Gemma and I tried to leave earlier with the rest of our classmates, but someone told the cops I was the one who found Savannah. Never mind that Veronica and I found her together. Veronica gets to ride off in an ambulance while I’m stuck out here with the raccoon blood.
Lucky me.
I’m about to ask one of the officers if we can leave when a man with short brown hair and a tall, lean frame heads our way. Unlike the rest of the cops, he’s not in uniform. He’s wearing a dark gray suit with black dress shoes. Not exactly bonfire-in-the-woods attire.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m Detective Archer. Which of you is Miss Walsh?” He taps a pen to his small notebook.
It must be a slow night if they sent a detective out for this. “I’m Hannah Walsh,” I say, and release Gemma’s hand, reminding myself to breathe. I let Veronica’s earlier conviction steady my nerves. Nothing that happened tonight has anything to do with the Clans. This wasn’t a Blood Witch. We’re safe.
“You found Miss Clarke this evening?”
I assume he means Savannah. I don’t actually know her last name. “Yeah. Veronica and I heard her scream over the music. I happened to get here first. But, like, by a second. Tops.”
The detective stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say more. His attention is unnerving; it prickles along my skin, making me shiver.
“I’m not sure what else I can tell you. We barely beat the others here,” I add when he still doesn’t speak.
Detective Archer scribbles something in his little notebook. “And did you recognize the symbol burned into the ground?”
“Umm . . .” How much is dangerous to admit? I’m a terrible liar, always have been. Some say it’s an admirable quality, but those people must not have any real secrets to keep. “Yeah, sure. Of course,” I answer after the silence has stretched on far too long. “I’ve lived in Salem my whole life. I know a pentacle when I see one.”
“And you’re aware the pentacle is a symbol of witchcraft?” The detective stares at me, unblinking.
I catch myself rolling my eyes, but not fast enough to prevent it. Gemma shoves an elbow in my ribs, and the detective cocks a brow. “Sorry, it’s just . . . Salem. Witch trials. It all kind of comes with the territory.”
Detective Archer stops with the note-taking for a second and really looks at me. “Well then, it’s a good thing I met an expert on my first assignment.”
“I’m not an expert.” The words fly out of my mouth before I realize they’re in my brain. I’ve barely said anything. How could he— Then the sarcasm registers, followed by the rest of his sentence, and embarrassment burns my cheeks. “You’re new here?”
The detective gives a quick nod and returns to his notes, flipping back a couple pages. “Can you explain why you and your friends tried to hide evidence?”
“We didn’t—”
“You didn’t destroy the burning pentacle?”
I glance at Gemma, but she’s still tipsy and hasn’t spoken. I try to act like this whole conversation isn’t hitting too close to home. “We didn’t want the guys to roll through the flames and catch themselves on fire. I didn’t think it was evidence.”
“Right. The fight between Nolan Abbott and Evan Woelk. Any idea whether either of them might be involved with the sacrifice?” Detective Archer holds his pen poised and ready.
“I don’t know. We don’t really run in the same circles.” I glance back toward the pentacle and it hits me. Evan came into the store today. He could have used the athame to kill the animal . . .
Beside me, Gemma shivers. “Um, sir? Could we go home now?”
The detective looks to Gemma. “Perhaps. Do you have anything to add, Miss . . .”
“Goodwin,” she says. “Gemma Goodwin. And no. I got here after Hannah. I’m the one who called for the ambulance.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and flutters her lashes. I love the girl, but damn is she a suck-up sometimes.
Detective Archer flips the page on his little notebook and scribbles something down. Each second that passes feels like an hour, and I reach for the phone in my pocket. It’s late. Really late.
“Umm . . . Detective? We’re going to miss curfew if we don’t leave soon.” I haven’t had a curfew in ages, but it seems like a normal enough excuse for the detective.
“Right, of course.” He asks a few more questions, makes sure Gem isn’t driving, and sends us on our way.
Gemma and I walk in silence back toward my car. It isn’t until we’re safely on the road that Gemma speaks. “What do you think happened back there?” Her voice is a whisper, barely audible above the soft music coming from the speakers.
“I don’t know.” I grip the steering wheel. There are too many possibilities taking up space in my head. Was it Evan? If so, what purpose could he have for a ritual like that? And if Veronica’s wrong, if this wasn’t a Reg, we have bigger problems than a ruined bonfire.
Gemma rests her head on the window, her eyelids drifting shut. “That poor raccoon. Here’s hoping it was a one-time thing.”
“Fingers crossed.” I turn off my high beams as another car comes into view, and by the time I flick my brights back on, Gem is asleep.
In the dark, with only the moon and my headlights to guide us, an icy fear grips my spine. I try very hard to fully convince myself that this was a Reg. That it was Evan, taking his goth look way too far and dabbling in the more destructive parts of pagan magic.
Because if there’s a Blood Witch in town . . .
No one is safe.
4
BANGING PANS AND THE smell of sizzling bacon pull me out of restless sleep. Fragments of nightmares cling to the edges of my consciousness, but they dissolve into smoke when I try to force them into focus.
All things considered, that’s probably for the best.
Gemma stirs on the air mattress below me. There was a time when we’d take turns hosting sleepovers, but ever since I came out last year, her parents have been more than a little awkward around me. Suddenly, their house had all these new rules—keep the bedroom door open, no hangouts without adult supervision, sleepovers have to be in separate rooms—like they were afraid my queerness was contagious.
“Good morning,” I singsong when she finally rubs at her eyes and sits up.
“Morning,” Gem grumbles back. She stretches her arms over head and yawns loudly. “So, last night was a hot mess.”
“And gross,” I add, a chill creeping up my spine. I pull the blankets tight around my shoulders as I sit up, a fluffy shield against the memories of mangled animal parts and dripping blood.