She smiled. “I don’t know, I have a pretty busy day ahead of me.”
“Well, give it some thought,” Tariq said, downing his coffee and getting to his feet. “Right now, though, let me use your bathroom and I’ll be on my way.”
Tariq pushed open the bathroom door. “Harper? Did something happen in here?”
She saw as she approached that the bathroom mirror had been shattered. Shards riddled the tile floor and porcelain sink, glinting in the light. Harper could see her own horrified face reflected in the bits of glass.
“Was someone in here last night, or could you have done this yourself?”
Harper did not know how to respond. She remembered thinking she’d seen something in the mirror, but had no memory of smashing it. But then again, if she had beensleepwalking, she might not remember such a detail. This was precisely the reason for sleep paralysis: to keep people safe while they dreamed. Without it, sleepwalkers often acted out their dreams, to the point of jumping out of windows believing they can fly. Or smashing mirrors in their bathrooms.
Is that what happened?
As she went to fetch a broom and dustpan from the kitchen, Harper thought about the bizarre nature of somnambulism. Historically, folks often associated sleepwalking with demon possession or messages from the gods.
“You know, I was supposed to go hiking with a friend today,” Tariq said. “But I can cancel if you’d like company. Or you’re welcome to come with us.”
“Thanks, Tariq, but I’ll be fine.”
They hugged. His arms felt strong and reassuring around her. As she pulled away, Harper noticed a small scar over his right eyebrow. Had he always had it? She couldn’t remember. Her gaze then fell to his lips.
“All right then, Professor,” Tariq said with a smile, as he started for the door. “Now that you’re awake, fed, well caffeinated, and at least temporarily safe from the boogeyman, I suppose my work here is done.”
Eighteen
Sipping her third cup of coffee, Harper dug Sigrid’s card out of her bag. She gave Detective Serrano a call and gave him her number, then dialed Sigrid herself.
“I knew you’d be calling,” said Sigrid in that ominous, knowing tone of hers. “Tell me what happened.”
Harper hesitated. She wasn’t accustomed to confiding in virtual strangers, and in any event was not at all sure she wanted to hear Sigrid’s thoughts on last night’s events. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear herownthoughts, either.
Surely there was a rational explanation. There had to be.
“I was hoping I might come see your garden,” Harper hedged.
“My garden?”
“Yes. The detective assigned to the case is interested in the tinctures and tonics Delilah made, and since you mentioned you supplied her with plants from your garden…”
“Of course, sure. Come see the garden,” Sigrid replied, hertone suggesting she did not believe for a second that was the reason for Harper’s visit.
“Also, I should tell you that he might be calling.”
“He who?”
“Detective Serrano.”
“You told him about me?”
“I—I did, yes. Is that a problem?”
Sigrid paused. “What did you tell him?”
“That you provided Delilah with herbs, and that you left some things at the house that you would like to retrieve.”
“I sincerely wish you had not done that,” Sigrid sighed. “But thank you for the warning. Come by this afternoon, if you want. I’ll text my address.”
As Harper hung up, she wondered: Why didn’t Sigrid want the police to know about her? Was it because she identified as a witch and feared the reaction of authorities? Or had she and Delilah been engaged in something not entirely aboveboard?
