Strega (Strega Series) (13 page)

After a quick shower, I threw on my gray skirt and shiny black shoes. As I buttoned my shirt and headed for the door, I noticed a mark on the carpet. A footprint. I crouched down to get a closer look and noticed that there were several prints, and they traced from the door to my bedside, and back. They were made by large, heavy shoes with deep grooves. Boots. A man's boots.

My phone buzzed. It was a text message from Shaun.

Sorry for bailing last night. Uncle 911. Boat trouble.

My first theory went out the window. If Shaun didn't bring me home, then it had to be Max. Maybe a booted, one-armed Max and a barefoot Rena helped me to bed? But I specifically remembered Max wearing his old red Chucks last night. Rena didn't stop talking about how much she hated them for the whole ride.

Max was still asleep. Rena was in the kitchen making breakfast. She was chipper as usual, which was strangely unnerving that morning. Did I fall asleep? Drink too much? Get knocked out? I didn't even remember Shaun leaving. I was desperate to ask, but I didn't have time for a long answer. I kept my mouth shut and grabbed some toast before I made my way to the door.

"Hey, you're not even going to tell me what happened last night?" Rena shouted with her mouth full. "Did you get lucky?"

"What?" I asked ignorantly.

"You guys left in a hurry," she chuckled. "Max saw Shaun tear out of the parking lot! I can't believe you didn't even say bye," she giggled. "Does this mean a break-up is off the table?"

"Rena, shut it," I said with irritation. "I didn't..."

She stared at me, waiting for the rest. But I couldn't.

"I don't even know...I was out of it last night."

Technically, that was the truth. She thought I was with Shaun, but I knew that was impossible. I had no idea what the hell really happened.

I ran out the door, scrolling through my recent calls for Mr. Whitmore's number. I was late. After four rings, I hung up. Then I called Mr. Baker hoping he could give Mr. Whitmore a heads up for me. But he didn't answer either. I jumped in my car and hit the road.

The bright sun highlighted the hints of autumn in the trees and warmed my hands on the steering wheel. The sun wrapped a warm blanket around me, reminding me of better times. A year ago, I was getting ready to start my junior year, shopping for clothes with Gram, having lunch together, enjoying the time we had before the school year started. I savored these memories and longed to have those moments back.

Before she died, I used to be so excited about my future and what lay ahead. I couldn't wait to explore new places, meet new people. Thoughts of heading west to UC Berkeley churned up all my hopes and dreams. I fell in love with the idea after scrolling through their website one night. Gram was getting ready to head out to her monthly book club meeting. She hadn't finished the book she was supposed to read, but she knew it was one of my favorites. I'd been the one to suggest it as her group's next book. She begged me for a quick synopsis. I agreed, but only after she promised to actually read it someday. After my brief but detailed summary, she noticed the UC Berkeley page on my laptop.

"Oh my Alainn Jay, I can't believe we're already here. College, right around the corner. You've grown up so fast," she said with a twinge of grief. "I am so thrilled for you. It is such a wonderful thing...such an important step in discovering who you are. Just be prepared—wherever you go, I am coming to visit you all the time!"

She winked and gave me a hug. Gram and I grew so close after Mom and Dad died. She was my best friend. Always there for me. I could tell her anything. She guided me with gentle but firm advice, and at the same time encouraged my independence. I hadn't begun to brace myself for the adjustment to living apart. Being on my own. Little did I know that this reality would come sooner, and with more permanence than I ever expected.

My phone interrupted my thoughts. It was Kate.

"You need to come with me on this one, Jay," she said, skipping any sort of hello. "Something big is going down at your school. I'm heading over now. Meet me there if you're interested. I'm gonna call Sergeant Sullivan for details."

Before I could tell her that I was already on my way there, I heard the click. I stepped a little harder on the gas as a deep-seated feeling of dread mounted within me. I'd barely escaped the parking lot last night. They must have found someone still lying there. My whole body shivered at the thought of what I was about to see.

As I approached the parking lot, I braced myself for the unavoidable mayhem crowding the school campus. A moment later, my phone rang again. I grabbed it, sure that it was Kate calling back to tell me where I could find her, and maybe tell me more about what was going on. I hoped so anyway. I needed to mentally prepare. But it wasn't Kate. It was Mr. Baker.

"Mr. Baker? What is going on over there?"

"Jay," he said in a solemn voice, "Mr. Whitmore is dead."

I pulled into the first spot I could find. I grabbed my things and made my way to the front entrance, where two police cars were parked. I pushed my way past the growing crowd and squeezed into the elevator. The doors opened to the third-floor hallway, which was filled with faculty members and officials. Some were crying while others spoke to police. My heart sank deeper and my stomach tangled in knots.

I sent Rena a quick text with a 911 and a desperate plea for her to cover my shift at The Waterside. A second later, a text from Kate popped up on my phone.

Jay, turn around and go home. Don't want you on this one.

Kate, like everybody else in town, knew what I'd been through with Gram's death. The last thing she wanted to do was drag me to a murder scene. And Mr. Dugan would have been furious if he found out she had. As soon as she realized what was going on, she panicked. But there was no avoiding it. I was already on my way to the school, even without her call.

My phone buzzed with Rena's reply.

No problem. Called Ricky to let him know. U ok?

I quickly typed a
thanks tell u later
reply before I weaved my way through the crowd to the history department. The administrator was on the phone, and I overheard enough of her conversation to know that she was telling someone the horrible news.

I knocked on Mr. Baker's office door but there was no response.

"It's Jay," I finally whispered. I knew he was in there, probably trying to escape the chaos I'd just waded through. After a few seconds, I heard his faint voice.

"Come in."

He was sitting at his desk with his chin on his fists. His eyes were red and swollen. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything at all. I just sat down in the chair across from his desk.

"I just can't believe it," he said, staring past me at the wall. He was ghostly pale, drained of all color. I was desperate to know what happened, but I couldn't find the right way to ask him for details. He didn't look like he could handle talking about it anymore after dealing with the police all morning. He didn't look at me. He didn't blink. He just continued to stare. Then finally, he started talking.

"He stopped downtown at the Cask for a drink on his way home last night." He paused for a weak breath before his monotone voice continued. "They found him near his car. He was parked a little ways up the street. They found him on the sidewalk, right in front of someone's house."

"I was with him last night," I said softly, my voice sinking to match his somber tone. "I didn't leave here until around seven. What time did it happen?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "I think they said it happened around ten. An officer came in to talk to us earlier. They're all over at the Cask."

Mr. Whitmore warned me that I was in danger, but he was in just as much danger, and now he was dead. I tried to tell him. I should've tried harder. If I hadn't involved him, he would still be alive. I had to get rid of that damn athame before it put anyone else in danger. I wanted to throw it into the ocean and let it sink to the bottom where nobody would ever find it.

"Would you mind if I took a quick look around his office?" I asked, trying to think of a good excuse for why I needed to get in there. He hesitated for a moment, looking at me with concern.

"You really shouldn't," he said. "David's office is officially part of the crime scene. The police have already blocked it off for the detective. He's coming here as soon as he's done at the Cask."

There was only one detective in town, and I'd gotten to know him well that summer. After Gram's murder, Detective Laine and I saw each other every week. He was as hard as a rock. No frills. Austere about his responsibilities. He made me feel like if anyone could solve her murder, he could. But despite his hard exterior, he was also perceptive, allowed space for my feelings, and even offered compassion and hope when I needed it most.

"I don't know what they'll find in there," Mr. Baker continued. "They were asking me this morning if I knew of any debts he may have had. If he was a gambler. He wasn't. Not that I know of anyway. I guess they are just looking for a motive, but it sounds like it was pretty random to me. David didn't have any enemies. Like your grandmother."

He finally acknowledged it, and tears swelled up in his eyes for me. My stomach sank.

"Well, that is why I want to look. I was here with him last night. I really just want to see if I notice anything unusual."

Reluctantly, Mr. Baker opened his top drawer and took out the small key to Mr. Whitmore's office.

"Enter at your own risk," he said.

"Don't worry, I'll be really careful," I said, quickly making my way to the door before he could stop me.

***

The administrator was still on the phone and didn't notice me sneak over to Mr. Whitmore's door. I turned the key and carefully climbed over the yellow caution tape across the threshold. Mr. Baker said the police put the tape up but hadn't actually gone inside yet.

At first glance, everything seemed the same as when I left the night before. I anxiously approached his desk, wondering how I was going to get into his safe. Maybe I'd find a meaningful date on his calendar, a phone number in his top drawer. It was a long shot, but I had to figure out the combination. The police would surely break it open. I had to get my hands on the athame before they did. They were no match for what was after it.

It felt so wrong being there. I would probably be arrested for tampering with a crime scene. But Mr. Whitmore was murdered because of the athame, I was sure, and I'd be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of it. It was my responsibility.

I rounded the corner of his desk and carefully pulled his chair away with the back of my hand, wanting to avoid incriminating myself with a trail of fingerprints. I stared at the safe for a second, unable to believe my eyes. It was wide open, and it was empty. I inspected the door, but it was not damaged. Whoever opened it didn't break in. I wondered if Mr. Whitmore ever put the athame in there.

I didn't know what to do. Mr. Whitmore was the only person I could talk to about the athame, the dreams, any of it, and he was gone. Killed by the same thing that almost killed me in the parking lot, I was sure. The only difference was that I got lucky. Somebody came along at the exact right moment and saved me from the same fate.

On his desk, beneath an open notebook full of scribbled notes, I saw the book with the triquetra on the cover. I grabbed both and shoved them in my bag. As I made my way to the door, something stopped me in my tracks. Something that was not there the night before. Something that would drag me into the police investigation for sure. The message light on his phone glowed red. It was my message. He never got it.

I panicked. Detective Laine would surely listen to the message. When he did, he would come to me for answers. Answers that I couldn't give him. In the message, I warned Mr. Whitmore that he was in danger. One by one, my words came back to haunt me.

Mr. Whitmore. It's Jay...I was just attacked. On campus. In the parking lot. You were right. Whatever is after me...he is not human. He wants the athame. If he knows you have it, he will come after you, too. Please just get away from it. Lock it up until we figure out what to do. And be careful tonight.

I had to erase that message. If I broke the phone or cut a wire, the police could still access his messages through the system administrator. If I could figure out his password, I could delete the message. I needed a miracle.

His top drawer was full of junk. With a tissue, I searched through scraps of paper, small notebooks, anything that might have a series of numbers or letters resembling a password. On his desk, I searched through papers and books and finally found a small yellow note stuck to the side of his computer monitor. It had four digits written on it. I crossed my fingers, picked up the phone with the tissue, and with my knuckle I hit the voicemail button.

Please enter your password.

Holding my breath, I typed in the four digits and hit pound.

The password you entered is incorrect. Please try again.