“Is Bertie doing some kind of yarn decoration thing?”
Jean leaned forward to look up at the post as we drove past. “I don’t think so. Maybe? It’s hard to keep up with her community projects. Why yarn?”
“I have no idea.”
I turned into the public parking lot and took a space near the back.
“You could stay in the Jeep, Jame.” I knew he wouldn’t, but I felt it was important to offer it to him.
He grunted. “I’m staying.Withyou.” He pushed on the door. “So stop trying to get rid of me.” He got out of the car and we followed.
Jules was our resident witch. She wasn’t the only witch in town, but she was powerful and more than willing to help out the police department when we needed a witch on hand.
She wasn’t a seer like Yancy, but there were things she could sense that could narrow down our search. Spells she might be willing to cast that would lead us quickly to wherever Ben was being held, bound, trapped.
“She’s probably running a game,” Jean said.
Jules worked in a coffee shop that was also a crystal store and wireless internet café. It held gaming nights a couple times a week. She was a big, joyful woman, and attracted people to her like a magnet pulled metal filings.
I’d always liked her, and so had Dad. When Mom died, she practically set up a daily ritual of coming by our house and making sure we had fresh flowers, baked goods, and small bits of good will, like tiny pillows and shiny stones and sticks wrapped in feathers and shells.
“This won’t take long,” I said.
Jean was already at the corner. She started across the crosswalk. Jame had lingered behind, catching his breath. No surprise. He was doing far more walking than any sane doctor or person would prescribe.
I slowed, giving him time to catch up, or me time to return to the sidewalk with him before the light changed. I glanced back at him just as he shouted, “Jean!”
Everything happened in slow motion.
I spun back toward Jean, too late to stop the car that was hurtling across three lanes. Too late to scream, though I did anyway, my own voice lost in the ragged grind of the engine roaring. Too late to reach Jean, to run to her, to push her out of the way.
Jean must have heard Jame’s shout, my yell, the car’s engine. She stopped, there in the middle of the street, and turned toward the sound.
Too late, too late, too late.
The sleek black sports car gunned straight for her. She threw herself to the side, trying to dodge, trying to minimize the damage.
But there was no dodging.
The sound of impact seemed far away as I ran toward her, already knowing she was hit, already knowing she was falling, fallen, broken on the ground. There was no license plate on the car and as it roared away, I couldn’t see the driver through the blackened windows.
I reached for my phone, hit the speed dial on 911, and was talking to whoever picked up on the other side, demanding an ambulance, now, and giving my location.
I didn’t hear them respond, didn’t care. Our emergency services were top notch. They’d be here. They’d have to be here in time.
I skidded onto my knees next to Jean.
Already traffic was backing up. Already people were exiting their cars to rush over. They wanted to help.
Probably.
But someone had just run my sister down in the middle of the road and I was not about to let any stranger near her.
“Get back!”
Jean lay in a huddle, her head on an outstretched arm that was bent the wrong way at her forearm. There was blood, not a lot, but too much, too much. Too much blood. She wasn’t moving. My sister was bleeding. She wasn’t moving.
And I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. All I could do was babble, “no, no, no,” over and over again.
