Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  And this whole nightmare swirling around my daughter will end.

  Back in my car, I drive to a quiet street nearby and try Abigail again. No reply. Then I remember that Bridget took her home yesterday. Perhaps she knows where she is.

  I dial, and the call connects.

  Fifty-One

  Maggie

  Spots of sunlight through the leaves dapple the Garcia place, but they can’t disguise what it is: a glass sandwich made with two slices of concrete. It’s more like an auto showroom than a home.

  A glass house. Will Beatriz Garcia throw stones? My first interview with her was cut short. Now I have more questions—specifically what was going on between Harper and Daniel, and who knew.

  Beatriz opens the door and frowns up at me, politely hostile. She yells over her shoulder for her mom. A smell wafts out from the house that’s almost overwhelmingly sweet. At first, I think it’s one of those sickly celebrity perfumes that teens love so much, but then I see behind Beatriz what looks like an entire store-worth of roses stuck in a vase. So many that there’s no pretense at arrangement—their number is all the statement they need to make.

  “Somebody’s birthday?” I ask Beatriz as I hear Julia stirring in the recesses of the house.

  The girl takes a swig from the Peach Coke Zero in her hand and looks at me, eyes narrowed. She evidently decides the answer doesn’t require her to have a lawyer present.

  “Mom’s favorite. Dad buys them for her all the time.”

  “Detective. How can I help?”

  Julia Garcia is in her usual monochrome attire. Her hair is swept up in a bun, and the fancy glasses on her nose look like they cost a month’s cop salary.

  “I just wanted a talk with Beatriz, if that’s okay with you both? To get a better sense of the dynamics between Harper Fenn and Daniel Whitman…”

  “Dynamics,” says Beatriz, mockingly.

  I see her mother considering whether or not to make an excuse: a deadline, a client call, or Beatriz’s schoolwork. The two of them exchange a look. And I’m exasperated. This pair are supposed to be close friends—best friends, even—of those on both sides of this case. I get that they’ll be feeling conflicted, but don’t they want to help all involved find resolution and relief?

  “If now’s not a good time, maybe Beatriz would prefer to come to the station?”

  That electrifies them both.

  “The station? Well, I don’t think… Come in, Detective.”

  I’m shown into the living room, that great circular space overlooking the woods. No offer of tea this time. Beatriz settles on the couch. Her mom sits at a slight distance in a wooden armchair designed for looks rather than comfort.

  “How would you characterize the relationship between Harper Fenn and Daniel Whitman?”

  Beatriz Garcia rolls her eyes. In the light from the vast windows, the skin around them is still flushed and taut. Perhaps she’s only getting two hours sleep a night cramming for her exams. Or perhaps she’s still grieving.

  “A bad idea.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You never met Dan, but he was…everything. Good-looking, yeah, but smart, funny, popular. People liked him.”

  “And Harper?”

  “She wasn’t any of that. I mean, hot, yeah, if eyeliner and tattoos are your thing. But she made no effort with Dan, or anyone else.”

  While I’ve heard that Beatriz was sweet on Daniel Whitman, her tone feels more intense than a crush’s resentment of the official girlfriend.

  “Why did she date him, then?”

  Beatriz’s expression hardens. “I’ve no idea. Maybe because she could. He wanted her, and she thought why not?”

  “Were they still a couple on the night of the party when Daniel died?”

  “No. He’d finished it weeks earlier. She was furious.”

  “Do you know why he ended the relationship?”

  “Well, because she wasn’t giving him respect. And because she was like all witch kids are, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  The girl narrows her eyes, and her tone is venomous. “Slutty, Detective.”

  “Beatriz, language,” interjects her mother.

  I try not to betray my interest by edging forward on the couch.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know the reputation they have. Well, Harper was all that. She was never around to spend weekends with him, so it’s pretty obvious she has another guy out of town. Dan told her he wanted to break it off. Date someone who was better for him. Who was just better.” She tips her chin up, defiantly, and a suspicion forms in my mind. “But she couldn’t just let him go be happy. No, she tried to reel him back in with that thing she did at the football party.”

  “‘That thing at the football party’?”

  I’m pretty sure I know what that thing is, but I want Bea to tell me.

  “She said she wanted to make it up to him. To prove how much she loved him.”

  “What did she do, Beatriz?”

  The girl pulls a face. “I’d rather not say, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find online.”

  “Online?”

  “Once something’s on one phone, it gets onto every phone, sooner or later. And then it gets everywhere else, too. A search on the right sort of website for ‘High school witch slut’ should—”

  “Bea!”

  Julia is on her feet, outraged at her daughter’s coarse language.

  “It’s only the truth, Mom! I mean, everyone knows what she did. What she is. And when Dan ditched her because of it, she murdered him.”

  And the girl’s poise breaks down. Her chest is rising and falling. She’s on the verge of tears, and her mom will throw me out of this house any minute.

  But that’s okay, because although it sounds like she’s just backing up Jake Bolt’s line that Harper killed Dan after he dumped her, Beatriz Garcia has actually just told me a whole bunch of interesting things.

  Harper Fenn has some sort of second life.

  Harper dated Dan despite not being into him, which is kind of a peripheral detail, but intriguing all the same.

  And Beatriz has twice used a word that I’ve come across before in my inquiries. I think back to the screenshot of the sex tape: SanctuaryslutXposer, the person who posted it called themself. And they described Harper as “a slut and a liar. And worse.” Jake Bolt trash-talked Harper, too, but he used a different slur.

  As Bea’s mother pulls her up for a hug, I see the girl’s oversize smartphone tucked where she was sitting. She had it in her hand the first time I stopped by.

  When a phone starts ringing, I jump, thinking it’s Bea’s and wondering—nonsensically—if I’ve set it off just by looking. Julia squeezes her daughter’s shoulder before hurrying to answer. She stands listening to whomever is on the line, making uh-huh noises like she wants to speak but feels she shouldn’t. Presumably because I’m here.

  “Got it,” she says eventually. “No, it’s just that someone’s here right now… Yes, as soon as I can… Okay, bye, Bridget.”

  Julia rejoins us but doesn’t sit down. Beatriz is curled on the couch, hugging a cushion. She’s picked up her phone again, though she’s not looking at it, as if just holding it is a comfort.

  “Will that be everything, Detective? It’s just this is all very hard on Bea, and now I have to head out…”

  “Of course. This has been helpful. Just one thing, if I may, Mrs. Garcia. You’ve known Harper from quite a young age. Has it always been the case that her mother believes she can’t do magic?”

  Beatriz sniffs and looks up, her eyes red-rimmed and her expression indignant. Julia lifts a hand, calmingly.

  “You heard the question, sweetheart. If you’re going to be a lawyer, you’ve got to be precise about what’s being asked. It’s not about wheth
er or not Harper did magic that night. It’s about whether Sarah thinks she can.”

  She turns back to me. “I got to know Sarah after we moved from California. I’d had a regular practitioner there who helped me with some ongoing health issues and my eldest kids’ allergies, and finding a town with a good witch was one of the criteria when Alberto and I relocated. Sarah and I discovered our daughters were the same age, eleven, and we talked about them a lot. It was what made us friends, not just practitioner and client.

  “At first, Sarah would tell me how excited Harper was about becoming a witch. The next year, I became a member of her coven with Abigail and Bridget. We all knew that a witch’s gift comes in by her thirteenth birthday—a kind of magical puberty.

  “There’s a ceremony for it, and usually a big family party. Well, Sarah never mentioned throwing one for Harper. And one night, when we’d all had a few drinks, Abigail asked when it was going to be. That was when Sarah completely broke down. I’ve never seen her so distraught, before or since, not even… Well, she said that she’d already conducted the rite, and it had shown that Harper was giftless. We never spoke about it again.

  “So to answer your question, Detective, to the best of my knowledge her mother believes that she can’t do magic.”

  “She’s a liar,” says Beatriz flatly. “Or Harper is. They’re both liars.”

  Harper Fenn is a slut and a liar.

  And worse.

  I look at them both, mother and daughter. Bea has already picked up her phone, and her thumbs are busy on the keypad. Texting Jake Bolt, to tell him the cop doesn’t believe him?

  Or maybe putting up another post with a lurid photo of Harper Fenn?

  I’m nowhere near the truth of all this yet. All I know for sure is that Bea Garcia is yet another devastated kid convinced that Harper killed Dan Whitman.

  “Thank you both for your time,” I say.

  The scent of roses nearly chokes me on the way out.

  Fifty-Two

  Abigail

  I’ve somehow slept the day away.

  After Bridget and I sat on her terrace and relived that awful, wondrous night six years ago when Daniel fell and broke, and Sarah and the three of us put him back together, I was exhausted and drained. But drained of a poison. Purged. We therapists call it a healing crisis.

  As my thoughts clear, I find that I’m lying on a couch beneath a soft blanket. My shoes have been placed neatly alongside, together with a glass of water. The outside of the glass is wet, but the water’s no longer cold. It’s been there for a while. The sun is low enough to lance through the window.

  In times of extreme emotional distress, the body can simply shut down. Grief sends people to their beds for days, weeks, even months. I’ve seen it in others, as patients, and now its gentle oblivion has washed over me. Bridget’s kindness and this house so unlike my own allowed it to happen, and I am overwhelmed by gratitude.

  Not even the realization that this sofa is the one on which we laid Daniel all those years ago, before the cops turned up, disturbs me. Instead it brings a strange peace. A circularity. He was here, and now I am here, and he was a part of me and still is.

  My beloved boy.

  I get to my feet, a little wobbly, and haven’t reached the door before Bridget pops her head around.

  “You’re up!”

  I don’t resist as she ushers me into the kitchen and prepares soup. Cheryl has just gotten home, and she’s at the table, eyes darting between a mound of papers and Isobel’s progress with homework sent to ensure she doesn’t fall behind.

  “So,” Bridget says, settling herself next to me as I eat, “I’ve had a call from Sarah. She’s been trying to reach you, was wondering if she could come over so you two can talk. I said I’d let her know if you were feeling up to it. What do you think? I reckon it’d be a good idea. Perhaps Julia as well? But maybe you’d find that too…”

  Too painful, she means, given the last time the four of us were together.

  But it’s that circularity again. For us to be together and here feels right. Sarah, Bridget, and Julia gave me that precious extra time with my son. Though I’ll never have stories to tell of in-laws who aren’t good enough, or grandchildren to dote on, these women share my memories of Daniel, and when we reminisce about our kids’ childhoods, my boy will be as present as the others.

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  Bridget goes to call Sarah and Julia while I freshen up. In the time before they arrive, I sit quietly and prepare what I want to say. I ask Bridget if we can go back outside, the four of us on the terrace just as we were that night.

  Julia arrives first. The breeze is gusting up from the shore, and we light candles, even though it’s barely evening. Bridget, inevitably, brings out a bottle of wine, though she’s the only one who drinks. I talk and weep and let myself be comforted by these women.

  Then the doorbell sounds again, and it’s Sarah.

  Cheryl brings her out to us before disappearing back inside, and Sarah stands there, not taking a seat, but rigid and upright as if she’s on trial. I can’t decipher the expression on her face. Fearful? Hopeful? But sleeplessness and strain are etched on it, just as they are on mine.

  Will she be able to forgive me? It’s time to say my piece.

  I stand, too, and we’re facing each other as though we’re exchanging vows—or maybe renewing them.

  “I need to apologize to you, Sarah,” I say. She makes a noise, as though to protest that it’s not necessary at all, but I’m having none of it. “I was mad. The things I said and the thing I asked you to do. Will you forgive me? I never wanted to hurt Harper. Or rather, I think I wanted everyone to hurt. Everyone to suffer like I was suffering, and that was so wrong of me.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Abigail,” Sarah says, and her hands reach for mine. Clever hands, that once wielded enough power to pull Daniel back across death’s threshold. My wonder-working friend.

  There are tears in her eyes, too, but I see her look at Bridget and Julia, as if to check that they’re listening, before speaking her next words. She looks unbearably tense.

  “Harper had nothing to do with Daniel’s death. You know that, yes?”

  I nod.

  “I need to hear you say it, Abigail. And I need to know that you’ll tell them all. Tad Bolt and his son, the reporters, even the Spartans. Because they’re all trying to put the blame on my girl. Someone attacked our house. We’ve got a news crew on our doorstep. Harper isn’t safe—she won’t be until you tell everyone that you know she didn’t do this.”

  I hesitate. Sarah sees it, and her anguish is plain. She’s my friend. She gave Daniel back to me once before, even if she can’t do it again. Could someone so good have a child so bad as to do what Jake’s accused Harper of? Surely it’s not possible.

  “I’ll tell them,” I pledge, solemn as any marriage vow.

  “Thank you,” she says, her whole face relaxing. “Thank you, Abigail. I know how hard this is for you.”

  I’m all out of words. I mutely squeeze Sarah’s fingers, and she reaches out and embraces me. Julia and Bridget join us, the three of them enfolding me. And this is true magic: the comfort of friends.

  We jolt apart when the French doors bang open.

  “You all need to come inside right now,” says Cheryl.

  She looks deathly, and I free fall to the moment she came back from answering the phone on the night of the party. Has she news of another fire? Another one of our children dead…? The thought is both absurd and somehow not at all impossible.

  In the living room, Cheryl’s been watching the news while she does more paperwork. Sheets lie scattered all over the floor by her haste to come find us. It’s the local news on WCON-TV. I recognize the reporter, that Dao woman, sounding breathless as she asks, “Witchcraft?”

  SANCTUARY “WITCH” DEATH ALLE
GATIONS reads the crawl across the bottom of the screen. I assume that when we see the interviewee, it’ll be Jake Bolt, and I feel guilty that I’ve let Sarah down already. I turn to explain that I didn’t know he was planning this and am so sorry I couldn’t stop him.

  But it’s not Jake. It’s Harper.

  “Do you know the truth about Daniel Whitman?” she says. “The whole town’s acting like Dan was some kind of saint. The sports star. The kids’ coach. Mr. Popularity. But the truth is that he drugged me and abused me while one of his friends filmed it. He raped me.”

  There’s a low moan beside me: Sarah.

  What is this? Rape?

  I look at Sarah, expecting to see her as stunned as I am by her daughter’s filthy lie. But she’s not. I see it in her face. She looks appalled. Desperate.

  But not surprised.

  She knew about this.

  And I can’t believe that for a minute I was taken in by her. She’s been covering up for her daughter. She’s probably bewitched me to get me to listen to her these past two days.

  Harper killed Daniel once—and now she’s killing him twice. Desecrating his beautiful memory.

  Burning is too good for her.

  I snatch up Cheryl’s mug of tea and fling it at the television. Half the screen blacks out as it rocks on its base back, forward, back—

  —and falls.

  Standing in the doorway from the kitchen, Isobel is pitching into hysterics. Bridget goes to her. Julia is motionless. Rigid with shock.

  My gaze and Sarah’s meet. My empty, useless hands twitch—there’s no power in them, unlike those of her whorish daughter. If there was, I’d strike her dead where she stands.

  But there’s power in my wrath, perhaps. Enough to make Sarah stifle a cry and rush from the room. The front door slams behind her.

  The witch nearly had me agreeing to bury my son and bury myself in grief. She was so close to tricking me into shutting this whole thing down.

  You failed, Sarah. It’s only just begun.

  Fifty-Three