The man who sat down first looked to be in his early forties, with dark brown hair and eyes, a stern mouth, and a no-nonsense attitude shared by his companion. His suit was expensively made, tailored with a precision that reminded Patrick of the initial suit fitting he’d gone to for Sage and Marek’s wedding. He bit the inside of his cheek, wondering if he’d even get to see the ceremony now.
“Patrick Collins,” the man said, omitting Patrick’s job title. “My name is Preston Strauss. This is my co-counsel, Louis Ackerman. We’re assistant US attorneys for the SDNY Department of Justice.”
Patrick stared at them and said nothing in the face of their introduction.
Preston smiled blandly as he pulled a folder from his briefcase and set it on the table. “I understand you have invoked your right to an attorney and have retained counsel. We’ll wait until they arrive, unless there’s anything you’d like to tell us?”
Patrick snorted at that statement and slouched in his seat.
Preston’s expression never changed. “You’d do well to think about ways to help yourself, and help us. You’re looking at life in prison if you don’t.”
Patrick was well aware of the charges against him, but they weren’t enough to get him to talk without his lawyer present. They sat in silence for what his internal clock said was maybe ten minutes or so before the door was pushed open again.
Danai stepped inside, carrying her own briefcase, dressed in a stark black pantsuit and pale gray blouse that wouldn’t be comfortable in the high summer temperatures outside. She looked ready to go to war, judging by the flat look she gave the assistant US attorneys as she took the seat beside Patrick.
“Did they try to get you to talk?” Danai asked as she pulled out a legal notepad and pen.
“Yeah,” Patrick drawled.
“Did you say anything?”
“No.”
“It’s in your best interest if you do,” Preston repeated.
“My client is innocent until proven guilty, despite the charges your office has concocted against him,” Danai said sharply.
“There’s no concocting when the evidence speaks plainly.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Preston flipped open the folder and bypassed the crime scene photographs of Youssef impaled on the trishula in favor of a lab report depicting graphs and readouts Patrick was familiar with. The report was pushed across the table. Danai drew it closer so they could both review it since Patrick’s hands were restricted in movement.
“What is this?” Danai asked.
“Results of an energy scan conducted on an artifact. The process can record a magical signature if done early enough at a crime scene where magical traces are still viable. It’s missing a few pages, but that’s what it is,” Patrick said before Preston could explain.
They were difficult to come by, because not every police department had access to those kinds of machines, and the results weren’t always precise. The PCB had them on hand, and it looked as if Casale had wasted no time sharing what evidence his people had uncovered at the crime scene with the feds.
“It recorded yours, to be exact, Patrick,” Preston said.
Patrick looked up to meet the other man’s sharp-eyed gaze. “It’s wrong.”
“The PCB scanned the stolen trishula at the crime scene. They requested the SOA run the results of it against your signature the agency has on file. It was a perfect match.”
“It’s never a perfect match.”
Preston gestured at the report. “Tell me that’s not your magical signature?”
“Don’t answer that,” Danai said.
Patrick looked down at the report, studying the results marked and signed off by an SOA agent and approved for release by the SAIC. His stomach roiled, bile creeping up his throat. Patrick had to force his hands flat against the table to stop them from shaking.
He knew what his magical signature looked like when distilled into scientific numbers and percentages, in graphs that could never completely encompass a person’s magic. Like a polygraph test, the scans were disproportionately relied on in criminal cases when one was acquired. The results allowed for a margin of error, and that’s where doubt crept in.
The conclusory evidence on that piece of paper was close, but not accurate. It was the closeness that worried Patrick. Replicating a person’s magical signature was nearly impossible. It came down to a person’s magical strength, their affinity, their verysoul. Matching something different from your own magic would always leave revealing traces behind of the differences—like fingerprints, no two magical signatures were alike.
Not even twins, but they came closer than anyone else.
