“Jocasta, I think—” Carter begins in a whisper.
I step past him and pound on the front desk with my fist three times in rapid succession. Erik leaps upward with an audible gasp, his battered desk chair shooting backward behind him.
Behind me, Carter makes a disapproving sound.
Erik shoves his shaggy brown hair out of his bloodshot eyes. “Uh, hello, and welcome to the Nan…” He trails off, his eyes widening as he recognizes me.
Here we go.
Face pale, Erik throws his hands up and backs away. “No, no. Look, I did what I promised, okay?” he says in a high-pitched pleading voice. “I’ve been checking IDs on the cash customers. No one underaged.”
I sense Carter’s attention snapping to.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I say.
Erik’s gaze skitters to Carter. “She tried to kill me, bro. She’s crazy.”
I keep a firm grip on my temper. “We’ve been through this before. You’re welcome to call the police.” I reach across the registration desk and push the cordless desk phone toward him, grimacing at the sticky plastic.
Erik gives a hoarse laugh, his hands still in the air as if I’m holding a gun on him. “And tell them what, that you’re a witch?”
I roll my eyes.A witch, seriously?Though, given Beecher’s proximity to what was Salem and the history of the whole area, it sort of makes sense. Kind of like how everything in New Mexico and Nevada gets blamed on little gray aliens and Bigfoot has a place of honor in the PNW.
Also, he may not be that far off—I have zero proof, but it seems very possible that the whole witch trial mishegoss started off as the Old Ones entertaining themselves. Death, Lust, or even possibly Life, the one associated with crops and growth. Maybe all three, competing against one another—seeing who could outdo the others. They did shit like that.
“She told me exactly how I would die if I didn’t do what she said,” Erik says to Carter. “She told me I would feel the life draining out of me, and I did, bro.” His face seems to lose more color at the memory. “I woke up on the floor. She’s a fucking witch!”
Shame floods through me. It was a momentary lapse in judgment. Year before last, I took about fifteen minutes off his life, give or take. I might have been able to get my point across with just words. But… I lost my temper when he looked right at me with that smug fucking smile and asked me what I was going to do to stop him.
The powerful wielding their control over the powerless, like they’re simply pawns in a game instead of people in their own right? Yeah, a bit of a hot button for me
So, I showed him.
He deserved it. And it worked.
I shove back against the swell of gritty satisfaction. Maybe he did deserve what I did to him, but it’s not my job to be judge, jury, and enforcer.
No matter how effective it is.
I keep my attention on Erik, refusing to check to see how all of this is landing with Carter. Carter is a grad student in psych. He’ll assume—I hope—that everything Erik is describing is all in his head. Anxiety or Somatic Symptom Disorder. That’s the only rational explanation. After all, it’s not like anyone can actually siphon life away. As far as he knows.
“Just listen,” I say before Erik can babble further incriminating but hopefully incomprehensible details to Carter. “I need to know if someone checked in the last couple of days. He might be using the name Devon.”
But Erik is already shaking his head. “No one new. Just the usuals.”
So poorly funded affairs, drugs, and drunks. Beecher is a “nice” small town—private university, low crime rate, one of the last drive-in movie theaters in the country, and three Starbucks—but humans always need somewhere to sink to new lows.
“He’s a tall guy, square jaw, super hot?” I press. It’s possible that Devon paid for a room, but I suspect he would simply “charm” his way into one. Why pay for what you can just take? And the Nantucket is the perfect place if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.
“No, no, no.” Erik shakes his head again, floppy hair flopping violently. “No one like that. Can you just go now? My boss is going to be here any second.”
I search his expression, searching for any hint of that dreamy, distant focus I saw in Happy’s last night. But all I’m getting from Erik is sweaty panic.
Damn.Devon’s really not here. I thought he would stay in town, somewhere close. Just by that something unspoken in his gaze. He needs me to know whatever it is I don’t know, and my gut says he won’t go too far until I do.
The Just Fuck It is a great place if you low-key need to stay out of sight. Or commit various misdemeanors. You don’t have to be a local to know that—the empty, crumbling swimming pool and generally shabby exterior make the vibe clear enough.
But maybe Devon doesn’t want to hide.
