“It’s done.”
“Oh.” He looked down at their intertwined fingers, and she let him go.
The room was still so silent, so calm, and she wondered what was off before she realized there’d been no side effect to her spell. By now, usually a pipe would have burst, or something would have caught fire, even if there was no fire source nearby.
Maybe Simon did help, after all.
“So, you have her? You know what happened to her?” he asked.
A soft buzz filled her chest; energy, waiting to find its missing piece. “I will,” Shanna said. “But first we need to go pick up Chris. We’re going for a walk.”
***
Two hours and a walk around the city center later, the clouds had rolled in, bringing a drizzle. Simon abandoned his hopes of an umbrella when the wind almost turned it inside out, and instead pulled up the hood of his jacket. Chris scowled as water droplets dripped past the rolled-up brim of her beanie. Shanna, however, leaned her face into the rain and laughed, even twirling around.
He thought people only did that in movies.
Regarding Shanna’s tracking, apparently, she felt some sort of energy, and that led them to the harbor. As if homing in on a beacon, Shanna marched around a small lagoon, surrounded by buildings with yellow and blue clapboard facades, until she stopped in front of a pub with the signThe Winded Keahanging above the door.
“This is it. It’s the strongest here.” She disappeared inside.
Simon looked at Chris, who shrugged, and they followed her.
Shanna was already at the bar, chatting up the young, dark-haired bartender who, to her credit, didn’t seem annoyed that someone had burst in to ask about the last whereabouts of a woman who’d been here twenty years ago. At least Simon hoped that’s what Shanna was inquiring about, and not another topic from her seemingly endless conversation list.
While he waited, his eyes were drawn to a wall covered with pictures. There were postcards, motivational posters, but also photos of people; workers or patrons of the bar. A group of men posing around a pool table. Students in matching t-shirts, cheering with glasses overflowing with beer. And in the corner, two young women dressed in waitress uniforms, hugging and smiling at the camera. The picture itself wasn’t of great quality—definitely not taken with a modern camera—but Simon’s eyes instantly fixed on the blonde.
“Shanna.” He’d started it as a murmur but turned into a yell, acknowledging both the likeness of the woman in the picture as well as the real woman standing by the bar. “Shanna!”
“What?” She came over, putting her hands on her hips.
He pointed at the picture.
Shanna’s arms dropped, and she breathed, “Mom.”
“Do you think it’s her?”
“Gran showed me her old pictures.” Shanna brushed her fingers across the photo. “It’s her.” She grabbed the photo and ran back to the bar. Simon followed her, and Chris appeared behind him like a shadow.
“This woman. Do you—wait, no, you won’t remember her. But this photo.” Shanna thrust it in front of the bartender’s face. “These two were employees, right? Would you happen to know their names?”
The woman looked at the photo and checked the date. “That’s twenty years ago. No idea, sorry.” But as Shanna slumped her shoulders, she continued, “Uncle might know, though. He’s the owner. I’ll go ask him.”
Shanna turned to Simon, her eyes shining, as the bartender disappeared through a door.
“It worked,” he said. “Your thing actually worked.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “You helped.”
Well, this was much easier than he’d expected. Perhaps they’d be done in a day and he could return home tomorrow. He still had so much to sort out, including getting Chris to help him find out who sicced a killer on him, but he wouldn’t mind going back home. Even if Shanna thought he was safer here.
“Uncle has no idea who the blonde is,” the bartender said, returning with the photo. “But the brunette is Holly Williams. Worked here until about a decade ago.”
“She and Mom look very friendly in the picture,” Shanna said to Simon. “Holly would have forgotten her, but maybe there’sstill a trail leading from her to Mom. Sometimes, the lack of memory can be like a negative space. You can assume something was there because there are things around it that don’t make sense without the missing piece.”
“Do you know where Holly lives?” Simon asked the bartender.
“Uh, Uncle would have her address, but I can’t give out that information.”
