Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  How badly she’s failing.

  There’s Bridget with Cheryl, over by the drinks stand. She waves, but doesn’t leave her wife’s side. I know she’s still conflicted, pulled by her old friendship with Sarah. But it’s only a matter of time before she’s mine.

  Julia’s not here. I called her up, but she refused to choose between us, saying she owed Sarah too much. When I argued that potions for her older kids’ allergies hardly counted, she said it went deeper than that. And once she explained exactly what sort of debt she owed Sarah? Well, suddenly a lot of things made sense.

  If Julia had been here tonight, if she had come out to support me, then the speech I’m about to make would have been different. But as it is, she has only herself to blame.

  Freddie McConaughey bounds up to me.

  “Shall we hand out the candles, Mrs. W?” he asks.

  Under his arm is a box full of tapers, and other Spartans hold more. Just as well. There are hundreds of people here, spread out across the playing fields, the running track, and the shore. I’m glad about the PA system that Mitch has rigged up. No one must miss a word.

  “Go for it, Freddie.”

  The sky is darkening, and I check my watch. It’s time.

  Across the club grounds, tapers are being lit. Points of light spread from person to person. As I ascend the few steps to the platform, the perspective changes. Instead of individual flames, I see a whole sea of light. Sanctuary is blazing with love for my son.

  Now I have to turn that love into rage.

  Sixty-Two

  REMARKS BY ABIGAIL WHITMAN AT THE #JUSTICEFORDANIEL VIGIL, POSTED TO SANCTUARYFORDANIEL.COM

  “I wish this was simply a celebration of my son’s life and promise. But as you all know, Michael and I cannot mourn our beautiful boy. We cannot bury him with dignity or let his spirit go in peace.

  There has been no “justice for Daniel.”

  The truth about how he died is being suppressed.

  And last night we saw vicious lies hurled against Daniel’s reputation on statewide television. By the person—you all know who she is—most directly involved in Daniel’s death.

  It was like watching him murdered a second time.

  It was worse than murder, because it aimed to kill that thing of Daniel that still lives—his reputation. His beloved memory.

  I’m sorry. Please give me a moment.

  It’s so hard.

  There’s not a day I don’t wish it was me who died. Me being attacked. When it’s your child, and you can’t protect them…

  So here’s what I wanted to say. Witchcraft. We’re used to thinking of it as something harmless. Something helpful. We’ve all done it—or have thought of it. A charm to prevent the dog peeing on the carpet? Yes, please. A token to stop your husband snoring or your wife nagging? Wouldn’t that be great?

  I know that since this all happened, some people have been asking: But can witchcraft kill?

  Most of us don’t really know what it can do. But I do, because for years I counted as a friend the witch whose daughter killed my son twice over, once at the villa and again on live TV last night. I know exactly what witchcraft can do.

  Here’s an example. Just one, though I could tell you many more—and I will, if the authorities fail to act in my son’s murder. A woman—let’s call her “J”—told Fenn that her husband didn’t love her anymore. He’d fallen for someone else. This was true: the man loved this other woman madly. Pursued her. Bombarded her with messages and calls.

  I know this because I was the woman this man was obsessed with, although I never returned his feelings. I was happily married to my amazing Michael.

  So J demanded that Fenn magically force her unhappy husband to remain faithful to her.

  Now, you might be thinking: Is that even possible? I’m telling you, it’s possible. Though of course it’s illegal.

  Fenn used her power to override that man’s will. To make him do her bidding.

  That’s the truth about what witches are capable of. To them, other people’s rights—their loves and lives—are things their magic can alter on a whim.

  A few spells. A ritual. A brew. That’s all it takes to change a life—yours or mine.

  Or to end a life, like Daniel’s.

  Thank you again for coming tonight. I’m more grateful than I have words to say.”

  Sixty-Three

  EMAIL SENT TO DET. MAGGIE KNIGHT

  From: soccergirlsdad@outlook.com

  To: -redacted-

  Date: May 28, 6:55 a.m.

  Subject: Dan

  Detective,

  I heard there was some big party down at the Shore club last night “celebrating” Dan Whitman or some such. I wasn’t there. Figured you maybe oughta know why.

  Dan used to coach my girl. He coached the whole junior girls’ soccer team. Which you might think is weird given how he’s a football player, but then girls don’t play football, do they?

  My daughter was 13 when Dan picked her for the team.

  First off she loved it. She went every Saturday and to special coaching on Tuesday nights. Turns out sometimes “coaching” was trips to the bowling alley or beach barbecues.

  Then she didn’t love it anymore. Eventually, she told me and her mom she wanted to stop playing. Took a while longer for her to tell us why.

  I’m not gonna put it all down in an email. We never went to the police ’cause my girl was worried it’d get traced back to her and folks would find out. Sanctuary’s a small place, Detective. I wanted to break every bone in that boy’s body, but my girl begged and begged me not to.

  My daughter woke me and my wife up crying after the Fenn girl’s interview on TV. Seems all the kids were talking about it on their social media. When we gave her a hug, she said, “If I’d said something, Daddy, maybe he wouldn’t have hurt that other girl.” She was crying again all last night.

  So yeah, I don’t reckon there was justice for Daniel. ’Cause justice would have meant that shit being called out for the sort of boy he is. Was. I don’t think that witch girl’s lying, and neither should you.

  Angry Dad.

  Sixty-Four

  Maggie

  So here it is—proof of Harper’s It wasn’t just me, delivered to my inbox.

  It’s clear what Angry Dad is saying, even if he doesn’t spell it out: he believes Dan Whitman molested his kid when he coached her team.

  And if there was Harper, and this guy’s daughter, there might well be others. Molestation often manifests as repeat offending behavior. We all know the cases where abusers secure positions that give them easy access to victims.

  Dan’s dead, so he can never be tried for any crime. But what he did—or may have done—is still part of my case, because it gives me another line of motive for his death. What if he died, deliberately or accidentally, in a revenge attack by a parent?

  But as Harper said, how would a parent pass unnoticed in a party of teenagers? So, maybe an older sibling… I’ll get Chester to check who in the girls’ soccer team, this season or last, had a brother or sister at the villa that night. And we’ll need to talk to Angry Dad himself. I fire back an email requesting a conversation.

  It’ll be a busy day ahead. But first is making sure the Fenns don’t come to harm because Abigail Whitman stirred up the town last night. I head to the station to tell the desk sergeant that walk-by checks must be made on their house and Sarah’s booth.

  There’s a surprise waiting for me. An angry and unwelcome surprise, albeit handsomely packaged.

  A man wearing sharply tailored trousers and a charcoal-gray sweater that looks knit from the belly hair of baby alpacas weaned on Rogaine is sitting in the waiting area. He’s drawing on his expensive-looking phone using a stylus. One foot—yeah, his shoes look plenty expensive, too—is tapping the floor.

  �
��Detective Knight?” he says, springing up before my butt has even cleared the doorway. “I need to speak to you urgently.”

  I wonder if this is Angry Dad, father of the soccer-playing girl, but this dude’s swanky appearance doesn’t match the email’s homespun style. He’s got a Californian accent and hair that’s longer than you usually see on East Coast guys, worn in a smooth slick salted with gray. His dark eyes glare behind small rimless glasses.

  “I’m sure you’re aware my current investigation is keeping me rather busy, sir,” I tell him.

  I know this sort of man—and woman, because entitled assholery is a gender-equal pastime. My death-penalty witchcraft-homicide case be damned. He probably got a speeding ticket and wants me to know that his nanny, not him, was driving at the time.

  “I’m very aware of it, Detective. My wife is Julia Garcia. I’m Alberto, and I want to discuss what was said last night.”

  Oh.

  Suddenly a minor puzzle slots into place. The anecdote Abigail used—the unfaithful husband and the wife named J? What if J is for Julia?

  But that makes no sense. Alberto’s a plainly adoring husband. I remember the photos all over the house. The huge vase of roses.

  And—ahhh. I get it.

  “Follow me.”

  Alberto Garcia looks contemptuously at the strip lighting and carpet tiles as I lead him through to my scrappy HQ. When I offer him a chair, he looks around as if to check I’ve not got one of those fancy Aeron ones hidden in a corner.

  “So how can I help?”

  Alberto takes out a folded piece of paper that looks like something printed off the internet.

  “‘J demanded that Fenn magically force her unhappy husband to remain faithful to her,’” he reads, his expression grim. “‘She used her power to override that man’s will.’ That was Abigail Whitman speaking last night, Detective. J is my wife, Julia, and the man is me.”

  He puts the paper away and sits back, looking at me expectantly.

  “And, Mr. Garcia…?”

  “And, Detective, this describes a plainly illegal act, and I would like to know how you intend to investigate it.”

  Is he for real? My case has a teenage girl’s life at stake—a girl who must have played at his house, dined at his table, discussed first periods and first boyfriends with his daughter. And Alberto Garcia wants me to drop it and investigate Sarah Fenn’s Love Potion Number 9 that his wife asked for because Albie got the hots for his wife’s friend?

  That impatient foot starts tapping again. He’s for real.

  “I was called this morning by that dumpy little witch from the Sentinel, Beryl something, the news editor. They’re going to lead with this story and she wanted an interview, or at least a quote. I told her she’d get a lawsuit if she didn’t back off.”

  “I’m sorry, are you saying that Beryl Varley is a witch?”

  “I don’t know if you’re being funny or stupid, Detective, and I’d say it’s in your own best interests to be neither.”

  Ugh, this guy. And his wife seriously used magic to keep him?

  I explain, patiently, that I am in Sanctuary to investigate one case, and one case only—the death of Daniel Whitman. And given everything riding on that, including a death penalty and state-level interest from the media plus police and government authorities, I unfortunately have neither the time nor the dispensation to pursue side cases. But I’ll get one of the uniforms here to take a statement.

  “You people just don’t get it,” Alberto says, sliding his glasses up his nose. I remember he’s an architect, and picture him presenting plans for a steel-and-glass box to clients who asked for a cozy family home and saying the exact same thing when they protest.

  “Abigail may be crazy—for the record, it was a consensual affair and she pursued me—but she’s got one thing right. This is your case. A witch who’s prepared to mess with someone’s life like this plainly has no boundaries. How do you think this makes me feel?”

  “Are you telling me that you don’t love your wife, Mr. Garcia?”

  “Of course I do. I adore her. I buy her a hundred roses every week. The whole house fucking stinks of roses. I’m allergic to flowers, so why would I do that if I didn’t love her? Unless…”

  I look at Garcia. A pulse is throbbing in his forehead. And somehow, despite myself, I get what’s eating him. In a world where it often feels like not much is within our control, one thing that everyone expects to have free rein over is what they do with their heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I do wish I could help. Let me find someone.”

  It takes time to locate someone to speak to him, as it’s barely office hours and no fewer than three of the guys have called in sick. They were all patrolling the Sports on the Shore gathering last night, and I’ll bet they’re suffering from a bad case of undercooked chicken wings washed down with too much free beer.

  That also means the station will be too short-staffed to send officers by the Fenn place. A quick visit to warn Sarah that resources are spread thin today will give me an opportunity to ask about Garcia’s accusation, too. Because Alberto, asshole though he plainly is, has a point. What Abigail alleged was dark and manipulative magic. I can’t believe Sarah Fenn capable of it.

  I don’t want to believe Sarah Fenn capable of it.

  Sixty-Five

  Sarah

  I’m jumping every time someone knocks on the door, but I’ve come to recognize that firm bam-bam.

  The detective’s face is all sympathy. She’s still on my side—for now. Would she be, if she knew what I spent all yesterday and most of the night doing? I doubt it.

  “You heard about the vigil?” the cop asks as she watches me prepare tea. “The nature of Abigail Whitman’s remarks?”

  I tell her I did. Pierre came by after to tell us everything, then insisted on staying the night. He slept on the couch and drove Harper to school this morning. The cop is pleased he’s watching out for us and explains that the station is short-staffed today.

  “But how are you feeling? Those were strong allegations Mrs. Whitman made, and from someone who’s been close to you for many years.”

  And the question is so unexpected, so hard to think about, that I put the teapot down before I drop it.

  How do I feel?

  I feel exhausted, and just so frightened and sad—for myself and for Harper. For the friendships I’ve counted on for years that won’t survive this. For this town, where my daughter was born and where my ancestors brewed and bound, that is ready to turn against us.

  Pierre told me there were hundreds of people at the vigil last night. I know they were there to support Abigail in her grief, not to take sides against me and Harper, but that’s what it feels like.

  “Sarah?”

  The cop pulls out a chair and presses me into it.

  I’ve been solving other people’s problems my entire life. And now there’s one problem that’s mine to solve, and mine alone, and I’m terrified I won’t be able to. What if what I’m doing isn’t powerful enough? Or goes wrong?

  I can’t let that happen. I need to get back to my workroom.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell the cop. “I just want this to be over. Now don’t let me keep you.”

  “Before I go, Sarah—Ms. Fenn—I’m sorry, but I do have to ask and take some notes. Did you, through magical means, cause Alberto Garcia to cease his involvement or infatuation with Abigail Whitman and resume a marital relationship with his wife?”

  The detective has switched into formal police-speak, masking her thoughts.

  I wonder if she can imagine my divided loyalties last summer. First, Abigail’s confession that she was in love with a married man, then Julia coming to me in tears convinced that her husband was having an affair. When I scheduled a coven gathering for a weekend Alberto was supposedly at a conference, and Abi said s
he couldn’t make it because she was visiting her cousin, I knew I was dealing with one problem, not two.

  How could I choose between them? I know how loveless Abigail’s marriage is. And yet she could have set her sights on anyone. Why did it have to be the husband of a woman who had risked so much to help her the night her son fell from the window?

  Julia told me that Beatriz was acting out and neglecting her schoolwork, and there were terrible fights between Alberto and their two older kids, twin boys now away at college. Abigail said she didn’t think she could leave Michael, in case it hit Daniel too hard at such a crucial time in his football career.

  So I made my choice. I made it with love in my heart for both women. And I kept my coven united.

  “Love magic is highly restricted,” I tell the detective. “You know how fundamental the concept of consent is to our craft. To administer a draft to an unknowing subject to procure affection? I hardly need to point out what that sounds like.”

  “Narcotics- or alcohol-facilitated sexual assault,” the detective says, and then winces, presumably as she thinks of Harper.

  “Abigail’s been very clever, Detective. The allegation my daughter has laid against her son, she now lays against me. Do you see?”

  Knight nods.

  “But did you do it, Ms. Fenn?”

  And I have to tread carefully. So carefully.

  Because of course I did.

  Sixty-Six

  Sarah

  Luckily, that’s not the story my record-keeping tells.

  I knew that either Alberto would need to consent, or I would have to bend the rules by bending his will. So we had a heart-to-heart after I slipped a gentle disinhibitor into his drink. I steered the conversation onto his indiscretion, and as expected, he got defensive, blustering about how much he loved Julia, how much their family meant to him, how he was “only fooling around” with Abigail, that she had initiated it, et cetera, et cetera.

  It was the usual sort of protest from a caught-out adulterer. But it was sufficient for my needs. I recorded the conversation in my notes, tabbed under Garcia, A., as if he was a separate applicant from his wife, Garcia, J.