“I’ll show you.” She pulls down the boxer briefs.
Her hand is perfect as she runs her thumb along the tip, twists her grip, licks the tip of my cock, takes it in her mouth, then finally squeezes me between her perfect tits.
I grip the back of the couch, lost in the sound of her, the feel of her.
“I’m dreaming,” she sings slightly off-key, “of a white”—she squeezes her tits around me—“Christmas.”
She sighs as I explode all over her chest and chin.
“Come to bed,” I beg her once I can string two words together. I lean in, kiss her mouth, her breasts…
“Wait…” She’s staring up at the board. “Where is the list of all the people from Jonah’s therapy practice?” she demands, pushing me off.
It takes a full minute for my brain to make its way sluggishly from my dick to my head. “Uhhh…”
“Focus.” She snaps her fingers.
“A really tall order.” My eyes are glued to her tits.
She huffs and closes the robe.
“I mean, is it really pertinent that we solve this murder?” I pull out the digitized list we made and search for Maris’s name. “Nothing. Can we please go to bed now?”
“No.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m missing something… Search for my name?”
“What?”
“Taylor Grace made me go do a few therapy sessions with her and Dr. Merriweather when I was trying way too hard to, quote, ‘make things work and be understanding and hear her and leave space for her trauma,’ unquote.”
“You’re not listed,” I tell her.
“Search for Taylor’s name.”
I type it in dutifully. “There are tons.”
“Where are the July dates?”
I scroll through. “There. It says, ‘Taylor Grace and guest.’”
“Search for ‘guest.’” She peers over my shoulder. “There, August two years ago. It has to be Maris. They were still in business together then. Taylor Grace probably made her go too.” Willow claps her hands. “You don’t understand,” she says to my look of confusion. “Taylor Grace and Dr. Merriweather use it as a way to gang up on you, gaslight you, make you feel small and stupid. It was a horrible experience, and it was the beginning of the end for us. I had Josie to help me through. But Maris? I bet she hated Dr. Merriweather just as much as I did.” Willow stands up. “We need to go find her.”
“Where is she? Who knows where she’s staying? With all the tourists, it’ll be difficult to sort out.”
“I know who knows,” Willow says firmly.
“Who?”
“Lenore.”
It’sdark as we walk through town. A few drunks are stumbling around, doing their best to make the hall of fame on #DrunksOfHgate, and a few lost tourists stop to ask us for directions to their Airbnbs.
Lenore’s huge house is dark.
“We can’t just wake her up,” I hiss.
“Maris could be staying here. Let’s just look in the bedrooms. We can climb up the porch roof around back,” Willow whispers. “Come on.”
I curse and run after her around the side of the house then stop short when we see a dark figure standing over a bubbling cauldron, the flames licking the big black pot as a woman—a witch!—tosses leaves into the pot.
