Waking the Witch

forty-one

We went straight to the police station. On the drive, Adam ranted about Alastair’s sudden show of concern for the benefit of the girls watching. I barely listened. Two sheriff’s department cars sat out front. Adam parked behind them and I took off ahead of him, jogging to the door.

I felt the chill as soon as I opened it. Bruyn’s mother and the local officers were crowded in the front room. All three stared at me and none said a word. The old woman pointed to Bruyn’s office, where I could hear him talking.

I threw open the door.

Bruyn turned sharply, and saw me. “Looks like you don’t need to track her down after all. Here’s the source of your information. Savannah Levine.”

Bruyn left me with the two detectives—a man and a woman. They weren’t the officers who’d come to the motel to question me after Michael’s death.

“Come in,” the woman said. “We have some questions for you.”

“Me first. Who told you I accused Paula Thompson?”

The detective looked at her partner. They exchanged a confused frown.

“You did,” the other one said.

“No, I did not. I’ve been in Portland since yesterday afternoon.”

“Ah, that explains the delivery. You sent it from there?”

“If someone sent you something, it wasn’t me, and I know nothing about it. What did you get?”

A package, they explained. Delivered directly to the sheriff’s department first thing this morning. Apparently from me. Inside, they’d found all my supposed case evidence—copies of my notes, my interviews, plus some notes that weren’t mine. All of it led to a single conclusion. Paula Thompson had shot Ginny and Brandi, whom she believed were plotting to kill Kayla. According to the extra notes, though, I’d found no evidence to support that, and personally thought she just wanted a way to get custody of her granddaughter and rid herself of her embarrassment of a daughter.

“We’ve verified most of the details,” the detective said. “We have phone records showing the calls from the Degas home to Paula Thompson, and to Alastair Koppel. We’ve confirmed your DNA findings—he is the girl’s grandfather, which speaks to his motive in helping Thompson. We expect to charge him as an accessory after the fact.”

She beamed at me. “You’re an excellent investigator, Ms. Levine. If you’ve ever considered going legit, we’re always looking for recruits.”

Her partner cleared his throat. “Oh, and this was in the package,” he said, handing me an envelope. “You must have left it in the file by accident.”

I took the envelope. On the front was my name, with Confidential below it. I ripped it open and read.

Hey, kiddo. If you’re reading this, then I guess you won. Good job. I know I should be gracious, but I can’t help it—I’m a sore loser. I want a little payback. And my hell will be a little cozier, knowing I got it. Say hi to little Kayla for me. Tell her she has every right to hate your guts and hate the world and grow up just like Mommy, as every little girl should.

I crumpled the letter, rage filling me.

Adam’s hand tightened on my shoulder and he leaned to my ear, whispering, “We’ll fix this.”

How could we? The damage was done. My own work, used to do exactly what I’d tried to avoid.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Adam said. “Savannah’s been ill and she’s very tired. If you need to speak to her, can we do this another time?” He passed them his card. “I’m going to get her home.”

THE FIRST THING I saw when I barreled out of the police station was Cody Radu’s house. Empty now, every window dark, a swing on the front lawn swaying forlornly in the wind. I thought of their three little girls. Orphans now. I don’t know what kind of father Cody had been, but I knew one thing—three young witches were going to grow up thinking they were the daughters of a serial killer. Being treated like the daughters of a serial killer.

I turned away. As Adam fumbled to get my door open, I noticed Kayla down the street, coming out of a building. I blinked, sure I was seeing wrong. A woman in a business suit stepped out behind her. A social worker.

I saw the backpack over Kayla’s thin shoulders and the battered suitcase the woman carried. With her free hand, she guided Kayla to a sedan idling in front of the building. Kayla walked with her head down, gaze fixed on the sidewalk.

“Kayla!” I shouted as I ran toward her.

She glanced up. Then she looked away, opened the back door to the car, and got in. When I called again, the social worker shielded her eyes and squinted at me.

“This is a mistake,” I said as the woman put Kayla’s suitcase in the trunk.

“Are you a relative?” the woman asked.

“No, but it’s a mistake. You don’t need to take her. Paula will get out on bail and it’ll all be cleared up—”

“Paula Thompson has been charged with her daughter’s murder. Bail or not, the girl can hardly stay with her, can she?” The woman handed me a card. “You can contact my agency if you have any concerns. Right now, I need to get this little girl to a home.”

“You have a placement for her already?”

“I meant a residential facility.”

She brushed past me and got into the car.

“Savannah,” Adam called.

I glanced over to see him a few yards away. I hurried to Kayla’s door. She sat rigid, staring forward, backpack on her lap.

I rapped on the window. She ignored me.

“Kayla,” I said. “Please. It’s a mistake. I never meant—”

The car started rolling away. I jogged alongside it. Adam started walking fast, closing the gap between us.

“Kayla, please. I can explain. I didn’t do this. I’d never—”

The woman hit the gas. I lurched forward. Adam caught me. I pushed him away, but the car was already too far gone to catch.

“Savannah,” Adam said, reaching for me.

I circled around him and headed back toward the Jeep. I passed it and kept walking. Adam jogged after me.

“For a sick woman, you’re running away pretty good,” he said.

“I’m not—”

“Running away?” He caught my arm and pulled me up short. “You’re running as fast as you can, which, thankfully, isn’t very fast.” He didn’t even try for a smile. “I know how bad you feel right now, but—”

“Do you? Do you really? That little girl finally got exactly what she needed, and now she’s lost it.”

“You tried to make sure that didn’t happen—”

“But apparently I didn’t try hard enough, did I?”

“What the hell else could you have done?”

I didn’t answer that. Couldn’t. I could only feel it, in my gut, guilt blazing through common sense. I should have stopped Leah sooner. Anticipated this final attack.

“Stayed away,” I murmured. “That’s what I should have done. I should never have gotten involved in this damned case in the first place. All I did was screw it up. Got Michael killed. Ruined Tiffany’s daughters’ lives. Ruined Paula’s. Ruined Kayla’s.” I gave a bitter laugh. “Par for the course, isn’t it? Everything I touch turns to dust. Everything dies. Everyone.”

“Don’t be—”

“Melodramatic? Am I? Too bad, because I’m feeling a little melodramatic right now, and I’m sick to death of pretending I don’t ruin everything I touch. I got my mother killed—”

“You had nothing to do with—”

“Yes, I did. They came for her, and I was there, playing sick, wanting a day home from school. She would have escaped if they hadn’t grabbed me. I got her captured, and that got her killed. Then Paige takes me in. Am I grateful? Do I smarten up and behave for her? No, I just kept plowing along, turning the Coven against her, getting her house burned down, getting her run out of town, ruining her reputation, killing her dream of leading the Coven—”

“Do you think she cares? If it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t have Lucas. She’d gladly have traded her old life for him. You know that. You didn’t—”

“I killed my father.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

“Can’t argue with that one, can you?” I said.

“No, I’m just trying to figure out what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. Your father died when the house collapsed. Maybe that collapse started with your magic, but you certainly didn’t kill—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Sparks sizzled from my fingertips. My hair snapped with electricity. I stepped toward Adam, but he stood firm, holding my gaze, not even flinching when the sparks singed his shirt.

“I know what happened that night,” I said. “I’ve pretended not to know what happened because that was what you all wanted. I lashed out at my father. I threw him into a wall. I killed him. I know that. I’ve always known that.”

The look on his face then—the sympathy and the pain—was almost enough to make me break down completely, and when he reached for me, I imagined myself collapsing against him, how good it would feel—eight years of pain washing away. But I couldn’t. I stepped back, teeth gritting, sparks flying.

“Go away.”

“No, Savannah.”

He stepped forward again.

“I said go away!”

My hands flew up to ward him off, and he sailed off his feet, chin jerking up like he’d been hit with an invisible uppercut. He crashed to the ground, keys sailing from his hand, blood gushing from his nose.

I ran over. “I didn’t mean—” I stopped. Swayed. Looked down at him, dazed and bleeding. I stepped back. “Don’t you see? I never mean it. Never. But it doesn’t matter. My mother. My father. Paige. Michael. Paula. Kayla. Everything I touch, everyone I touch.”

“Not me.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere, Savannah.”

“No, you’re not,” I whispered. “You’re staying right where you are. Because you know not to come any closer.”

He screwed up his face. His nose gushed again and he swiped the blood aside, impatient. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He moved in front of me. “There, is this close enough?”

I said nothing. He took another step, so close I could smell the blood.

“Still seems safe,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

I lifted my gaze to his. “Don’t mock me.”

He looked me in the eye. “I’d never mock you, Savannah. I know you’re hurting and you’re going to lash out, and if you need to do that, then I’m right here. Lash away. I can handle it. Just don’t do this to yourself. You want a target? Use me.”

I started to shake. I clenched my hands to stop it. Waves of energy pulsed from my fists. Sparks popped, singeing his clothes, burning his skin. He only stepped closer, eyes locking on mine.

I stumbled back. Then I ran. I scooped up the keys and I ran, and I didn’t care how immature it looked, what he thought of me for it. I took his keys and I ran because if I stayed, he’d get hurt. Or I would.

I ran to the Jeep, leaped inside, and pulled away from the curb, tires chirping, dust flying, seeing him out of the corner of my eye, but not daring to look. Just get away. Get away fast. Get away far.