Emma forced herself back to the present, to the critique that was already in progress.
“The third stanza is weakest, I think, when it comes to lyrics,” Alison said. “ ‘Stay out of the kitchen if you can’t take the heat’? That’s lame.”
“Since when are you a lyricist, Shaw?” Rudy scoffed. “I think it’s genius. Anyway, you’re not the one who has to sing it.”
“I’m not a lyricist, but I do recognize lame when I hear it. And I don’t want to hear it when I’m up on stage.”
Jonah didn’t seem offended. “Originally it was ‘Keep away from the flame if you can’t stand the heat,’ but I had the reference to fire in the line before, so...”
“Better a soft repeat than lame,” Alison said.
“How about ‘Keep clear of me if you can’t stand the heat’?” Rudy suggested.
They continued to argue back and forth, polishing and revising, until Emma said abruptly, “Run through it again, and I’ll join in this time.”
At first, Emma simply pulled licks out of Jonah’s chords, but she gradually worked up a countervailing melody line for the lead guitar. She set her feet and faced off with him, blazing away with the Strat, forcing him back, back, back, twining in and around his guitar work, pinning him down until he had little room to maneuver in. Finally, Jonah found his musical footing and stood his ground. He used his voice, his very best weapon, to push back while Rudy did his best to layer in a harmony.
By the time it was over, Emma was dripping with sweat, and Jonah was, too.
“Whoa,” Rudy said, stepping back from his Roland. “Talk about hot! You incinerated it.”
“Yeah, well,” Emma said, voice shaking. “It needed incinerating.”
Jonah just stood, his guitar loose in his hands, his eyes fixed on Emma.
“Let’s go over some of the older material before I have to leave,” Natalie said, quickly.
“No, I’m done for the day,” Emma said. And she was—mentally and physically exhausted. “I’ve got it down. I’ll get in some practice on my own.”
Corcoran’s was a diner near downtown Trinity, clearly popular with the locals. Midafternoon on a Saturday, it was swarming with teens wearing Trinity sweatshirts, and kids still in soccer shin guards. In one corner, a table of old men hunched over spread-out newspapers and empty plates.
Leesha had asked Emma to meet her there after yet another study session at the library. Leesha was coming from yet another meeting.
Leesha ordered a sandwich, and Emma ordered a hot fudge sundae. It had been a good long time since she’d had one.
When she finished her sundae, she dropped her spoon in the empty dish with a satisfying clatter. “Sometimes you forget just how good a sundae is until you have one, and then you think of all those times you could’ve had one and didn’t.” Emma reached for the bill, but Leesha covered it with her own hand.
“My treat, remember?” Leesha dropped her credit card on top of the bill and said, “Emma, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” From her expression, she wasn’t looking forward to it. “The council has set up a new task force to investigate the mainliner murders.”
“How many task forces do you all need?” Emma said.
“Madison Moss is spearheading this one,” Leesha said. “They’ve been holding a series of hearings, and they want you to come and tell them what you know. Especially about the Halloween party.”
“I’ve already talked to the cops,” Emma said. “I’ve made a statement, answered their questions. They seem satisfied with that.” Well, she didn’t know that for a fact, but at least they hadn’t called her back in.
“The task force will ask different questions,” Leesha said. She cleared her throat. “Chief Childers is an excellent detective, and he already knows about the magical guilds, but—”
“He does?” Emma remembered wondering whether the police in Trinity knew that their little town was seething with magic and magical people.
Leesha nodded. “He really helped us out a lot two years ago during the Battle of Trinity. Still, he just doesn’t know what questions he should be asking.”
The back of Emma’s neck prickled. She thought of her encounter with Madison Moss at Grace’s memorial service. She didn’t care to repeat it. “It sounds like a witch hunt to me,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right to have Madison running an investigation of her sister’s murder.”
“Oh, she’s not on the task force,” Leesha said. “The council chose the members, and Maddie chose the chair—Mercedes Foster.” Leesha paused, then rushed on with the sales pitch. “Mercedes is tough and fair, and she’ll be looking for the truth, wherever that leads. She has a connection with savants through Natalie, and she’s not afraid of anything. The fact that Madison chose her tells me that she really does want a thorough, unbiased investigation.”
“What if I say no?”
“You could,” Leesha said, drawing out the word, her smoky eyes troubled, “but I hope you’ll at least consider it. And I hope you’ll encourage some of the other savants to testify as well.”
“Who? Jonah?”
“Well, him and anyone else who might know something. The committee isn’t perfect, but I think it’s the best chance to dig out the truth. It’s the only group that’s working with all the information.”
No, they’re not, Emma thought. They are not working with all the information.
“Tell me this,” she said. “Are there any savants on the task force?”
“Savants?” Leesha’s cheeks pinked up. “Um, not that I know of.”
“What? You think there might be some secret savants on there?”
“Well, no.” From Leesha’s expression, she knew she’d messed up but couldn’t figure out a way to backtrack.
Emma stood. “Get back to me when there’s a savant on the committee.” She tried to force a smile, to prove there were no hard feelings, but wasn’t sure if it actually made it onto her face. “See you back at home.”
But the ordeal wasn’t over yet. As soon as she got out on the street, Emma’s phone sounded. She looked down at the screen. Private. She answered.
“H-hello?”
“Ms. Lee?” It was a man’s voice. Familiar.
“Um. Yes. That’s me.”
“This is Ross Childers. Trinity PD.”
“Oh. Hi.” Spooky how he was calling her just when she thought she was out of the woods.
“Are you here in town?” Childers sounded surprised, and Emma had the feeling he knew the answer to that already. He must’ve had some way of locating her phone.
“I’m living here now,” Emma said. “Up on Lake Street. I’m downtown, heading home.”
“Is that so? Well, then, could you stop by the police station? It’s right on your way. I promise I won’t take too much of your time.”
Ross Childers’s office was about as neat as his car was messy. His computer system looked to be state-of-the-art, and he had photographs of the town posted on his walls, along with some framed training certificates and award plaques. He was on the phone when she arrived, but he waved her to a seat across the desk from him while he finished up.
After he put the phone down, he walked around the desk to shake her hand. “How are you, Ms. Lee?”
“Emma,” she said, thinking, At least he hasn’t figured out who I really am.
“Emma,” he said. “Would you like anything? Some water or coffee?”
“No, sir,” Emma said. “I just came from Corcoran’s.”
“Corcoran’s, huh?” Childers patted his midsection. “I gotta stay out of that place or I won’t pass my physical. Have you tried their peanut banana bowl?”
“No, sir.” She hesitated, then said, “To tell you the truth, that sounds awful.”
Childers pretended to be shocked, then said, “More for me, then,
huh?” He went back around his desk and sat down. “I didn’t know you’d moved here to town. That’s a nice area up there by the lake.”
“I’m staying with Leesha Middleton and her aunt,” Emma said. “I’m helping out with Aunt Millie.”
“Ah, Millisandra Middleton,” Childers said. “I used to cut her grass when I was a kid. She’s a great lady. I’m sorry to hear that she’s in bad health.”
“She’s doing all right,” Emma said. She looked down at her hands.
“So. How come you moved here? You get tired of the big-city life?” The question sounded casual, but Emma knew better.
“I’m still going to school in Cleveland,” Emma said. “I just—I like it here, and Leesha offered me a job.”
“It’s not because you didn’t feel safe there?” The chief’s face was open, kind, and just a bit worried.
“Why wouldn’t I feel safe there?” Emma snapped.
“Nobody’s pressuring you?”
“Nobody but you.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I deserved that. But it’d be no wonder if you felt skittish after what happened.” He sighed. “I’ve been doing some research into the history of the Anchorage. That was a real shame, what happened in Brazil.”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“I guess I heard about it at the time, but I didn’t connect it to here. That’s a great thing Mr. Mandrake is doing, setting up the school and all. I understand that a lot of the survivors are in poor health? Some have special needs?”
“Some do,” Emma said. “I’m fine, though.” Why did she think she had to keep repeating that?
“Good to hear,” Childers said. He paused, chewing on his lip, as if he wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. “I’ve been talking to people here in town, and some of them seem to think that some of the students might—might have serious problems. They seem worried that they had something to do with—”
“If you have questions about my school or any of the students there, you really need to talk to Mr. Mandrake,” Emma said. She made as if to get up. “Is that it? Because I—”
“I’m sorry,” Childers said, raising both hands. “You are absolutely right. I am talking to the wrong person. I’ll get hold of Mr. Mandrake.” As if eager to change the subject, he hit his keyboard and his screen lit up. He turned it toward Emma. “I wanted to let you know that we got some of the forensics back. The blood on your shoes matches the blood on your jacket, and they both seem to match with Rowan DeVries.”
“I could’ve told you that up front,” Emma said, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“I wondered if you remembered anything else that might be of help to us.”
“No, sir. Nothing comes to mind.”
“Have you talked to Kinlock at all since Halloween?”
“Well, yeah, I’ve talked to him. I see him at school, and, you know, at practices. We haven’t talked about the killings, if that’s what you mean. You said not to discuss it with anyone. Besides, I think we’d both like to forget about it.”
“What about DeVries? Have you had any contact with him?”
“No, sir. Like I said, I don’t really know him.” And then, because she thought she should ask, “Does that mean he’s better? Has he been able to talk? Has he—has he said anything about what happened?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Childers said heavily. “The thing is, he’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared? How could that be?” Emma leaned forward, planting both hands on his desk. “I thought he was in the intensive care.”
The detective was watching her closely, taking in her reaction. “He was improving,” Childers said. “He’d moved out of the ICU, and his vital signs were good. He was down to one IV, but he still seemed confused, too groggy for questioning. Then, this morning, he was gone without a word to anybody.”
Emma thought of Burroughs. Of Hackleford. And, finally, of Jonah. She cleared her throat. “You don’t—you don’t think something could have happened to him, do you? I mean, whoever attacked him might want to keep him from talking.”
And then she thought, That was stupid; of course he’s already thought of that. It’s probably why he’d brought her in.
“It’s possible,” Childers said. “It seems farfetched that somebody could kidnap him and sneak him out of the hospital without anyone seeing him. If you were the killer, and if you didn’t want him talking, it would be a lot easier to just finish the job you started.”
“Oh,” Emma said. “I guess so.”
“So right now, we’re treating it like he left AMA. Against medical advice. Maybe he’ll get in touch when he’s ready. But if he tries to contact you, it’s important that you let us know.”
“Sure,” Emma said, nodding. “Okay.”
She thought maybe they were done, but Childers just kept looking at her, his forehead furrowed.
“What?” she said, getting prickly again.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said, flipping a pen, catching it. He drew a breath, released it slowly. “I can tell that you’re not used to trusting the police to help you. But something’s going on, something you don’t feel comfortable talking about. If there’s anything you think we should know that would help us look out for you, I hope you’ll tell me. We can’t do our best job if we don’t have all the information.”
He believes me, Emma thought, amazed and touched. Even if he doesn’t think I’ve told him everything, he is worried about me. But would he believe me if he knew I was a runaway from Memphis?
It’s just hard to get out of the habit of looking out for myself.
Emma stood. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
The next night, Jonah arrived at Kenzie’s door carrying an ice cream cake. There hadn’t been time to custom order one, but this one said AWESOME! in caramel icing over chocolate, so he thought it would do. Kenzie was a total fool for ice cream. Balancing the cake in one hand, he knocked with the other.
No answer.
He knocked again.
No answer.
Setting the cake on the floor, he pounded.
Nothing.
Entering the pass code to the display outside Kenzie’s room, he scanned his brother’s schedule. Nothing, not at this time of night. Was he asleep? That was unheard of at this hour. Then again, Jonah had scarcely seen him since Halloween, when he woke Kenzie up and his brother helped craft him an alibi.
Fear slithered through Jonah, an icy snake of panic. Pulling out his cell phone, he called his brother. He could hear the phone going off inside. It went on and on and on.
He was ready to force the door, when he heard Kenzie’s voice, thick with sleep. “Harry. Answer the phone.”
“Kenzie? It’s me.”
Brief silence. “Come back tomorrow. I’m in bed.”
“What are you doing in bed?”
A little of the usual snark returned to Kenzie’s voice. “I was sleeping.”
Jonah double-checked the time. “At this hour?”
“It’s after midnight.”
“So? This is your new normal?”
“I thought I was getting in a rut, staying up all night.”
“I brought an ice cream cake,” Jonah said.
Nothing.
“It’s melting,” Jonah called out. “Open up or I’ll have to take down the door, and that will set off all kinds of alarms.”
This time, he heard the soft snick of the lock.
Kenzie was, indeed, in bed, and looked like he’d been there a while. Jonah shoved the cake into the freezer to harden up a little and crossed to his brother’s bedside. “ ’Sup? You feel okay?” Jonah sat on the side of the bed and leaned closer. He couldn’t tell much, since Kenzie hadn’t bothered to turn on the light.
“Quit hovering, okay? I’m tired is all.
You know, most people, if they came to visit and found a person in bed, they’d take that as a hint,” Kenzie said. “Emma already woke me up once.”
Jonah’s heart did its usual backflip at her name. “She did? She’s already been here?”
“Been and gone,” Kenzie said. “This has turned into a high-traffic area.”
“So. Has Emma—” Jonah stopped, swallowed. “Has she been coming to visit often?”
Jonah felt oddly envious that Emma would talk to Kenzie, maybe confiding her greatest fears, and seeking his advice. “I was wondering...Has she said anything about—”
“One thing we never talk about is you,” Kenzie interrupted. “And yet somehow we manage to have a conversation.” He paused. “So what did happen between the two of you? Tell Dr. Kinlock.”
“She knows I was there the night her father died,” Jonah said. “She blames me for his death. She’s moved out of Oxbow because of me, though I managed to persuade her to stay in school here.” He massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“I knew something bad had happened,” Kenzie said, puffing out his cheeks. “I thought maybe she’d found out about your death-dealing touch. That sucks, man.”
Eager for a distraction, Jonah returned to the refrigerator, retrieved the cake, pulled back the lid, and displayed it to Kenzie, who signified his approval with a thumbs-up.
Jonah cut two huge slabs. He handed one to his brother, then switched on the bedside light and pulled Kenzie’s high-tech desk chair up close.
“You know that you’re reinforcing bad behavior,” Kenzie said, talking with his mouth full. As he turned back toward Jonah, Jonah spotted a purple bruise on one cheekbone and a scabbed-over cut on his chin.
Jonah’s heart stuttered. No doubt that accounted for the romantic lighting. Kenzie didn’t want Jonah to get a good look at him.
“McKenzie Kinlock, have you been fighting again?”
“Okay, I confess. I got into it with a biker. Again. You should see the other guy, ha-ha.” Kenzie stuffed another bite of cake into his mouth. “Now, what was it you—?”
The Sorcerer Heir Page 13
