Jesse absently twisted his beer can, still looking doubtful. “As someone who got arrested twice courtesy of a citizen who reported seeing me break into a place, I gotta say that I’m not convinced it wasn’t coincidental. People notice, especially in a small town. But while I think Michael Kennedy’s death was an accident, I’ll consider the possibility that it wasn’t. That possibility, though, means that you’re in danger. We need to get this figured out ASAP. I’d like to stay and help. I know you didn’t want that, but—”

“No, you’re right. When Michael was here I was worried about the three of us tripping over each other, but now ...”

I trailed off and pulled my legs up, tucking them under me.

Jesse leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How’re you holding up? I know you liked the guy.”

“I did.” I took a deep breath. “Right now, though, I need to solve this case and catch his killer. So please don’t suggest I go home.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good. Okay, next—”

A hard knock at the door.

“Ms. Levine?” a deep voice called.

It was the sheriff’s department.

twenty-three

The lab techs had confirmed what Jesse said. One set of stairs. One set of prints going all that up. One set of prints at the top. Michael’s death was being ruled an accident, though they took all my contact information, just in case.

After they left, I kicked Jesse out. If he was working this case, he needed to go home, pack a bag, cancel appointments, whatever. He was reluctant to leave me alone, but I said I was fine. I wasn’t, but he didn’t know me well enough to tell.

By the time he left, it was after seven, which I figured was late enough to call a few of my shadier supernatural contacts out east. None had heard of either Cody or Tiffany. Never heard of Columbus, Washington. Never heard of Alastair Koppel and his commune. The only one who was any help was the last call I made, to a local witch, Molly Crane, who was up early getting her girls off to school.

Four years ago Molly had tried to kill Jaime Vegas. I’d intervened and left Molly tied up in a swamp. In the underbelly of the supernatural world, that marked the beginning of a working relationship based on mutual respect. A temporary gift of zombies a couple of years ago hadn’t hurt matters. Molly liked me. Can’t say I felt the same about her, but she was useful.

“If there’s a witch living so close to me, then I should know about her,” Molly said. “If I don’t, she’s not just flying under the radar, she’s crawling under it. You said her magic looks old?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to run it past Paige but ...”

Molly snorted. “Like Paige would recognize magic that wasn’t pure as the driven snow.”

Not true, but part of cozying up to Molly meant letting her disparage Paige and Lucas.

“That’s kind of what I thought,” I said. “And Paige hates me getting involved in anything dark ...”

Another snort. “E-mail me those pictures. I’ll find your ritual.”

THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn’t. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.

I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael’s death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn’t handle that.

So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.

“Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast.”

When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.

“Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house.”

I struggled for an excuse. None came.

When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael’s body, I was the lead story.

No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.

I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not “So what happened last night?” but “Are you okay?” and “I’m sorry about Detective Kennedy.” They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn’t right to ask, so I told them.

When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics—local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael’s death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I’d ever said about small-town folks.

I’d ordered steak and eggs, and was complimenting Lorraine on her hash browns when her gaze moved to the front window. I looked out to see a young woman locking up a bike at the rack. She took an insulated bag from the carrier.

“One of the commune girls,” Lorraine said. “We get our eggs and milk from them. This girl has come the last couple of days. She asked about you yesterday, whether you ate breakfast here.”

It was the girl who’d seemed like she wanted to talk to me yesterday. Blue-streaked hair cut short and spiky. Studs in her nose and brow. A look that screamed attitude. Her face didn’t, though. Soft features and anxious eyes said the tough-girl look was a desperate attempt to find something she lacked.

The girl ignored me as she unloaded the bag for Lorraine and took the money.

“Do you have a minute?” I said. “I’d love to buy you a coffee. Megan said it was okay to talk to me, but I still don’t want to get you in trouble.”

It was the right thing to say. The tough girl inside her squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I’m not afraid of Megan. Alastair said we can talk to you or that detective.”

I could tell by the way she said “that detective” that she didn’t know Michael was dead. News didn’t travel as fast when you lived up on Commune Hill. I didn’t see any reason to tell her, so I nodded and sipped my coffee. She did the same, her courage melting again.

“So Alastair said it was okay?” I prodded.

She nodded. “He said if someone’s preying on the girls of this town, he wants the guy caught.”

“He thinks it’s a guy?”

She frowned. “It always is, isn’t it?” Her gaze and voice dropped in a way that told me everything I needed to know about this girl’s damage.

I asked her name.

“Sylvia,” she said. “But I go by Vee.”

“Okay, Vee. How long have you been with the group?”

“Just over a year.”

Meaning she’d known Tamara, the friend of Claire’s who’d left in a hurry. Good.

“Did you know Ginny or Brandi?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“They never came up to the house?” I said. “Talked to Alastair, maybe?”

Her shoulders tightened. “Alastair’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot. And, no, I’m not sleeping with him. He wouldn’t let me even if I asked. I’ve—I’ve had problems. With that ... kind of thing.” She cleared her throat. “His place, it’s not what people think. Not what my parents think, that’s for sure. Every couple of months they have this cult deprogrammer chick sneak into town to try to talk me out. It’s bullshit. No one’s holding me against my will. My folks blame Alastair because, otherwise, they’d have to admit that I’ve got a problem they can’t shove under the carpet like they’ve done all my—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“No reason to be. It’s good to know what the members think of the group and Alastair.”

“Alastair’s great. Really great.”

But I noticed she hadn’t answered my original question. Had Ginny gone up to visit him at the house? I broached the subject again with Vee, but she was quick with her denials. Too quick. I filed it and let it go.