He shrugs. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know things.” He fusses with his phone again. “In fact, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you quit.”
“If you thought I quit, what are you doing here? Are you even old enough to be a reporter?”
“There isn’t an age limit on talent. Besides, every good reporter knows the value of research. I was hoping to talk to your former coworkers, but since you’re here . . .” He opens an audio recording app on his phone and shoves it in my direction. “Would you like to make a statement? You can get ahead of the narrative. Humanize your position before the news paints you as the real bad guy.”
The words dry up on my tongue. I can’t read this boy. I can’t tell if he wants to help me or paint me as the villain himself. There’s something about him that sets me on edge. Something so assessing about his gaze, like he’s piecing together an intricate puzzle, not talking to an actual person.
A shudder rattles through my bones.
“Come on, Hannah.” The young reporter smirks and leans against the bookshelf. “Will you tell your side of the story? The whole world wants to know the truth of what you are.”
My gaze snaps back to his. “What did you just say?”
“Okay, fine, maybe not the whole world. But my readers definitely want to know what happened to you.” He holds the phone out to me. “Do you have a statement? Maybe we could set up a meeting with this new girl of yours. Morgan, right?”
But I shake my head. That’s not what he said. “You want to know what I am?” A witch, I think. A broken, grieving Elemental who can’t even keep her ice water cold. “I’m furious. I’m sick of vultures like you trying to turn my life into a soundbite for your stupid blog.”
“It’s not a blog—”
“Get out.”
“You don’t work here anymore.” His voice is low, yet it curls around my spine, laced with violent intent. He stands up straighter, towering over me. “You can’t throw me out.”
“Then get out of my way.” I shove past the boy, but he grabs my wrist, preventing my escape. I whirl on him, a fury tinged with panic climbing up my throat. “Let. Me. Go.”
He squeezes tighter, twisting until he pulls a wince from my throat. “Or you’ll what?”
“What the hell?” Gemma’s voice cuts between us, and we both turn to find her at the end of the aisle. She must see the fear on my face, because she shouts for Lauren.
The guy unfurls a string of curses and shoves me away from him. “This isn’t over,” he says, tucking his phone in the pocket of his khakis. “Not even close.” The rage in his expression is so severe it steals my breath. He looks at me like . . .
Like Benton did. Like I’m a monster.
I watch as he slips away, confused and disoriented by the entire interaction. I’d bet anything he’s one of the Benton groupies that Gemma is always warning me to avoid online. He’s gone by the time Lauren gets here.
She surveys the aisle, looking from Gemma to me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my wrist. “It’s fine. Just some overzealous reporter,” I lie. There’s no reason to worry Gemma now that he’s gone.
Lauren scowls. “They should know better than to harass a minor. I’ve been kicking them out at least once a week. I’m sorry.”
I doubt he was from a legitimate news source, but I try to smile anyway. “It’s okay. I should probably go though.”
“Of course.” Lauren offers a hug, and I accept, soaking up her warmth. I’m surprised by how much I’ve missed her steady, earthy presence.
Gemma watches me with a careful expression, but she doesn’t say anything while we’re in the shop. I wave goodbye to Cal, who’s busy at the register. “Let me know how tonight goes!”
He raises a thumbs-up in response but goes right back to work. Maybe I can text him tomorrow after the raid. If it goes well and the drug is destroyed, I can ask him to vouch for me with the Council. There has to be something I can do to fight back.
Outside, Gemma doesn’t say anything until we’re safely closed within Dad’s car, out of earshot of any nearby tourists. “What the hell was that about?”
“Just another reporter obsessed with the worst moment of my life,” I say, even though there was definitely something off about the guy. If he’s not part of the Benton Fan Club, he had some kind of agenda.
I turn on the car and sink deeper into the soft, warm leather. The A/C blows Dad’s favorite car freshener—pine and fresh rain—into my face, and the scent transports me back in time. Dad driving Veronica and me to the mall before either of us had cars of our own. The first time he gave me the Sex Talk, the Google results for lesbian safe sex practices still on his phone screen for quick reference.
The memory makes me smile, even though it was absolutely mortifying at the time.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m going to start charging you a dollar every time you ask that. I’m fine, Gem. Some idiot boy with a recorder is the least of my concerns.” I pull out of my spot and head toward Gemma’s house. When we pass the cemetery, my heart clenches and I have to fight back the wave of grief that threatens to drown my vision. A chorus of not fair, not fair, not fair screams in my head, but I can’t let the thoughts take hold. I can’t let myself miss him or I’ll fall apart completely.
Gemma reaches for my hand and squeezes tight. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I squeeze back, pushing the last of the tears away. But once I drop her off, I can’t stop them anymore. The world turns blurry, and when I pull into my driveway, I feel lost.
This place isn’t home. My home was another casualty of Benton’s reign of terror against my coven, burnt down by his Hunter parents. I lost my dad and everything he touched. The recliner where he used to read me stories. My childhood art that he kept plastered all over his home office. The family grimoire with his tight, cramped handwriting.
All of it’s gone.
And it’s never coming back.
3
THE NEXT DAY, I have my first prep session with Dad’s boss, district attorney Natalie Flores. She’s back from maternity leave and in charge of the case against Benton. With the trial looming at the end of the month—in twenty-four days—we can’t put off preparations any longer.
DA Flores eases me into the questioning, asking about my relationship with Benton and the events leading up to my capture. It’s hard to get the words out, harder still to function with painful flashbacks overtaking my memory with each new question.