“Only when she’s desperate.”
“What do you mean?”
Lyra makes a face. “I follow the Three-Fold Law—you know, where what you put out into the universe comes back to you and it should never harm anyone—and I believe anyone who practices should. Marissa…she’s more of a believer in personal gain. I’ve made my opinions known and have refused to sell her ingredients if I know the spell will do harm.”
“Do you know how she and Gemma got to know each other?”
“Through work, I think.”
“Work? Marissa’s a nurse too?”
“Goodness, no.” Lyra raises her eyebrows. “She lacks the compassion for that. I want to say she handles insurance. She probably enjoys denying people coverage.”
“Thanks, Lyra. It’s nice to know who to watch out for.”
“Anytime, darling. I can sense raw power in you. It needs to be nurtured in the right direction.”
I turn to leave, then stop and go back to the counter. “I believe the person who killed Josh might go after another who shares his beliefs. Just to be safe, I’m going to get an officer to keep watch over you.”
Lyra’s hand flies to her chest. “Am I in danger now?”
“I don’t believe so, but I’ll stay until the officer arrives.”
“Thank you, Detective. I knew there was something special about you the moment you walked through the door.”
I step out front to call the station. Lyra could very well be a target, and she has a wealth of information about her Wiccan and Pagan customers. It could be catastrophic if the killer got his hands on her.
23
Isit at my desk, staring at a calendar. The more I look into it, the more it adds up. And the more it adds up, the more I know Gemma was involved.
And the stupider I feel.
Someone from Silver Living called Mrs. Green to come out and look at that house late at night. The house was set up to look like a mass murder had gone on, and I was likely to be called out to investigate it. Someone did something to Mrs. Green, trying to make her forget who she spoke with as well as get her to rattle me.
And the body stolen from the morgue? Guess where he spent his final days on hospice care. Silver Living. The night the fake baseball bat was planted was the night the hex bag was stuck to my car to attract the ghouls. I saw Marissa and Gemma the next morning, and they both looked shocked to see me.
I never told Gemma where I live, I’m sure of it. Yet she knew my house is old and big. I lean back, pulling on a strand of hair. The Memorial Day flyer! She saw it in my car and knew it was for my neighbor’s party. That’s how she figured out where I live and what my house looks like…and how Marissa was able to find it and snoop around…which she did while Gemma and I were out together. Gemma was on her phone constantly, probably talking to Marissa.
And that day I chased down the robber who stole Gemma’s purse. She saw me use my powers. She had to, and she’s known all along who I am. I clench my jaw, so angry at myself for not seeing right through this shit. Was I that desperate for a friend?
There’s only one way to know for sure. I grab my purse and storm out of the office to go to Gemma’s house. Fuming, I get into my car and try to calm myself down. I don’t want my hands catching fire and burning my car up. And maybe there’s an explanation for all this.
“Stop being stupid,” I tell myself, pissed there’s a small part of me that wants this to not be true. Gemma used me, and if she had anything to do with the ghouls…My fingers start to smoke.
Calm down…calm down…calm down.I inhale, hold it, and let it out. It does little to ease my anger. Jacques got hurt, really hurt, from the ghoul attack. I look up Gemma’s address, follow the GPS’s directions, and get to Gemma’s little house in record time. Her car is parked in the driveway.
Squeezing my fists closed, I get out, go up to the front door, and ring the doorbell. She doesn’t answer. If she suspects I know, she’s not going to answer. I ring it again and peer through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her.
Instead, I see a knocked-over lamp and shattered glass. Oh. Shit.
I go to the front door and try the knob. It’s unlocked. I step in and see clear signs of a struggle.
“Gemma!” I shout, rushing through the house. The back door is wide open, and little drops of blood trail down the wooden deck. Cigarette butts litter the stone path going from the deck to the garden, and I know Gemma doesn’t smoke.
“Shit.” I push my hair back and get my phone, dialing Gemma’s number. I might be pissed at her, but I sure as hell don’t want her to become the latest victim in my investigation.
Her phone rings inside the house.
