by Lori Drake
“Down boy,” Joey muttered, smirking.
She really wanted a shower, but she didn’t want to risk making her mother wait that long. Instead, she settled for washing up at the bathroom sink before letting Ben clean what was left of her wound. It would be fully closed within the hour, but she stuck a bandage on it anyway to keep the edges from rubbing against her clean shirt.
Dean waited in the hallway when she came out of the bathroom. His back was to her as he studied some family photographs on the wall, but he turned and gave her a quick once-over.
“You look almost human.”
Joey blinked, then realized it was just a figure of speech. At least, she hoped it was. “You too,” she said, flashing him a tired smile. “Ready to face the music?”
“Sure. I was just looking at these pics.” He motioned over his shoulder. “How much older are your brothers, anyway? They look all grown up, even when you were a kid.”
Joey swallowed. What had she been thinking, bringing him to this part of the house? She hadn’t been thinking at all. “They were, mostly. Ben’s the closest to me in age, he was a teen when I was born. I was a twilight baby. Come on.”
She led the way downstairs. Ben was nowhere to be seen. He’d headed off after playing triage nurse, but she was sure he was still around somewhere. Making himself scarce, probably, since he wasn’t the one facing the firing squad.
“Is Chris here?” she asked.
“No, he’s with Emma.”
Joey nodded, drew a deep breath and flashed Dean a weak smile, then knocked on the study door and entered when bidden. She kept her chin up and back straight, prepared to face the music—just not with her tail between her legs.
Adelaide Grant sat behind her big mahogany desk, elbows planted on the arms of her leather chair and fingers steepled. Reginald stood to her right, in his customary place at her side. His expression was largely unreadable. If Joey hadn’t already known she was in trouble, the fact that her father didn’t offer any sort of smile or wink was a great big flashing neon sign.
The mystery of where Ben had gotten off to was solved; the whole pack was there. Except Jon, anyway.
“Ah, the prodigal daughter returns,” Adelaide said, green eyes flicking from Joey to Dean. Her cool demeanor gave nothing away. “And you would be?”
Dean cleared his throat softly. “Dean Torres, ma’am.”
Adelaide inclined her head, the soul of politeness. “Mr. Torres, thank you for bringing Josephine home safely. I’m sure you have somewhere to be, so we won’t delay you further.”
“Actually, Dean should be here for this,” Joey said. “It involves him too.”
Adelaide narrowed her eyes, but said, “Very well.”
“I—”
Adelaide held up a hand, silencing Joey. “You know I can always tell when you lie, Josephine. Don’t even try. Tell me what you’ve done.”
Embarrassment flooded Joey. It was one thing for her mother to talk that way to her in front of the family, but in front of a guest? She swallowed her mortification and licked her suddenly dry lips.
Then she told them everything. Everything about Chris contacting her from beyond the grave. Everything about Dean helping her talk to him. Everything about Emma-Tammy. Everything—okay, almost everything—about her trip to Mexico to talk to Harper, and the information that had yielded about Chris's situation. Everything about the treacherous Tasha and her twisted magic. Everything about the spell Emma had cast, and its tragic results.
It was that last bit that choked her up, but she was done by then. She struggled to hold it together while everyone looked at her. Judged her. She couldn’t bear to meet their eyes. Her actions had felt wholly justified in the heat of the moment, but now? Her stubbornness had cost Cheryl her life. Shame threatened to turn her inside out, and her mother hadn’t even said a word of rebuke. Yet.
The silence in the wake of her lengthy confession stretched. Joey struggled not to fidget. Adelaide didn’t like it when she fidgeted.
“Leave us,” Adelaide said, at last.
Joey looked up as the pack stirred around the room, heading for the door. Her father paused on the way past to put a hand on her shoulder. He said nothing, but the gesture spoke volumes. Whatever else would come, he forgave her. His attention slid to Dean, who lingered at Joey’s side, clearly uncertain if he was part of the “us”. Offering the medium a smile, Reginald quietly invited him to step outside and chat. The two men were the last to file out, closing the door quietly behind them.
Adelaide lingered behind her desk until everyone had left, then rose and walked around it to face Joey once more, this time standing.
“You’ve left out one detail that I am very curious about,” Adelaide said, leaning against the desk.
“Um, what’s that?”
Adelaide tilted her head. “Why were you so determined to do this on your own?”
Joey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’ve just told you your son’s spirit is trapped on the astral plane, ghosts and witches are real, and you want to know why I didn’t ask for help?”
Adelaide nodded.
A sudden realization struck Joey. A chill went down her spine. “Oh my god. You knew.”
“That’s not an answer.” Adelaide’s patience wasn’t infinite. She folded her arms, prepared to wait but—Joey knew—only for so long.
“Because you’d all think I was delusional with grief, insisting Chris was still here.”
Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. “True, but not a complete answer.”
Joey threw up her hands. “Because you shut me out! I wanted to be in on the investigation, but you had Sam leave me in the dark.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Well, then he did it on his own! Either way, it left me less than interested in sharing any information with him. I thought I could handle it on my own, and I didn’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt. I already lost one brother, I don’t want to lose another!” Somewhere along the way, tears started to burn in Joey’s eyes. As much as she wanted to hold them in, she couldn’t. They spilled down her cheeks, chased by a sob that she barely swallowed.
“There it is,” Adelaide said. “That’s the whole truth.” Straightening, she stepped forward and gathered her daughter in her arms.
Joey sagged against her mother’s frame, losing her composure entirely. For a moment it was like she was a little girl again, seeking the comfort only a mother can give. It had been a very long time since that had last happened.
Adelaide cupped the back of her head with one hand and rubbed her back with the other. “Shh. There, there, child.”
It took a few minutes for Joey to cry herself out and regain some measure of composure. When she did, she stepped back and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” Adelaide asked, brows drawing together in confusion.
“Ready for you to yell at me for being headstrong and reckless, so I can yell at you for smothering me.”
It was risky, snarking at Adelaide, but she chuckled in response. “Josephine, your instincts are right. Protect the pack, at all costs. It’s your methods that need some finesse. You need to stop looking at me as an adversary, so we can work together. There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t do to keep you and your brothers safe, and sometimes that means not telling you things.”
“Things like magic is real, ghosts are a thing, witches be bitches…”
“Mmmhmm. And things like ‘never confront a witch in her sanctum.’”
Joey’s temper spiked in the wake of that oh-so-sage advice. “But why, Mom? Why didn’t you tell me about any of this? Why didn’t you train me to deal with hunters, the way you apparently did for the guys? It can’t be because I’m a girl.”
“Because you weren’t ready,” Adelaide said simply.
Joey scoffed. “That’s bullshit. I’m just as capable as they are. I don’t need your coddling.”
“You’re capable, yes. I ra
ised you to be. But you think with your heart when you should think with your head. If I’ve coddled you, it’s only because I see your potential and I want to give you the opportunity to grow into it—an opportunity I never had.”
Joey frowned, folding her arms. She didn’t know a lot about her mother’s early life, just that it was a tumultuous time that Adelaide didn’t like to talk about. “So, the cat’s out the bag. Now what?”
Adelaide turned back to her desk, picking up her leather-bound address book. “Now I make a phone call,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll bite. To who?” Joey asked, folding her arms.
“To the High Priestess of the San Diego coven,” Adelaide answered, flipping through the book. “If there’s a rogue witch in their territory causing trouble, they’ll want to know about it. Witches are extremely territorial, and if anyone can bring this Tasha to heel with a minimum of collateral damage, it’s them.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that’d be a good idea, then,” Joey mumbled.
“Finally,” Adelaide said, lips curving in a small smile. “Something we agree on.”
Emma wasn’t considered a dangerous threat in need of isolation, but the only way Chris could ensure that held true was to remain in her body. When they brought her to the police station to be processed, they cuffed her to a group bench to wait until they were ready. It took about an hour for them to file her statement, seal her personal effects in a bag and take her mug shots and fingerprints. Then she was tossed in a group holding cell with a handful of other women. There was a single toilet and no privacy, but at least the handcuffs were off.
Chris didn’t want to think about having to use that toilet, for a variety of reasons. It had been about two hours since he’d taken over Emma’s body by then. As he slumped on the hard wooden bench bolted to the floor, he rubbed his face and hoped Emma hadn’t had a big glass of water at lunch.
Getting through the police interview had been a challenge. He’d done his best to play the grieving widow. It helped that he really was shaken and grieving for Cheryl. He had no way of knowing what story Joey and Dean had given the cops so he lawyered up, refusing to answer their questions without an attorney present. They hadn’t liked that, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. Miranda rights, and all that.
Sighing, he folded Emma’s arms and settled to wait. He was fairly certain Jon would ride to the rescue, but he wasn’t sure how long that would take. In the meantime, he avoided eye contact with the other women in the cell but observed them discreetly, sizing them up. He doubted any were hardened criminals. Surely those would get cells of their own, right? But one of them was agitated. She paced and muttered to herself, occasionally drumming her fingers against the top of her head. It was the tic that made him uneasy, made her seem less than stable.
Better me than Joey, I suppose. She’d lose her shit, locked up in here.
Fortunately it was only about thirty minutes before Officer Gutierrez approached the cell door with cuffs in hand and barked, “Carpenter! Front and center.” With her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her clipped words and no-nonsense attitude, the short hispanic woman was clearly ex-military. She’d minced no words on the way back to holding, but made it clear that “funny business” would not be tolerated.
It took Chris a moment to realize that ‘Carpenter’ was him, but he was soon handcuffed once more and led back to interrogation. Gutierrez escorted him to a chair and connected the cuffs to a chain bolted to the floor. It seemed like overkill to him, but he hung his head and sat there in silence while the officer withdrew.
There was no clock, just a one-way mirror and a security camera high up in one corner. He twisted to look behind him, but the room was featureless, with drab grey walls and a dingy linoleum floor. It might have been the same one he had been in earlier. He couldn’t be sure.
There was no telling how much time passed before the door opened again, but it felt like an eternity. Relief flooded Chris as Jon entered the room, following Gutierrez.
Jon took one look at him and frowned. “Excuse me, Officer. Before you go would you please remove the restraints?”
Gutierrez gave Jon an inscrutable look, then walked over and unfastened the cuffs.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Chris murmured, rubbing his wrists. It was still weird to hear Emma’s voice when he spoke. Weirder than Dean’s, on account of the femininity. It wasn’t the only weird thing about being in a woman’s body, to be sure, and Chris hoped he didn’t have to remain there for much longer.
The officer nodded curtly and headed for the door. “Fifteen minutes,” she told them, on her way out.
And then there were two.
Jon stepped forward to offer a hand and Chris rose from his chair to greet him. “I’m Jonathan P—” He didn’t get any further. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Chris wrapped him in a tight hug.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Chris said, holding on somewhat longer than necessary. Or appropriate.
Jon bore it with dignity, giving his client an awkward pat on the back before attempting to extract himself. “It’s what I do. Now, we have much to discuss and little time to do it.”
Chris released him and nodded, returning to his chair.
Jon settled on the other side of the table, opened his briefcase and removed a legal pad and pen. “I understand that you refused to give a statement to the police. That was smart, given the circumstances. They’re prepared to charge you with reckless driving, driving without a license, providing false information to police, and… pardon, I know this may be difficult for you, vehicular manslaughter.”
Chris blinked. “False information?”
Jon glanced down at the legal pad, which already bore notes in his tidy hand. “Ah, yes. Your prints were matched to one Tammy Nichols of Eastgate, Nevada. You’re Tammy Nichols, yes?”
Chris pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He’d forgotten all about that when identifying himself to the cops, and as a result got Emma in even more trouble than she was already in.
Sighing, Chris let his hand drop and focused on Jon again. “Are we being recorded? Or observed?” he asked, glancing past Jon to the mirror, and then the camera in the corner. There was no little red light on it, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“No,” Jon said. “Attorney-client privilege is part of your right to due process. If they violate that, I’ll make sure the whole case gets thrown out. You can speak freely, ma’am.”
Chris nodded. “This is going to sound completely crazy, but I need you to hear me out.”
Jon set his golden pen down and folded his hands atop the table, nodding for Chris to continue.
“I’m not Emma or Tammy. I’m Chris—your brother Chris. My spirit is trapped on the astral plane, and I hopped into Emma’s body to stop her from hurting someone while she was overcome by grief.”
“You’re right,” Jon said, leaning back in his chair. “That does sound completely crazy.”
“I know, right?” Chris sighed, rubbing his face. “And the story only gets crazier, but I swear it’s true. Joey can confirm it.”
Jon glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time, so why don’t you give me the shortest version possible.”
Encouraged by the fact that Jon hadn’t dismissed him out of hand, Chris launched into an abbreviated explanation. He left out anything that wasn’t immediately relevant, but told his brother about Emma’s past with the cult-coven in Nevada, Tasha killing him to torture his spirit for information, the spell Tasha had sent that caused the accident, and Emma’s reaction to Cheryl’s death.
“So,” Chris said, working toward a conclusion. “Emma’s cloaking-slash-magic-dampening necklace is locked up and I don’t know how much longer I can stay in her body. I have no idea what she’ll do when she wakes up, but she could be dangerous and I don’t know what to tell the cops. Please help me.”
Jon had listened in silence, taking all of this in without interrupting. “Well,” he said, ru
bbing his chin. “You certainly can’t tell them that you were driving recklessly while trying to outrun a spell, so I suggest you tell them that you thought someone was following you. Tell them about running away from the cult in Nevada, and that you were going under an assumed name because you didn’t want them to find you. A sympathetic judge might throw out the false information charge. After all, it was given in a moment of distress.”
“So, you believe me?” Chris asked, leaning forward intently.
Jon hesitated, glancing at his watch again. “I’ve heard a lot of crazy things over the years. The craziest ones are often true. I’ll talk to Joey, but more importantly I’ll see what I can do to get your arraignment pushed up and arrange for bail. The only potential problem I see is that the DA will probably make a case for you—er, Tammy—being a flight risk.”
Chris sagged against the back of his chair. Jon believed him. Well, sort of. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Somehow, he’d get Emma through this.
They finished up in the nick of time. The door opened and a balding detective strolled in, a manila folder in his hand. He paused just inside the door. His bushy brows lifted in surprise.
Jon stood smoothly, buttoning his suit coat. “Good evening, Detective Harding. To what do we owe the pleasure? Surely this case isn’t being investigated as a homicide.” He stepped around the table to offer the detective a handshake.
Harding shook his hand, lips twisting in a smirk. “On the contrary. I heard we had Tammy Nichols in custody and thought I’d drop by to ask her a few questions about the Martin case.” His eyes settled on Chris. Or, rather, the body Chris was wearing.
It took Chris a moment to catch up, but his eyes widened when he did.
Oh shit.
He hadn’t told Jon anything about the bank account, or Tammy Nichols being a person of interest in his own murder. It was one of those not immediately relevant details.
“Um,” Chris began, but he was legitimately speechless.
Jon took it all in stride. “I’m going to need another moment to confer with my client.”
The detective looked from Jon to Chris and back again. “Five minutes,” he said, then went back out into the hall.