by V. V. James
BOLT: Why not. Yeah.
DET. KNIGHT: It couldn’t have been very good if he dumped her. Why wouldn’t she use it to win him back, instead of agreeing to make a sex tape at a football party?
BOLT: I guess she liked what she did at the party. Witches do.
DET. KNIGHT: Were you in that room when it happened, Jacob? Was it you filming it?
BOLT: It wasn’t me, absolutely not. [coughs]
PARENT: Final question, Detective. This boy needs to get home to bed, not sit here answering these bullshit questions.
DET. KNIGHT: Okay, final question. Were there any adults at the party the night Dan died? Anyone’s parents. Or anyone else you didn’t recognize.
BOLT: Well, I didn’t know everyone, but I kinda knew them by sight. The usual party crowd. And parents? That was the whole point of it being at the villa, rather than someone’s house…
PARENT: And you’re done.
DET. KNIGHT: Yes—yes, I am. Thank you, Jacob. I appreciate you coming in. It was good to talk again.
BOLT: I wish I could say the same, Detective, but my mom raised me never to lie.
Fifty-Seven
Maggie
“Seemed like a PB&J kind of day,” Chester says, setting a box on my desk along with a strong coffee. The doughnuts glisten enticingly through the clear plastic lid.
“Your baked-goods buying skills are coming along as nicely as your investigational skills,” I tell him. “Pull up a seat.”
I left him out of the interview room for a reason. He’ll be working under Bolt long after I’m gone, and I don’t want to make things awkward with his boss. As I take him though the interview with Jake, his face screws up with concentration.
“Jacob’s got a point,” he says anxiously. “If Harper never told anyone about this ‘rape’ before now, surely it’s suspicious she’s only mentioned it after Daniel’s death?”
“Chester, do you know what percentage of women who have been raped report it? Around a third. Hardly any cases are prosecuted, and even fewer get convictions. Ninety-nine out of a hundred perpetrators of sexual violence walk free in this country. Now would you like to ask me that question again?”
Chester doesn’t. He sits thoughtfully as I explain what caught my attention in the interview.
“Jake admitted he didn’t see the exact moment Daniel fell. And that matters, because he’s been saying that her hand movements are her using magic to make him fall.
“But if he never saw Dan fall, then that sequence of events is his conjecture. Plus Rowan’s said that Harper’s gestures aren’t those of someone working magic. So his account doesn’t stand up.”
I expect Chester to congratulate me on my deduction, but he goes quiet.
“Maggie—ma’am—don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem very eager to prove that Harper is innocent. I thought our job was to be building a case.”
“Not building a case against someone who’s innocent, Chester,” I snap back.
But his words sting, because there’s truth in them.
I don’t want this teenage girl to be guilty of her boyfriend’s murder, by witchcraft or any other means. The witch’s daughter, who carries all of the stigma that still hangs about magicals, but none of the gift that would provide solidarity and reassurance.
I don’t want to let down another girl by not being a good enough cop. Remy gave me a talk after the Downes case. He said every cop has a case like it—one regret, the one that got away. The One. But just like in love, he said, you can’t fixate on The One or it’ll wreck you for all the others. Is that what I’m doing here?
I spent a fruitless hour last night thinking of other possibilities. Who might want Daniel dead. A bitter ex-colleague of Michael Whitman’s, or a spurned lover of Abigail Whitman’s? Who might want the Fenns accused. Someone Sarah Fenn disappointed, perhaps? But those are fantasy scenarios. Just speculation.
“Rowan’s input is what’s screwing this case,” I tell Chester, who frowns, but listens. “They’re telling us there was magic at the villa, but that Harper wasn’t using it—or at least, not in the minutes Jake caught on camera, which are also the minutes in which Dan falls.
“What we’re left with should be the easiest thing imaginable: solve a crime perpetrated by a witch, in a town where’s there’s only one witch.”
“Sarah? She’s been part of this place all my life,” Chester says. “My grandma’s a client. Swears by her. I get that she has a motive, if Harper’s telling the truth about the rape…”
“Sarah might have lied to me about that, by the way.” I explain how the witch denied knowing any reason for someone to harm Dan.
“But she just seems so…kind. And witches have this whole nonviolence, do-no-harm thing, right?”
“It’d be some crime of passion. A mother’s outrage. No murder intended, quite likely, just some kind of fright or shock.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t suppose there are any other witches in Sanctuary that it’s slipped your mind to tell me about? The coven… From what Rowan said, they don’t have magic, right? Could you put feelers out about whether anyone else in town has ever been rumored to have ability?”
Chester nods and heads out. When he’s gone, I pick up the phone to WCON-TV and get a mobile number for Anna Dao off a sulky news-desk coordinator. When the reporter answers her phone, she sounds harried but also chastened.
“I hope I haven’t screwed up your case, Detective. I’ve already been chewed out by my bosses. It was meant to be a how-are-you-feeling piece, to show the human impact of this death-penalty threat. I mean, jeez, she’s a high schooler—and in Connecticut. We’d discussed what she might say. I had literally no idea she was going to come out with the rape stuff. Complete nightmare. I can only apologize. Is the case progressing okay anyway?”
Hah. Digging, even when apologizing. Dao’s a good one.
“I can’t comment on that, Anna. But I’ve a question for you. After Harper came out with that allegation, and you had to close it down and started talking over her, what was she saying? The camera’s not on her, so…”
“God, no idea. I was just thinking about shutting her up. But maybe my producer…? Hang on.”
The phone is muffled with a hand, then a different voice comes on.
“Detective Knight? I’m Anna’s producer. I think she’s told you how sorry we are about that screwup yesterday. The Harper on camera was like a different girl from the one we spoke to beforehand. You’re asking what she was saying when Anna acted—as per editorial guidelines—to terminate the interview. I have to stress this is not for attribution, and I’m telling you what I think I heard. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Right, so, what I heard Harper say was…”
I write down four words. And the crazy pinball machine of this case takes another tilt.
Last night I was frustrated that I didn’t know of any reason why someone might harm Dan, other than revenge by or for Harper, or something connected to jealousy and breakup dramas.
But the producer’s four little words have just given me exactly that.
She heard Harper Fenn say: It wasn’t just me.
Wherever Harper is, I need to speak to her now.
Fifty-Eight
Abigail
Julia went after Sarah. I won’t forget that.
Bridget looked after me. She phoned Michael, and he came down from New Haven immediately. I’m not fool enough to think it was on my account. I heard Bridget speaking to him. “Something’s happened, and Abigail needs you” wasn’t enough. She had to spell out what his son has been accused of to get him agreeing to return.
There’s no going back from this for me and Sarah. My son is innocent. I know it, and everyone who knows him knows it.
All the way home, I talked Michael through what we shoul
d do.
“A lawsuit against the news channel for broadcasting such gross falsehoods. Damages pursued. A lawsuit against Harper…”
My husband nodded, listening. I can’t remember the last time he was so attentive when I spoke.
“Those are the legal means,” I continue. “But we can do more than that. Sarah knows everyone’s secrets. But I know Sarah’s secrets.”
I tallied them in my head, trying to remember each thing she’d told us or that I’d witnessed that might cross the line. The magical infringements: illegal charms, use of restricted ingredients, craft performed for minors. And the technical ones: breach of confidentiality, retention of harvested human ingredients.
“The right lawyer could cobble something together from all that,” I told Michael. “But there’s a better way to use it. Sarah likes to preach about unity and oneness as though they’re her witchy superpowers. But they’ll work equally well against her. By the time I’m done, Sanctuary will be united—in seeing Harper and Sarah destroyed.”
I was talking so much I hadn’t noticed that we’d reached the house and the car was stationary on the driveway.
“We’ll sort this out,” Michael said. “Rest, and we’ll make plans in the morning.”
I accepted the sleeping pill he gave me, because I’d never have slept otherwise and I need my strength for what’s ahead. When I woke, the horror of Harper’s vile, lying interview came back to me, and I rushed to the toilet to vomit. But when I finally washed and dressed and stumbled downstairs, I saw all the proof I might need of my son’s beautiful innocence.
The living room is full of Spartans. I stand in the door for a moment watching them, inhaling that wonderful odor of teenage boys—a light tang of sweat, the faintest whiff of training shoe, all incompletely masked by body spray. The smell still lingers in Dan’s things. The dirty clothes I pulled from the laundry basket and zipped in a storage bag to preserve his scent on them as long as possible.
Freddie McConaughey is here, and his dad, Mitch, who manages Sports on the Shore. Here’s Coach, his expression determined, like it is before any game. This is Dan’s team—they’re still his teammates. Spartana Semper—always a Spartan.
“Come and join us, Abi,” Michael says, patting the space next to him on the sofa. “I’ve invited the guys here to make plans. Something public—something big.”
“Boys,” I say, taking my place. “You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”
An attack on one is an attack on them all. They understand that. These boys will be my wolf pack as we hunt Harper down and tear her apart.
Fifty-Nine
Sarah
Harper didn’t come back last night. Where does she go to? How could she not want to sleep wrapped up in my charms and spells?
How could she not want her mother’s protection?
My girl has become a mystery to me, and it pierces like glass in my heart. For weeks, she carried around the secret of what Dan did to her. And yes, she told me. But only a few hours before she told a reporter and the entire state.
That’s a selfish sadness, though. The only thing that matters is keeping her safe. The cops now have a motive to pin on her. The detective rang first thing this morning, in between the reporters calling. I didn’t answer, just listened as she left a message asking where Harper was. However sympathetic she seemed before, she’ll be after my girl now.
And Abigail…
Abigail will never forgive this. I saw her face. She smashed the television, but she wanted to smash the world. If Harper had been there, Abi wouldn’t have snatched up a mug to throw—it would have been a knife from the kitchen.
There’s no chance now that this will end. At first, I thought Abigail was convincing herself that Harper killed Dan to have something to bargain with for his resurrection. But now I think she truly believes it.
So what do I do? My overwhelming urge is to look for my daughter. To hold her and know that she’s in one piece. But rituals of finding rely on people’s memories, identifying the last place something was seen. They’re for objects that people have lost, not for people who’ve chosen to get lost. Otherwise there’d be no such thing as missing children or runaway spouses.
Wherever she is, I have to trust that she knows what she’s doing and is safe.
My task is to shield her from the consequences of what she’s just shared with the world. Jake will double down on his accusation, which means Bolt will double down. He’ll close ranks with Abigail. My visit to him will have been useless. So what do I do next?
There’s a rap on the door. It’ll be more journalists. I’ve ignored the nonstop ringing of my phone this morning, and their knocking. Peeping around the curtains, I’ve seen three TV crews outside, and after what they did yesterday, my fingers itch to hex the lot of them. There’s more banging, which I ignore, until I hear a voice that I can’t ignore calling my name.
It’s Cheryl.
Why is Bridge’s wife here? Does she have news of Harper?
I open up. Cheryl is looking authoritative and composed in her pantsuit. A couple of cameras have swung in our direction, perhaps uncertain who this official-looking visitor is. Plainclothes FBI, perhaps. Or Child Protection, come to take my girl.
She hesitates, and I urge her in. I don’t miss the little shudder as she ducks under the bundle of twigs hung above the door. Her gaze roams around the hallway, absorbing everything.
I’d forgotten that she’s never been in here before. It bothered me at first, that my oldest friend’s wife didn’t want to step inside the house of a witch, but I trained myself not to take it personally. Told myself it was nothing more than someone with allergies avoiding a dog- or cat-owning home.
It still hurts, though.
“Bridget sends her love,” says Cheryl, as though it’s a formality to be hurried through, “but I wanted to speak to you as Sanctuary High’s principal. Obviously things are going to be difficult at school after what Harper’s claimed…”
“After what Dan did, you mean?”
“Sarah, my heart goes out to you. It really does. But it’s not up to us, me and you, to decide what happened. That’s for the police. And given that Dan’s dead, it’s not like this rape allegation will ever go to court, so we’ll never know the truth.”
“I know the truth. It’s what my daughter told me.”
How dare she stand in my home, talking like this? But Cheryl has obviously realized she’s not handling this right.
“Look, I don’t want to sound unsympathetic. It’s just that I have a duty of care to an entire school. Hundreds of kids. They’re already traumatized from Daniel’s death, and this is going to rock them all over again. My concern has to be for their welfare and academics.
“While I can’t take sides in any of this, I had to stop by and reassure you and Harper that I’ll do everything I can to ensure she’s supported and feels safe at school. It’s just she can’t afford any more absences. She’s already dipped below 90 percent attendance, and if that gets worse we’ll have to include it on her student record.”
One day off school every two weeks. I wasn’t aware of that, but I’m not going to tell Cheryl. My girl has just revealed that she was raped by her boyfriend, and the principal is hassling me about her attendance?
“Given what you now know, I’d say there’s a pretty clear reason why she’s not been feeling safe at school.”
Cheryl looks conflicted.
“Yes, of course I… Sarah, I’m saying this for Harper’s own good. I know that for people like you, education maybe isn’t a priority, but it’s my belief—it was my belief—that your career route isn’t an option for Harper. We want her to graduate, but she has to turn up. I’ll do all I can to make sure she feels supported.”
Cheryl is trying to help; I know it. But there’s so much wrong with what she just said that I don’t know where to beg
in. “Education not a priority” for “people like you”? She means witches. Because in addition to being slutty, we’re also stupid? And what was that correction about formerly believing that being a practitioner isn’t a career open to Harper? Cheryl knows that Harper doesn’t have the gift. She’s always known that. Nothing’s changed.
“Thank you,” I say, pasting a smile onto my face. “Of course Harper’s graduation is a priority. Without the gift, she needs to make her way in the world somehow. I’ll let her know that she can count on your backing.”
“I’ll assign her a dedicated counselor,” Cheryl says quickly. “As principal, I have to remain… She’ll be supported.”
I nod, but inside I’m incensed. Cheryl was a campaigner in her youth—just your basic angry feminist, she said once with an uncharacteristic flash of humor. But now her job means she can’t take the side of a girl who was raped by her boyfriend?
As I show her to the door, I figure that pretty soon Harper and I are going to learn who our friends really are.
I’m so afraid they’ll be fewer than we think.
But the magical community will always have our back. There couldn’t be a clearer case of discrimination than the way we’re being treated. An innocent, giftless girl being victimized without evidence, just because her mom’s a witch?
I can go to my own kind for help.
Perhaps one of the Moot Council could conduct a Rite of Determination on Harper to prove she has no ability? Yes, evidence obtained by magic can’t be used in court. But we all know the police use magical investigators while evidence-gathering. Surely with something that unequivocal, the cops would abandon their inquiry before it gets to court.
It’s almost office hours, and on the stroke of nine, I call the Moot and ask to speak to their legal counsel. The bored-sounding receptionist asks if this is my first time making contact about my problem, and when I say yes, he directs me to an online form to complete.
“This is about the Connecticut murder-by-witchcraft case you may have heard of,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m the accused’s mother.”