“Now that you say it,” I said, cheeks burning as I thought back on all the stuff that’d happened with the two of them. “They have both been acting a bit strangely.” I cringed as I thought of my fairly candid discussion of predictive powers with Patrick. Had I given too much away?
“We’ll have to come up with a way to see if they’re involved,” Zoe said, “but in the meantime, I don’t think you should spend any time with them in private. If the typewriter comes back, we can try to spy on them with predictions. Until then, Mee-maw?”
“I’ll do some digging, for sure. In the interim, keep your phones on and with you both at all times, and make sure we start locking doors. We don’t know what the Illuminati might throw at us, in the meantime.”
“Do you think Cricket will be safe?” Zoe said. “Maybe we should call the police or something?”
“Who is to say they’re not in league with the bastards?” Mee-maw said. “Like I said, the Illuminati has their hands in everything.”
“I don’t think that they’re after me, personally,” I said. “Like I said before, I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t have just killed me when they broke in if they had so many resources available to them. We don’t even know for sure that the burglar wasn’t working alone in the first place. Like I said, we’ll reconvene and reassess tomorrow if the typewriter comes back.”
Until then, I’d spend my night awake and wondering, would my gut ache like this forever? Would my fingers ever stop twitching with the urge to type?
And most terrifying of all…
Who could I trust?
Chapter 16
I didn’t sleep well that night.
Like, at all.
If I thought that initial period after getting the typewriter made for some unsettled sleep, I really had no idea what I was in for. Coming clean to Zoe and Mee-maw had taken it out of me emotionally, and that feeling of having lost a valuable part of myself when the typewriter was stolen, persisted until long after I went to bed. I spent the night dreaming about the typewriter, about the sounds its keys made, about the strange itching in my fingers, all of it. I thrashed around, flinging the covers off me, taken by a feverish desire to write again—it didn’t matter what.
It was almost a blessing when the alarm began to give off its shrill beeps the next morning at eight, and I clambered out of bed with surprising ease, given that I was already half-awake. Work didn’t care that I was in the middle of a supernatural crisis, and that meant going in on time, whether I’d slept well or not. Luckily, it was my late start day, or I’d really have been hurting.
As I began to dress for the bakery, I reflected on my conversation with Zoe and my grandmother. It was a surprising relief to have told them the truth about what I was going through, like part of the weight I had been carrying these past few days had been lifted. If anything, at least now I wouldn’t be going through this all by myself. I went through the motions of tugging on my jeans and smock, and it wasn’t until I had one sock halfway on that it dawned on me.
While my wrist still smarted and was sporting a sickly, purple bruise, that sick feeling in my stomach was gone. So was the agitated feeling, like there was something inside me trying to claw its way out. Even the twitchy feeling in my fingers had vanished as quickly as it had come on. Heart hammering, I pulled on my other sock and scurried out of the bathroom in a hurry, stopping short as I caught sight of it.
The typewriter was sitting on the coffee table, looking at me as expectantly, as if it hadn’t been carried off into the woods the night before.
“Well, I’ll be…”
Boomerang, indeed. Almost afraid to approach it, I took a few tentative steps over to the table, running an experimental hand over the keys. It was like it had never been taken. As much grief as the thing had caused me ever since the flea market, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief at seeing its battered face watching me expectantly from the coffee table.
“We’re a team, aren’t we?” I murmured, some part of me aware that I was talking to an inanimate object, but hardly caring. It was, at that moment, an idiom drifted up from somewhere deep in my mind, like an unlocked memory: If you set something free and it comes back, it’s yours forever.
Maybe it was just that simple. A few days ago, that idea would have scared the pants off me, but as I stared down at the typewriter with a sense of almost familial affection, I realized that it didn’t bother me as much as it once might have. By now, it was becoming clear that the typewriter itself wasn’t what was causing the events in my stories to happen; of that I was almost sure. It felt more like a window into possibilities for the future that hadn’t yet come true. And it wanted to be with me, like it was a part of me.
Was that really so bad, at the end of the day?
I ought to give her a name, I thought suddenly, feeling half-insane for the idea. But somehow, it felt right. If this thing—whatever it was, magic or otherwise—was going to be a permanent part of my life, then it deserved a label of its own. I thought for a moment.
Maude. Yeah, that was the one. A good, strong, handsome name. Stodgy, but practical—the kind of name that said the woman who bore it had more going for her than just looks. Smiling a little, I let my eyes wander past the newly christened typewriter and onto the floor, where a single sheet of paper lay, covered in black ink, and my stomach did a flip.
Had my fevered dreams not been dreams at all? Had I been typing in my sleep, or was Maude going rogue now, typing on her own? I closed my eyes for an instant, trying to remember the night before. It took awhile, but then it came to me in a flash. Trudging into the bathroom for a cup of water, feeling hot…so hot. Then, sensing the cool keys beneath my fingers…hearing the soothing clickety-clack.
That explained why the spidery feeling in my fingers had ceased. I’d scratched the itch without even realizing it. Now, to find out the damage…
Full of trepidation, I stooped down to pick up the piece of paper, already dreading what it was going to say.
The story was short and bitter, about a man who was run over by a dark, four-door sedan—a hit and run with no witnesses. Even as I finished reading, a familiar feeling of dread was already consuming me. If the past few times were anything to go by, this hadn’t happened yet, or the ink would’ve disappeared.
But it would happen unless I stopped it. And without a name or even a model of car to go on, I already knew there was nothing I could do to keep it from happening.
The relief of finding the typewriter again rapidly disappearing, I grabbed the paper and tucked it into my purse, feeling sick to my stomach as I finished getting ready for work. I swung by Mee-maw’s room, in hopes of talking to her before I left, but her snores echoed through the doorway and I didn’t have the heart to wake her. I could only imagine she’d stayed up late researching and nothing—not even a crone’s coven—was more important to me than her health. I crept out of the house and headed to the bakery, strung tighter than a piano wire.
The second I walked in, I sat beside Zoe, who was loading the cases and prepping for open.
“It’s back,” I said without preamble.
Her eyes widened. “What?” She lowered her voice, seemingly forgetting that we were the only ones in the bakery right now.
“The typewriter came back. I found it on the coffee table this morning.”
Zoe gaped at me. “Mee-maw was right!”
“Yup. But that’s not all.”
“Oh no? Did it have another one of those…you know…”
“Premonitions?” I supplied. “It did.” I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts in order, already rummaging in my purse. “About a guy who gets killed in a hit and run. Here.” I laid the paper out on the counter, not elaborating further and watching as her eyes flitted over the words.
“Cricket,” she said after a moment, “maybe we should go to the police.”
“And tell them what?” I demanded in a hushed whisper. “That I might be a witch? That my typewriter can pr
edict the future? That a man whose name I don’t know is going to get run over by a random vehicle on an unknown street, at who knows what time?” A bubble of semi-hysterical, panicked laughter burst from my lips.
Zoe pursed her lips. “Maybe not. But what else are we supposed to--” Then she gasped, her eyes going as big as saucers, and gestured frantically down at the page.
The letters were disappearing one by one, the ink fading like it was being erased, until there was no trace of it left on the sheet, nothing remaining of the morbid story. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“Oh man. I think we need to--”
“Call Mee-maw,” Zoe said, nodding. “I agree.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed our grandmother’s number, not wasting any time.
For a moment, I balked, but our grandmother never slept past eight thirty anyway, and now that the words had disappeared, this crisis had been elevated to Code Red.
Mee-maw’s gruff voice sounded over the speakerphone. “Zoe? What is it?”
“The typewriter is back, and it’s at it again.”
Feeling breathless and half-mad, we gave her a disjointed summary of this latest development, glancing occasionally at the now blank paper on the counter.
“Okay, okay,” Mee-maw said after we finished. “Let me get the police scanner on and popping. We’ll see if it’s happened yet.” The fact that Mee-maw had a police scanner wouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone who knew her, and we waited while she went to dig up the old radio. We kept her on the line as we busied ourselves around the bakery, trying to find something to distract ourselves while we waited for news of any kind.
“Holy mackerel, you hit it on the head,” Mee-maw’s rusty voice bellowed over the line, bringing both of us scurrying back to where we’d set Zoe’s phone. “They’re saying something about a hit and run. No details yet.”
I turned to Zoe, surprising even myself with my commanding tone. “Put on the news. We need to see if there are more details.”
Zoe’s cheeks went chalky as she turned on the little TV behind the counter, flipping to a local news station. The reporters were in the middle of reviewing the five best springtime activities around Rocky Knoll, but as soon as the media got wind of what had happened, we could be sure they would make an announcement.
At that moment, the bell on the door tinkled and in walked Patrick, looking as handsome as ever in his rumpled work shirt and jeans.
“Hey, Cricket,” he said, sidling up to the counter. “I’ve been dreaming about one of those blueberry scones for breakfast and--” The words died on his lips as he took in the concern on both of our faces, his expression turning to one of worry. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is everything okay?”
The breaking news music began to play just then, and I put a hand out to him, signaling for him to watch as we all stared at the TV with bated breath.
“Thank you, Roger,” the reporter was saying. She was standing along the side of Riley Street, one of the busier streets in Rocky Knoll, her expression somber. “Tragedy struck this morning at the corner of Riley Street and Granite Parkway, when an unmarked sedan ran a red light at the intersection, killing a man. The victim did not have identification on his person, but authorities have confirmed that despite valiant efforts to save him, he died on the scene.” A moment later, a still image of the victim appeared on the screen, and I felt my stomach drop. “We received video footage taken of the man crossing a nearby intersection a few minutes before. If anyone can identify the man pictured here, please contact the Rocky Knoll Sheriff’s Department as soon as possible.”
My whole body froze as adrenaline rocketed through me. I could identify him, all right. It was the man who had taken Maude. There was no doubt in my mind.
I must have blanched, because Zoe turned to look at me with a concerned expression on her face. “What?” she mouthed.
Feeling numb, I mouthed back, “That’s him. That’s the guy.” I made a show of pantomiming the act of lifting up the typewriter from the counter, taking advantage of the fact that Patrick’s eyes were glued to the TV.
Without much more information to recount, the breaking news broadcast ended and I shut off the TV, turning to look at the others.
“That…” Patrick muttered, “that’s just terrible.”
“Have we ever had a hit and run around here before?” asked Zoe, hugging herself.
I thought for a moment and shook my head.
“No. Not as far as I can remember.”
Already, my mind was buzzing. These kinds of things didn’t happen around Rocky Knoll… at least, they hadn’t, until the typewriter came into my life. So either this was some kind of unfortunate accident—one that had just happened to kill the man who had stolen Maude—or it was murder. And a magical typewriter was a pretty good motive.
I could feel panic threatening to take hold of me, but forced it back down. Jumping to conclusions wasn’t going to get us anywhere, and I could tell that Zoe was also on the verge of freaking out, too. What we needed was time to try to figure out how all these events fit together.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t even realize Patrick had been speaking to me until he put a hand on my arm, causing me to flinch in surprise.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was just saying I’ve got to head in to work.” His brow was furrowed with clear concern, but I wasn’t in the right headspace to explain why the broadcast had me so worked up. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I’m fine,” I said, my mind about a million miles away. “Thanks for stopping in.” Forcing a smile onto my face, I busied myself, getting a blueberry scone and stuffing it into a bag “This one’s on me.”
He nodded slowly. “Thanks. I’ll give you a call later, okay?”
“Sounds good.” As much as I loved having him around, I couldn’t wait for him to go so I could freak out.
He tipped a wave to Zoe and headed out of the bakery.
Zoe wheeled around, wide-eyed, the second the door shut behind him, leaving the two of us to stare at each other as we processed everything we had seen.
“Hello? Hello?” Mee-maw sounded impatient over the phone. “What on God’s green earth is going on over there?”
Zoe cleared her throat.
“Sorry, Mee-maw,” she said, her voice sounding rusty. “Are you watching the news? They just had a report about the hit and run. It happened. The guy…” She glanced up at me, but I was already returning to the counter, letting my head hang between my arms as I stared down at the now blank page.
Amidst all the disjointed thoughts, one thing had become increasingly obvious: none of this had started happening until I returned to Rocky Knoll. More specifically, until I got the typewriter. Connie obviously had something to do with it all, but so far, she’d been of little help.
Then there was Ethan…and Patrick. Considering that my romantic life had been more or less nonexistent since the divorce, wasn’t it a little odd that these two handsome, charming men came into my life at more or less the same time as the typewriter had? It had been ten years since I’d felt desired by someone—let alone someone as hunky as either of these guys—and now, as this magic stuff continued to ramp up, suddenly I was going on dates left and right. In fact, I’d been on my date with Ethan when it had been stolen. Could that really have been just a coincidence? As of now, nothing in my life felt random anymore.
And that kind of sucked. It made more sense, though, to wonder if these new romances were more tied to the typewriter than they were to me.
Feeling a lump in my throat, I shook myself and returned my gaze to Zoe, who was speaking to Mee-maw over the phone, looking like a deer in the headlights.
“So what do we do?” she was asking, chewing her lip. “We have to do something, right? I mean, if not the cops, then what?”
I was pretty sick of feeling like the universe’s plaything. It was time to take back some control—even if that meant getting myself in more trouble.
; I’m already surrounded by legends and death, I thought dryly. What else could Rocky Knoll possibly throw at me?
Finding my voice again, I spoke up, making sure Mee-maw could hear me on the other end of the phone.
“We need to have a family meeting and take action. Tonight.”
Chapter 17
The Golden Lantern again for dinner. I knew all this takeout was doing terrible things for my body, especially the love handles that had shown up in the aftermath of the divorce, but I’d be damned if I was in the headspace to cook right now. I was pretty sure the others felt the same, no one argued when I called the order in.
Ever since we had found out about the hit and run, a shroud of both fear and grim determination had settled over me, Zoe, and Mee-maw. The rest of our shift at the bakery had felt borderline infinite, and even though my mind seemed caught in an endless loop, trying to piece things together, I knew it would be better to go over it with the others. Now, here we were, in Mee-maw’s living room, empty takeout boxes scattered around us as the three of us stared at the now-cluttered white board.
If someone came in right now, they’d think we’d all lost our sweet minds, I thought dryly, scrubbing at my forehead with a tired hand.
“Well?” Mee-maw said at last, hands on her hips as she looked from me to Zoe. “What are we going to do about this? I’m open to suggestions.”
I sighed, my shoulders slumping. The truth was, I had no idea. Glancing back up at the board, I saw the timeline Mee-maw had put together and tacked in the middle. The typewriter, Connie, Ethan, Patrick, the deaths, and the theft were all spaced out evenly in a neat line. Every event that had led us to this point, one by one, just like that.
Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One Page 13