Gael stands and announces that he’s going to go explore, even though she tells him flat out that there’s not much to explore.
“Cool camera,” Sophie says as he pulls the second strap over his head.
“Thanks. My art teacher gave it to me. It’s an SLR. Super old, like from 2015, but it still works great. Want to see?” He shows Sophie while Elena slips a few dollars in his pocket for lunch. In another minute, he makes the two of them smoosh together at the table and snaps a photo. Elena’s head pounds with the sudden movement. Then, he’s outthe door. Elena tries to imagine what this town looks like through his young unjaded eyes, but she can’t.
Sophie is agitated and keeps hugging her bag to her chest. It’s an annoying tick. Elena wants to tell her that no one wants to steal her diaper bag that she’s disguising as a purse, but she holds back the urge to open her mouth about it. It’s this hangover. It’s making her snippy.
There’s a sound behind her. Elena turns to find Joey hovering.
“All done?” Elena asks. Joey nods and glances back at the counter. There are only two other people in the whole place, but Joey’s aproned peon sloshes milk into a pitcher, looking like he’d rather put a dagger into Joey’s back than watch her socialize.
“He seems nice,” Elena says.
Joey is distracted. “No,” she says. “I mean, yes, he is. But no, I… Sorry, it’s the weirdest thing. Remember that little painting that was hanging on the wall over there? I’m not sure where it is.” They all turn to look as if to assess for themselves, and Elena does remember a very amateur bit of artistry from back in the day, a modest, book-sized painting of the old general store. They spent so many afternoons here. Elena is surprised that she remembers, but the wall there does look strange without it, like it’s been stripped and exposed against its will. She untwists the lid on a Perrier and sips. The carbonation is gone, and it tastes all wrong.
“Ask your guy over there.” She nods to the grump behind the espresso machine. “He is probably just doing some redecorating.”
Joey waves a hand through the air as if dismissing the missing painting and, with it, the fact that she should probably still be working. She takes a seat and rummages through her backpack.
“Joey, I’ve been thinking,” says Sophie quietly. “I know we said it was dangerous, but I think we should go to the police and tell them about the sweatshirt.”
Joey doesn’t answer. She just tosses a file enclosing a stack of papersonto the table. It lands with a slap, and both Elena and Sophie jump. Elena almost knocks over her Perrier but rights it before it can spill.
“What is this?” says Sophie, lifting the front flap of the folder.
Joey puts a finger to her lips to hush them. “At first, I thought we needed the police too,” she whispers. “But now I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” Then she nods at the file, indicating that they should open it and find out what she means.
Sophie sifts through it with the care of a rare book archivist. Elena looks over her arm, and when she sees what it is, she feels an immediate, visceral jolt of danger. “How did you get this?”
Sophie has caught on now, and she is flipping back and forth between two of the pages. “Are you supposed to have this?” she whispers.
Joey doesn’t seem nervous at all. Maybe it’s because she owns this place, and it’s given her false confidence. Or maybe she is just done giving a shit about what anyone in this town thinks. That, at least, Elena can relate to.
“Look,” says Joey, all business. “There are no pictures of Quinn’s body or clothes in the file.”Thank god, Elena thinks. “But there are notes from the coroner.” Joey finds the right page and points her finger at some hand-scrawled notes.
Elena reads. There is a reference to a “sharp force injury to the right posterior skull—likely fatal” and a mention of a broken humerus and clavicle. A few “contusions on the upper back,” but that’s it. It’s only one paragraph. Quinn had a broken collarbone and shattered shoulder. The impact from her fall was on her right side and back. And, of course, her head.
“No mention of the wounds on her front abdomen,” Elena says, realization dawning. “Seven stab wounds on a victim and no one even writes about it in the police report?” Her hand is shaking, she realizes. She isn’t sure if it’s the hangover or the image that’s implanted in herbrain, resurfacing. Quinn lying there. Dead and alone. She squeezes her drink and feels the plastic flex beneath her grip.
Sophie pushes the Trivial Pursuit box to the side as if that will help her get a better look. “Maybe they didn’t know what they were looking at?”
Elena has never admired Sophie’s relentless optimism or her insistence on believing the best in people. From Elena’s experience, most people are shit. She shoves the pages back inside the folder and presses it closed. “Who were the police officers that worked on this case?” she asks Joey.
“Jim Hunstad and Bill Berg. River’s dad and Marissa’s dad.”
Sophie’s fingers pick mindlessly at the damp top of a Saran-wrapped muffin. It’s making Elena feel sick. “This is sort of unrelated,” Sophie says. “But you said Jim Hunstad, and it made me think of something.”
Elena notices Joey fidgeting. The lean muscles in her arms tighten as she reaches behind her and works at her apron string.
“River and Quinn were dating back then,” continues Sophie. “Is it too far-fetched to think she gave River the book? To hide it for her?”
“I don’t know,” says Joey. “It doesn’t make sense that she would hide the book from us.”
“It’s a good theory,” says Elena. “What are the chances River still lives in town? We could check.”
Joey finally unties her apron and then wraps the strings around her hands until they go white. “He does, but Quinn wouldn’t give it to him. He didn’t even know about the magic.”
Elena is fed up with Joey shooting down their ideas. “It’s not like whoever has it can use the magic anyway. Only the four of us—three of us—can. Quinn would have known that. To anyone else it looks like a bunch of empty pages inside an old book. But we should still look. A summoning spell might help bring us something substantial, like you said, Joey, remember? Worth a try anyway because you’re right…”She motions to the file on the table in front of them. “We cannot go to the police.”
