“You okay?” Deva asked after a block.
“Yeah,” I lied, because that’s what you do when you’re supposed to be the responsible one. “It’s just, she’s not the kind of person to disappear. Even on her worst days.”
Carol nodded. “I know, but she’ll turn up, Emma. We’ve been through a lot together, and we always save the good guys in the end.”
Deva bumped my arm, the contact gentle but insistent. “She’s right. We’ll find her.”
I wanted to believe it. I tried to let their optimism catch, to let it cover the ache that told me sometimes things just didn’t work out. But the feeling lingered, brittle and cold and sharp-edged, even as I forced myself to match their pace and keep moving forward.
FOUR
Emma
The four of us marched down the sidewalk in loose formation, filling the air with the swish of jackets and the steady rhythm of our shoes on the concrete. Carol walked beside me, linking arms. Deva and Beth took point up front, calling out commentary on shop window displays and the general sorry state of the town’s benches, as if any of us spend a long time sitting on benches in Mystic Hollow.
I kept scanning the dark corners, half expecting Alice to step out from between the worn brick buildings with an apology already forming on her lips. Not that she’d even do that if she were to spot us right now. She hated being the center of attention, I imagined even when she was missing. I wasn’t sure what I’d say to her if we did find her, only that I’d probably make a fool of myself by crying and saying something dumb.
Then, out of nowhere, a monster of a truck barreled down Oak Street, headlights blazing. It hunched behind a tiny green Honda like a cheetah after an unusually angry turtle. The older woman driving the Honda gripped the wheel in a death stare, like it was taking all her energy just to focus on driving her car. The truck’shorn blared through the air, louder than the bells at the old church on Park Street, and I swear I saw the bumper close in. I braced out of habit, half-expecting the whole block to erupt in broken glass.
At the last second, he swerved and honked, flashing his high beams. He probably meant to scare the poor woman, maybe get her to pull over so he could wave his idiot flag in her face.
Beth muttered, “What a tool,” and Deva just glared. But I felt that little spark inside me, the part that had gotten me into trouble more than once, the one I was supposed to keep under tight control. It was always there, hungry for a little justice.
So I let it out, just a whisper. Not cruel, just proportionate. Karma. My powers.
A heartbeat later, the truck’s four tires exploded one after the other. It sounded like firecrackers on the Fourth of July, but instead of screams, there was the loud, horrible scrape of metal as the guy tried to keep driving. Every time the wheels spun, the rims ground the asphalt and belched sparks. Watching that idiot pull his truck to the curb while the green Honda sped away like an escapee from Alcatraz? That was the kind of thing I lived for.
We had to pass close by him. The driver jumped onto the sidewalk, staring down at the shredded rubber in complete shock. He called the truck a string of names, every one of them creative and disgusting.
That’s when it happened. He looked up to curse the sky, and a pigeon—only in Mystic Hollow would a pigeon be this accurate—dropped a steaming, gooey gift right into his open mouth.
He clapped both hands over his face, gagging. Beth doubled over, giggling so hard she nearly lost a shoe. Carol laughedlike she’d been holding it back all week, and Deva’s whole face glowed.
I just stood there, arms folded, my own giggles bursting out like popcorn in hot oil. After the miserable week I’d had, it felt better than winning a free cake.
We composed ourselves eventually. At least, enough to keep walking without tripping over each other. The theater was just a block up, all old-school neon and chipped poster frames, looking basically the same as when I was a kid. Its sign promised “MOVIES SO GOOD IT HURTS” and I wasn’t sure if that was meant to be comforting or a warning. The line of ticket buyers already stretched out the door, thick with teenagers and older couples.
We took our place at the end. A woman strutted up right past every single person waiting, not even slowing down. She wore high heels that could double as weapons and carried a white leather purse the size of a suitcase. Her perfume clouded the air behind her. She glared at the teenagers who tried to protest, daring them to say anything, and instead of moving to the back like a decent human being, she planted herself near the very front, slipping behind a couple people, and looked at her phone.
The man behind her, who had a stroller and two small kids, muttered something about “manners being dead,” but Ms. Stiletto ignored him and kept tapping away.
I caught Deva’s eye. She looked way too pleased. “Go on,” she whispered, “make it interesting.”
Carol grinned like a five-year-old at Christmas. Even Beth wasn’t hiding her curiosity. Who was I to deny them?
I nudged that magic again, gentle but insistent. There was a tiny shuffle behind us, like the sidewalk itself was making space, and suddenly the second ticket window rolled up its blinds. A young guy leaned on the counter, waving for people to come over. The change swept the whole line. Everyone except our line-cutter, and the people ahead of her, peeled away, leaving her completely alone on her spot on the sidewalk. She glared, but that only made the emptiness worse.
As we shuffled forward in the new speedy line, I looked back. The woman stood in front of the other ticket counter, growing more and more agitated as the clerk was on the phone. She kept sighing, rolling her eyes, even stamping her foot at one point. Every time the window clerk at her line finished with someone, another one of ours had already seen three customers. She was locked into some sort of personal purgatory, and I almost pitied her for a split second. Then I caught Deva’s giggle and lost any chance of regaining my moral high ground.
When we made it to the window, the clerk, a red-haired boy who looked to be about twelve years old and probably still did algebra homework, paused and adjusted his glasses. “You guys together?”
“Yes,” Beth said. “But we’re actually looking for someone who was working here two nights ago. It’s, well, it’s important.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Connor! You’re up!”
From out of nowhere, a thin, sharp-cheeked kid who reminded me a little of Travis in his early teens bounded over. Connor Reed, according to his name badge. He wore the assistant manager lanyard with visible pride and had a stack of movie trivia pins crowding his jacket.
He wiped buttery fingerprints on his khakis. “How can I help?”
