.

  How can it be at ease knowing Daniel was murdered?

  Twelve
/>
  Maggie

  Sunset and streaks of cloud are candy-striping the sky as Long Island Sound slides into view on the GPS map.

  Not far ahead is the millionaires’ mile of Shore Road, where the ruin of Sailaway Villa stands. But before that is a cluster of more modest dwellings. Those were once inhabited by fishermen, boatyard workers, and perhaps a smuggler or two. Their price tag isn’t so modest these days, though, thanks to their historic wooden shingles and cream-painted trim.

  In one of them, I’m hoping for answers.

  There’s so much I need to know, but top of my list are whether Harper Fenn is a witch and the reality of her relationship with Daniel.

  The GPS bossily announces my destination, and I pull over. It’s a cute house. Dried starfish are propped in the small windowpanes. A Day-Glo pink ship’s buoy hangs from a tree in the front yard for kids to swing on. The enameled mailbox is decorated with birds and flowers, the family name lettered in flowing italic: Perelli-Lee. That’s new.

  That’s new. Which is when I realize I’ve been here before, during my previous posting to Sanctuary.

  I look at the house, waiting for a memory to prompt me. There wasn’t a picket fence back then. And there couldn’t have been that sports car parked in the drive. It looks almost brand-new and extremely expensive. But nothing clear emerges.

  I rap on the door. The kid who answers startles at the sight of a cop—or maybe it’s just at another brown face like hers. You don’t see too many of us in Sanctuary.

  “Can I help you?” Isobel Perelli asks with the hint of a stammer.

  She’s a sweet little thing. She’s got thick glasses and is wearing shapeless sleepwear, but she’s got her mom’s heart-shaped face, and I find that I remember her dad, a good-looking dude who attracted minor traffic violations at twice the rate of the white folks in town. Izzy looks somehow childlike. It’s hard to imagine she’s only a year younger than Harper, Jake, Beatriz, and the rest.

  “I’m here to see your stepmom, Principal Lee. Is she in?”

  “I’ll take it from here, Izzy,” says a voice. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I didn’t know you were downstairs.”

  The kid looks relieved. “I was just getting a glass of water, Cheryl.”

  Her stepmom comes into view. Cheryl Lee is cradling a cat that’s got a plastic veterinary collar around its neck. She gives a long-suffering sigh as she puts the creature down, but the concern in her eyes looks genuine as she pulls the girl to her and presses the back of a hand to her forehead.

  “Okay, honey. It’s good to see you up and about, but don’t overdo it. Your mom’s been baking cookies again, so go and get one. But only one, you hear?”

  The girl nods dutifully and trots off toward the kitchen.

  “She’s still poorly?” I ask.

  “It’s been a few weeks. Mono. Flares up from time to time at school—we’ve got three kids off with it at the moment. You know they call it the kissing disease? Well, poor Izzy got it without ever kissing anyone.”

  Cheryl leads me to a cozy family room, unceremoniously scooping two more animals off a blanket-covered couch and offering me a seat.

  “Sorry about the cats everywhere. I don’t know how Bridget ever thought she wasn’t a lesbian. Between us, we’ve got enough for a coven.”

  She gives a wry grimace, whether at the cats or the witchcraft, I can’t tell.

  “Your wife isn’t here?”

  “She’s visiting Sarah to talk about Abigail. We’re all really concerned, and it doesn’t help that Michael Whitman thought for some reason this was a great time to go back to campus. Anyway, you said on the phone that you want to know about some of my students? I have ground rules. You’re chatting to Cheryl Perelli-Lee, Sanctuary resident and stepmom, about kids I know, not interviewing Principal Lee about her students. Is that clear?”

  I nod. Jeez, she’s firm. She’ll have me confessing to supergluing the class bully’s locker next.

  “Very well. As you can imagine, I have a school full of traumatized kids, and I spent my weekend trying to find the best bereavement counselors available for drop-in sessions. The sooner we have clarity on what happened, the better for my students. So ask away.”

  And I do. Her responses are thoughtful, and it’s plain that beneath her brisk exterior Cheryl Lee is a principal who really cares about her charges.

  I start off with Jake. Given that he’s offered himself up as the star witness, I need to know how credible he is. How trustworthy. According to Cheryl, he’s a steady sort of boy. Well behaved—unsurprisingly, given that his pop’s the chief—though exaggeratedly courteous to girls in a way that wins him more scorn than approval. Academically average, she says, and as such, likely destined to follow his father into law enforcement.

  “Not that I’m implying…” Cheryl catches herself.

  “Of course not.”

  “How close was he to Daniel Whitman?” I ask.

  “That would depend on whether you ask Jake, or anyone else.”

  “Meaning?”

  The principal sighs. “Jake isn’t athletic, isn’t especially popular, not considered good-looking. You get the idea. Daniel was all of those things. It’s as if Jake hopes that by being with him, he might become more like him. You can imagine what the school at large thinks of that.”

  I grimace. “Dan didn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. If anything, he encouraged it. Maybe he found it amusing. Maybe it was simply more evidence of his own superiority.”

  “And what about Harper?”

  “A complicated young woman. Bright, but doesn’t apply herself,” Cheryl says, echoing what I’ve heard from Julia Garcia. “Speaking for myself, I believe her life is blighted by her failure to take after her mother.”

  “You mean her lack of magical ability?”

  Cheryl nods.

  “And she definitely doesn’t…?”

  “I have no PMP notification on file for Harper.”

  Federal law requires that all persons of magical potential—witches—register as such by the age of eighteen. I already checked the state database for Harper Fenn. She wasn’t on it, but it turns out she’s the baby of her academic cohort and only turns eighteen over the summer.

  Cheryl nods when I remind her of this.

  “Eighteen is the legal requirement, but given that ability manifests by age thirteen—they have this ritual that confirms it—it’s best practice to notify early of PMP status in certain settings, like healthcare and education. Can you imagine what it’s like managing these girls in a school environment, Detective?

  “Two sisters with the craft passed through my previous school in New Jersey. I assure you, they made no secret of it. They traded potions for cash during recess, tried to charm boys. You name it. I lost count of the detentions and confiscations. At one point the mother threatened the school with a discrimination suit.”

  The principal lifts her eyes as if imploring the heavens. On the wall opposite us hangs a piece of devotional artwork—a dark-eyed Jesus teaching little children—alongside what must be her and Bridget’s wedding portrait, both of them beaming while Isobel smiles awkwardly and holds a bunch of flowers.

  “What else can you tell me about Harper? Has her behavior changed at all recently?”

  Cheryl shifts uncertainly, weighing how much to divulge.

  “It’s my belief Harper began self-harming about eighteen months ago. I don’t know. I’ve not seen any injuries, and neither have other school staff members. But she started covering up. You’ve seen those long-sleeved tops she wears under her T-shirts? Two semesters ago, she claimed religious exemption from clothing regulations and started wearing them beneath her sports uniform.”

  “Religious exemption?”

  “Like Muslim girls wearing sports hijabs, or Sikh boys and their turbans. Which struck me as odd,
because I never thought witchcraft was big on rules.”

  That rings alarm bells. I’ve worked more than a few domestic violence cases. When women start covering up, it’s often because they have controlling partners who don’t want other men looking at them. Or because they’ve got bruises to hide.

  “Mrs. Lee, when did Harper and Daniel Whitman start dating?”

  Cheryl shakes her head.

  “I see what you’re thinking, Detective, but they didn’t get together until last semester. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go check that Izzy made it back to bed. Let me show you out.”

  Thirteen

  Abigail

  I blink awake under the watchful gaze of Tom Elwy of the Philadelphia Eagles. A giant poster of the quarterback is pinned beside Dan’s bed. We used to fight over it all the time. I said it spoiled the look of the room. I can’t believe I ever gave Dan a cross word over something so trivial.

  Before the Bolts left last night, Tad asked if I wanted his wife to come over and sit with me, but I refused. I didn’t want hand-holding and prayers. I wanted to be alone with my son.

  So I came upstairs to this room. It’s next door to the one I started sleeping in when Dan was younger, after I told Michael that his snoring kept me awake. What my husband doesn’t know is that he doesn’t snore—and that I used my room even when he was away, so I could fall asleep to the sound of Dan laughing over the phone with one of his friends, or the muffled noises of a computer game or movie he was enjoying.

  But last night I slept here, in Dan’s bed. My clothes are in a heap on the floor, jumbled up with his clothes. I’m under his coverlet, just as I used to be when he was little and having night terrors.

  Only now the terrors are mine. Every time I close my eyes, I see that final image from the video Jake showed me. Daniel, facedown on the floor, as all around him kids push past to get out of the burning house.

  My beautiful, precious, brilliant son.

  Perhaps my murdered son.

  And I push back the covers.

  If it were possible, I wouldn’t get up ever again. Wouldn’t wash and dress and go out into a world that holds nothing for me, because it no longer contains Daniel.