Waking the Witch
Page 37
“Then Tamara joined the commune.”
Michael nodded. “Claire freaked. She was sure her friend was mixed up in a cult. She wanted me to check it out. I pulled some strings, got the file, and found the FBI had looked into Alastair’s operation after some parents complained. But they’d concluded it was nothing more than a New Age commune. After Tamara disappeared, I forwarded Claire’s concerns to the local FBI. That was all I could do. I didn’t know she was in Columbus until ... well, until she wasn’t.”
Michael went quiet for a few minutes after that. Then he reached into the backseat and grabbed a folder.
“This is for you,” he said. “Notes on Claire. I thought ...” He shrugged. “It might help. You can read them later. Or, if you want to read them now, ask me questions ...”
I pulled over and gave him the keys.
THE FILE WAS a mix of the personal and the professional, the brother vying with the investigator. For most of it, the brother prevailed.
There were photos of Claire, including some from her childhood that he must have gotten from his father. Tamara was in three of them—a small, freckled girl with earnest eyes, staring at the camera, with Claire beside her, arm thrown around her shoulders, grinning as if to say “cheer up, life’s not so bad.” Life had been bad for Tamara. The sketchy biography Michael included told the story of a child caught between divorced parents, neither of whom seemed to want her. A girl who’d grown into a young woman probably desperate for approval, for acceptance, for family. A young woman custom-made for Alastair’s commune.
Claire, on the other hand, would have needed to work hard to convince Megan and Alastair that she’d fit in. A passion for acting—she’d played leads in every high school production—had probably helped. Claire didn’t need approval, acceptance, or family. She got all that at home. In high school, she was the kind of girl I’d have wanted to hate, but couldn’t. Pretty, smart, and athletic, she’d have had every right to be a stuck-up bitch, but had spent her spare time organizing fund-raisers instead of partying with the football team. She’d been completing a social work degree when she died.
Claire Kennedy was a girl who had cared. One who had taken the lead when no one else would. One who’d felt incredibly guilty when her friend disappeared. And one whose guilt made her fear the worst—that Alastair had killed Tamara for leaving them, or at least kidnapped her until she was properly brainwashed. Was it any wonder she’d decided to spend her summer term undercover at the commune? No. It was risky and naïve, but it was exactly the kind of thing Claire Kennedy would have done.
Why did Michael let me see this file? I could say he was a canny investigator. He knew it was important for me to see his sister as a person, not as an anonymous victim. But there was more to it than that. Giving me this said “I’m going to trust you, as hard as that might be for me.” I hoped to repay that trust by finding his sister’s killer.
AFTER GETTING THE tire we went for Mexican and wore out our welcome with the staff, who kept coming by our table and casting looks at the growing line outside the door. We ignored them, and it was almost ten by the time we left.
We’d each had only one drink, hours ago, so driving wasn’t an issue. Michael offered me the keys again, but I let him take the wheel this time.
We were passing a scenic outlook trail when Michael slowed, squinting at the sign.
“I’m up for a walk if you are,” I said. Something I’d had for dinner hadn’t combined well with the ride. Fresh air would help.
“It’s closed after five,” he said.
“Which means it’ll be empty.”
He parked. The sun was long gone, but a full moon lit the way. The trail wasn’t that long. Nor was the outlook all that scenic.
It was just a walking bridge over a river with banks maybe twenty feet high. A wooden railing kept people from stumbling off the high banks. I ducked under it and sat on the rocky edge, legs dangling. Michael hesitated, then followed.
We sat in comfortable silence before he said, “Tell me about yourself.”
“Um, I did that for three hours at the restaurant. You talked about you. I talked about me ...”
“No, we talked about our jobs and about my car and your bike. I want to know more about Savannah. You’ve heard my sordid childhood. Now it’s your turn.”
Not an easy request to fulfill. As supernaturals we’re taught to tread the line between cautious and cagey. It’s worse to look as if we’re holding something back. That went double with a cop.
So I gave him the basic Savannah bio, leaving out names and places. I’d lived with my mom until I was twelve. Then she died and I’d been taken in by a friend of the family. Our twosome soon expanded to three. My guardian’s husband was a lawyer and investigator, and they’d opened their own firm. I’d worked there in school, then stayed on after.
I mentioned getting Lucas’s help fixing the dents in my bike, and Michael said, “So you still live close, I guess?”
“Um, very close. Yes, I’m twenty-one and I still live at home.”
He blinked. “Twenty-one?”
“Didn’t you do your basic background check? What kind of cop are you?”
“I did one, but only to confirm your employment. I didn’t dig up personal info.” He looked at me. “Why? Did you?”
“I just made sure you were who you said you were. So how old did you think I was?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four. You act older.”
I laughed. “I do believe that’s the first time anyone has said that about me. So, is it too young for you?”
He leaned over, lips coming to mine, arms pulling me into a kiss, soft at first, tentative, then ... wow. The guy could kiss. I finally had to pull back to catch my breath.
“Good answer?” he said.
“Yep. You like them young.”
He flushed. “That was not the message.”
“Are you sure? Because it certainly seems—”
He cut me off with another oxygen-depriving kiss. When I teetered a bit on the edge, he grabbed me like I’d been about to go over, one arm around my waist, the other clutching the rail.
“I think we’d better back up,” he said.
“Mmm.” I glanced over the embankment. “It’s not that far down. Not fatal unless you land wrong.”
Michael nodded. “Claire freaked. She was sure her friend was mixed up in a cult. She wanted me to check it out. I pulled some strings, got the file, and found the FBI had looked into Alastair’s operation after some parents complained. But they’d concluded it was nothing more than a New Age commune. After Tamara disappeared, I forwarded Claire’s concerns to the local FBI. That was all I could do. I didn’t know she was in Columbus until ... well, until she wasn’t.”
Michael went quiet for a few minutes after that. Then he reached into the backseat and grabbed a folder.
“This is for you,” he said. “Notes on Claire. I thought ...” He shrugged. “It might help. You can read them later. Or, if you want to read them now, ask me questions ...”
I pulled over and gave him the keys.
THE FILE WAS a mix of the personal and the professional, the brother vying with the investigator. For most of it, the brother prevailed.
There were photos of Claire, including some from her childhood that he must have gotten from his father. Tamara was in three of them—a small, freckled girl with earnest eyes, staring at the camera, with Claire beside her, arm thrown around her shoulders, grinning as if to say “cheer up, life’s not so bad.” Life had been bad for Tamara. The sketchy biography Michael included told the story of a child caught between divorced parents, neither of whom seemed to want her. A girl who’d grown into a young woman probably desperate for approval, for acceptance, for family. A young woman custom-made for Alastair’s commune.
Claire, on the other hand, would have needed to work hard to convince Megan and Alastair that she’d fit in. A passion for acting—she’d played leads in every high school production—had probably helped. Claire didn’t need approval, acceptance, or family. She got all that at home. In high school, she was the kind of girl I’d have wanted to hate, but couldn’t. Pretty, smart, and athletic, she’d have had every right to be a stuck-up bitch, but had spent her spare time organizing fund-raisers instead of partying with the football team. She’d been completing a social work degree when she died.
Claire Kennedy was a girl who had cared. One who had taken the lead when no one else would. One who’d felt incredibly guilty when her friend disappeared. And one whose guilt made her fear the worst—that Alastair had killed Tamara for leaving them, or at least kidnapped her until she was properly brainwashed. Was it any wonder she’d decided to spend her summer term undercover at the commune? No. It was risky and naïve, but it was exactly the kind of thing Claire Kennedy would have done.
Why did Michael let me see this file? I could say he was a canny investigator. He knew it was important for me to see his sister as a person, not as an anonymous victim. But there was more to it than that. Giving me this said “I’m going to trust you, as hard as that might be for me.” I hoped to repay that trust by finding his sister’s killer.
AFTER GETTING THE tire we went for Mexican and wore out our welcome with the staff, who kept coming by our table and casting looks at the growing line outside the door. We ignored them, and it was almost ten by the time we left.
We’d each had only one drink, hours ago, so driving wasn’t an issue. Michael offered me the keys again, but I let him take the wheel this time.
We were passing a scenic outlook trail when Michael slowed, squinting at the sign.
“I’m up for a walk if you are,” I said. Something I’d had for dinner hadn’t combined well with the ride. Fresh air would help.
“It’s closed after five,” he said.
“Which means it’ll be empty.”
He parked. The sun was long gone, but a full moon lit the way. The trail wasn’t that long. Nor was the outlook all that scenic.
It was just a walking bridge over a river with banks maybe twenty feet high. A wooden railing kept people from stumbling off the high banks. I ducked under it and sat on the rocky edge, legs dangling. Michael hesitated, then followed.
We sat in comfortable silence before he said, “Tell me about yourself.”
“Um, I did that for three hours at the restaurant. You talked about you. I talked about me ...”
“No, we talked about our jobs and about my car and your bike. I want to know more about Savannah. You’ve heard my sordid childhood. Now it’s your turn.”
Not an easy request to fulfill. As supernaturals we’re taught to tread the line between cautious and cagey. It’s worse to look as if we’re holding something back. That went double with a cop.
So I gave him the basic Savannah bio, leaving out names and places. I’d lived with my mom until I was twelve. Then she died and I’d been taken in by a friend of the family. Our twosome soon expanded to three. My guardian’s husband was a lawyer and investigator, and they’d opened their own firm. I’d worked there in school, then stayed on after.
I mentioned getting Lucas’s help fixing the dents in my bike, and Michael said, “So you still live close, I guess?”
“Um, very close. Yes, I’m twenty-one and I still live at home.”
He blinked. “Twenty-one?”
“Didn’t you do your basic background check? What kind of cop are you?”
“I did one, but only to confirm your employment. I didn’t dig up personal info.” He looked at me. “Why? Did you?”
“I just made sure you were who you said you were. So how old did you think I was?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four. You act older.”
I laughed. “I do believe that’s the first time anyone has said that about me. So, is it too young for you?”
He leaned over, lips coming to mine, arms pulling me into a kiss, soft at first, tentative, then ... wow. The guy could kiss. I finally had to pull back to catch my breath.
“Good answer?” he said.
“Yep. You like them young.”
He flushed. “That was not the message.”
“Are you sure? Because it certainly seems—”
He cut me off with another oxygen-depriving kiss. When I teetered a bit on the edge, he grabbed me like I’d been about to go over, one arm around my waist, the other clutching the rail.
“I think we’d better back up,” he said.
“Mmm.” I glanced over the embankment. “It’s not that far down. Not fatal unless you land wrong.”
