by V. V. James
Witches are permitted to create a low-level affection-altering brew, if these are taken “by mutual agreement within preexisting, legally recognized relationships,” as the law has it. Client Garcia, A. shows a clear desire to be reconciled with his wife, I wrote, omitting the fact that I hadn’t asked him if he wanted me to use my magic to achieve this.
I reported back to Julia, who was of course overjoyed. The only thing I omitted was that I didn’t believe a word he’d said. All I needed to do after that was document her desire for the same outcome, then I could prepare the brew.
My records are regretful that an unexpected work engagement for Alberto meant that I handed the potion over to Julia only. She signed a receipt that the treatment protocol had been explained to her.
Alberto got a strong dose in his evening tea every night, and before the week was out, he was whisking Julia away to Paris for a romantic weekend, and placing the recurring order for roses that, if she knew the truth of it, would have won me the gratitude of Sanctuary’s florist forever. Abigail never knew why he suddenly ended things, and it was tough to see her brokenhearted. But I never doubted that I’d acted for the best for all involved.
Needless to say, Detective Knight gets a heavily edited version of this tale, and she seems to be swallowing it.
“So you have records of your conversations and a signed protocol?” the detective asks. “And you could take me to your booth and show me those right now?”
That catches me off guard. I don’t want to take her to the booth—not with what I’ve got set up in there. She won’t know its purpose, of course, but there are only so many more stories I can spin without getting my threads all hopelessly tangled.
I like the truth. It can never catch you out.
But sometimes lies are necessary. I can manage another one.
“I’d be delighted to.”
“Then let’s do it. I can share that with Mr. Garcia, and hopefully he’ll back off. There’s only one thing I don’t get. Why would he come storming into the station denying all knowledge of your intervention, when as you’ve just told me, he asked for it?”
The detective looks genuinely puzzled. I don’t sense that she’s trying to trap me, only that she was paying more attention than I thought. It’s an uneasy realization. I still feel like she’s on my and Harper’s side, but here’s one more reason to hope she stays that way.
“Abigail’s account of his pursuit paints him in a bad light, wouldn’t you say? So what better way of deflecting attention than to seize on the other thing she said and claim to be the victim of magical coercion?”
“It’s a common strategy,” Knight agrees. “The guilty claiming that they’re the victim.”
Then she falls silent, and I realize who she’s thinking of.
Oh.
Can she be having doubts about Harper’s testimony? Harper told me the cop ran into her yesterday, and that they spoke. And the way Detective Knight keeps checking in on our safety has been reassuring.
Should I simply tell her everything? About the raw, formless magic I sensed when I made my divination, and my belief that it’s connected to what happened six years ago. That Dan’s death at the villa was him being somehow reclaimed, after we brought him back that night.
It needn’t be a confession of necromancy after all. Surely I can tell the story well enough—Dan was on the threshold. Not actually dead. Merely close.
But I remember how just now, she went straight to that one discrepancy in my story about Alberto. She’d work it out—or talk to magical experts until she did. Death could only reclaim those it’s been cheated of, not those it never had in its clutches.
I can’t go down that route, not yet. Not until it’s the last card I have left to play. The ritual I’m preparing in my booth will work. It has to. And I’ll have the car journey over to come up with an innocuous explanation for the detective as to what the apparatus is all about.
“Right,” I say brightly. “Let’s go show you the Garcia records.”
A lone photographer skulking outside, doubtless on commission from the Sentinel, runs over, bulb flashing, as we head to the cop’s car.
“Smile,” Knight mutters. “And play with your hair so it’s obvious you’re not cuffed. Then get in up front, next to me, not in the back like a perp.”
We’re over the bridge and out of the Cobb, heading for Main Street, when my phone rings.
“Ms. Fenn, it’s Anita here, the principal’s secretary at Sanctuary High. We have an incident ongoing with your daughter, and I’d like you to come in right away.”
“I’m with… Wait a moment…”
“Ms. Fenn,” the secretary persists in my ear, “whatever you’re doing, you should drop it right now.”
“Can we?” I ask the detective, as panic rises within me. And mercifully she nods and turns in the middle of the road, and we speed toward Sanctuary High.
Sixty-Seven
Maggie
Sanctuary High is plenty swanky. I’d wondered why kids like Dan Whitman and Bea Garcia, whose parents are loaded, came here when they could attend private schools, but now I see. The central building is historic in a good way, not a falling-down way, and it’s flanked by new buildings, all smoky-glass windows and high ceilings. Every kid is in uniform, with few concessions to teen style: girls’ skirts reach over their knees, boys’ pants all cover their asses. As kids mill in the corridors, I see no facial piercings or colored hair.
No wonder Harper skips school.
“Sarah.”
As we turn a corner, Cheryl Lee steps forward. A pursing of the principal’s mouth suggests she isn’t pleased to see me.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Detective Knight? This may be an unpleasant little incident, but it’s hardly a police matter.”
“Sarah was with me when your call came, so I brought her straight over. And obviously, after last night I need to know that the school is safeguarding Harper adequately. Now what’s going on?”
“It’s over, just about. We’re trying to find Harper some spare clothes.”
“Why?” Sarah asks, panicked. “Is she hurt? Blood?”
“Nothing of the sort. Only water.”
“Water? Who did it? What did they do?”
“Sarah, this really is a private matter; I wish you’d let…”
“I want Detective Knight to hear, Cheryl. If someone is trying to intimidate my daughter, it’s relevant to her investigation.”
It’s lucky that part of my job is ignoring the fuck out of people who’d rather I was somewhere else, because Principal Lee is glaring daggers at me. When she speaks, I understand why.
“It was Bea Garcia. She and a few others dunked Harper in the fountain.”
Sarah makes a wounded noise. The window of the room we’re in cracks from side to side with a loud, clean sound that makes us all jump. No question what caused it. Sarah Fenn looks like she could punch her way through a wall. The principal is horrified, and her hand reflexively goes to the dainty crucifix around her neck.
“Take me to my daughter,” Sarah says.
We hear Harper’s voice before we reach the counselor’s office.
“I’m not having my mom see me like this. Your sweater will do.”
There is a sound of protest and scuffle, and when we enter the room, Harper is sitting there wearing a man’s knit sweater, while a flustered guy in a striped shirt flattens down his hair. He nervously introduces himself as the school counselor.
Water is pooling on the floor beneath Harper’s chair where her hair’s dripping. The limp cuffs of her white school shirt poke out from the counselor’s sweater sleeves. The shirt itself must be practically transparent from the soaking. How could they expect her to sit like that in front of an adult male, counselor or no? I’m disgusted. It’s clear that Harper’s being treated like the problem here.
Sarah goes to her at once, and Harper doesn’t push her away. She clings. Her mom smooths the wet hair back from her daughter’s face.
“I am so sorry this happened to you, darling. I won’t let them get away with it. I won’t.”
“You said the fountain?” I ask Lee. “There could be all sorts of contaminants in water like that. This girl needs a hot shower, dry clothes, and some space. Ms. Fenn, you should take Harper home right now. Principal, get your secretary to call a taxi.”
Cheryl Lee bridles. She’s not used to being given orders in her own school. Well, screw that. How could she let this happen?
“You do realize,” I tell her, “that while a ‘dunking’ is arguably common assault, a ‘ducking’ done to a person linked to the magical community is a hate crime? It’s what was done to test premodern witchcraft accusations.”
That shocks her into acting. I guess hate crimes don’t go down well in school annual reviews to the board of education. We escort the pair of them to the taxi, and as it pulls away, another car rolls up. It’s Julia Garcia, looking no less anxious than Sarah did, and like she’s not slept since—well, since Abigail’s revelations about her husband, I guess.
“The traffic from Anaconna was terrible, but I drove as fast as I could. What’s happened, Cheryl? Is Bea okay?”
“She’s in my office, and she’s fine, Julia. But we need to have a talk. Come with me.”
I hold a hand out and stop them.
“Technically, I could ask to be there,” I tell Lee. “But I think you’ll have a more constructive conversation without me. However, I presume your counselor is going to prepare a report of this incident? I’d appreciate being sent a copy before the end of the day.”
“Certainly, Detective,” Lee grinds out between clenched teeth.
Julia’s head swivels to look back at me as the principal leads her away. She’s harried and bewildered, and I think of her husband sitting wild-eyed in my office just a few hours earlier, claiming that Sarah Fenn bewitched him. What went down in the Garcia household last night? Is that why Bea’s been acting up today?
This whole town is starting to come apart at its seams. And far from stitching it back up, every conversation I have is ripping it a little bit harder.
Sixty-Eight
INCIDENT REPORT, MAY 28
Prepared by School Counselor Samuel Damasio, MA, NCC
Cause
Incident occurred during midafternoon recess, arising from a conversation between Beatriz GARCIA and Harper FENN as they left a tutoring session.
FENN says GARCIA alleged that her mother was responsible for bewitching GARCIA’s father, and that FENN herself was a “slut” who bewitched the late Daniel Whitman and then “cried rape.”
GARCIA claims that FENN was “gloating” over remarks made yesterday by Abigail Whitman, about her mother’s magical manipulation of GARCIA’s father.
It seems unlikely that we can establish an accurate picture of this conversation.
Incident
By the time the two girls had reached the inner courtyard, they were audibly combative, using language prohibited under section 7b of the Student Code of Conduct. A small group of onlookers had gathered, including Freddie McConaughey, Oliver Welland, and Dale Hamilton. Witnesses report that both girls appeared “angry,” “worked up,” or “furious.”
All onlookers agree that FENN attacked first, lunging at GARCIA. GARCIA admits that she was using provocative language but denies abuse. FENN claims that Garcia employed hate speech, including terms such as “stick-hopper,” a listed slur of sexual promiscuity applied exclusively to the magical community.
No onlookers support FENN’s claim that GARCIA used hate speech.
GARCIA pushed FENN away, and FENN stumbled back into the fountain. GARCIA states that this was an accident. FENN claims that it was GARCIA’s intent all along, which was why she had picked a fight and then escalated it at this particular location on campus.
Onlookers corroborate that FENN went into the fountain as a result of physical force from GARCIA.
Still standing in the fountain, FENN made a threatening gesture toward GARCIA, described variously as a “clenched fist” or “choking” gesture.
GARCIA claimed that she felt her airway constrict and was fighting for breath. Witnesses saw GARCIA fall to her knees, gasping and clawing at her throat, and heard her blaming this on FENN.
FENN states that GARCIA was “entirely faking” and reiterates that it is common knowledge that she does not possess magical abilities.
GARCIA insists that the choking sensation she experienced was real. The school nurse suggests it was a panic attack.
FENN claims that GARCIA then directed McConaughey, Welland, and Hamilton to restrain her in the fountain, while GARCIA taunted her that they would test if she was a witch by dunking her.
FENN points out that the three boys are all members of the football team and were close friends of the late Daniel Whitman. She claims that this proves the entire incident was a premeditated assault orchestrated by GARCIA with the foreknowledge of the named boys. She further states that GARCIA had no problem speaking when urging the boys to “duck” her under, making nonsense of her claim to have been “choked.”
GARCIA says that she did ask the boys to go to FENN, but in order to “get her out of the fountain and away from me.” She states that she was “genuinely terrified” of what FENN might do next.
McConaughey, Welland, and Hamilton all agree that they took hold of FENN but did not lift her from the fountain immediately. They describe her as “kicking,” “scratching,” and “thrashing around.” McConaughey says he told her to calm down so that they could lift her out. FENN did not comply, and in their struggle to restrain her, she slipped and fell deeper into the water.
FENN states that this was a forcible ducking.
At this point, faculty member Casey Hodiak (geography teacher) intervened. Mr. Hodiak says that as he approached the scene, he heard considerable noise from assembled students, which died down immediately when his presence was realized. He ordered the boys to lift FENN from the fountain basin, which they did right away. He describes both girls as “overexcited” and “aggressive.”
He sent GARCIA to the nurse’s room, with instructions that she was to report to the principal’s office once discharged, and brought FENN to me, Jeremy Damasio (school counselor). Both sets of parents were immediately notified.
Conclusion
This was an ugly episode, involving students with mostly excellent prior conduct records. FENN is the only one with identified issues, chiefly unauthorized absences and numerous dress-code violations. GARCIA is a prominent student leader (class president in grades nine and eleven) and committed to her intended course of politics and legal studies. All three boys are starters on the school football team.
All involved were close to Daniel Whitman, whose tragic passing has affected this school’s community so deeply. There are ongoing tensions around claims made in the aftermath of that death.
In light of this, I recommend leniency for all parties. See attached action plan.
Signed: Samuel Damasio, MA, NCC
Submitted to Principal, VP, and filed
Sixty-Nine
Abigail
Mary-Anne Bolt answers the door. Her thick body is trussed in apron strings like a ham in twine, and her face somehow looks both puffy and hollow.
If she’s surprised to see me on her doorstep, she doesn’t show it. There’s a robotic quality to her politeness as she asks how she can help.
“Is Tad here?” I ask. “I need to speak with him.”
“He’s with Jake. Upstairs.”
“Can I come in?”
Mary-Anne is standing in the doorway, seemingly unable to either invite me in or turn me away.
“Mary-Anne? Is everything okay?�
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And something releases. The chief’s wife breaks into weeping that’s as helpless as a child’s. I lean in to comfort her, using the opportunity to step across the threshold and nudge the door shut behind me.
“The doctor came last night,” she sobs, “and said it’s just another case of mono and all Jakey needs is rest and fluids. But he’s so bad this morning, Abigail. He refused breakfast, and when we tried again to get him to eat, we couldn’t even rouse him. When you rang the bell, I thought maybe you were the paramedics already. But that doesn’t even make sense.”
I want to slap her and yell that it’s only mono, not murder, and that she needs to pull herself together. But I can’t antagonize the Bolts. I need the chief wholly committed.
“You don’t want an ambulance,” I tell her. “They’ll only take him to the local hospital, and I know from Michael they have poor outcomes. Very poor.”
Another wail from Mary-Anne.
“Michael’s at home. Let me call him.”
The chief’s wife is nodding dumbly at me like the milk cow she is. I can hardly bear to be in this house, surrounded by photos on every wall of her grinning, robust sons, but this opportunity is too good.
Michael agrees to come right over. He understands that Jake and the Bolts are our allies. I hurry Mary-Anne up the stairs to tell the chief that help is on its way, and to broach a conversation about ditching the detective and moving on with a proper prosecution of the two witches.
Jake is in bed, Tad holding his son’s hand.
“Mary-Anne?” he croaks, not turning around.
“It’s Abigail. I’ve called my husband, and he’ll be here any minute. He’ll get Jakey well again,” I tell him.
Tad swivels on Jake’s desk chair, which he’s dragged to the side of the bed. His fleshy haunches bulge beneath the molded plastic arms, but it’s the expression on his face that shocks me. Tad Bolt isn’t a man in his prime, but he always radiates vigor. Now the chief’s eyes regard me listlessly.