My answer tangles up in my throat. I can’t tell Benton that I used spelled stones to pry the answers from Evan, so I ignore the how part of his question. “He was going through some tough stuff with his family. I guess he hoped the ritual would help.” Thoughts of Evan’s dad, of his accident, raise goose bumps along my skin. I wonder how Evan’s holding up, if his misguided spell has brought him any more heartache or trouble. “But like I said, he was outside when the fire started. He’s not our culprit.”
“Not Evan. Got it. So where do we look for suspects? There were tons of people at the party.” Benton wiggles the pen between his fingers, his forehead creased with concentration. “There’s no way we’ll remember every single person there.”
“Let’s back up. You’re technically a witness, right? Walk me through what happened after you followed Nolan.” My head fills with the disgusting comments Nolan made when he caught Morgan and me kissing. Fury simmers somewhere deep inside. He’s such a fucking creep. “You did get him to erase that video, right?”
Benton nods, which calms my rage. A little. “I caught up to him in the living room. He was yelling at a pair of sophomores for breaking his mom’s antique vase. It took a little convincing, but he deleted the video.”
“Was he upset? Enough to go after you?”
“You think this was Nolan?” Benton taps his pen against the notebook. “I don’t know. I mean, how pissed do you have to be to set your own house on fire?”
“I’m guessing more pissed than he was,” I concede, since I don’t have anything besides a bitter loathing for the asshole to argue his guilt. There’s no evidence against him, and if he was that pissed about a single vase breaking, I doubt he’d set fire to his home. “What happened after you left Nolan?”
Benton writes Suspects on the top of his page and starts the list with Nolan—followed by several question marks. “I went looking for a bathroom. Someone was puking in the one on the first floor, so I went upstairs.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Yeah, actually,” he says, and looks up at me. “Veronica. She was arguing with Savannah. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when I opened the door, they both looked really intense.”
“They were in the bathroom together?”
“No. It was a bedroom. I found the bathroom on the other end of the hall.” Benton writes both of their names on his suspect list. “There was definitely something shady going on between them.”
“Veronica didn’t start the fire. My ex is many things, but she isn’t an arsonist.” I doubt we even have a true arsonist on our hands, but I promised myself I’d humor Benton’s theories. I’m more concerned about what Veronica was doing closed up in a bedroom with Savannah.
“What about Savannah?” he asks, crossing out Veronica’s name without pressing further, which I appreciate.
“I don’t know much about her. What’s her motive?”
Benton grabs another Thin Mint and eats the whole thing in one bite. “Maybe she thinks Nolan killed the raccoon, which would make him the reason her wrist is broken,” he says, his mouth still full. He swallows and continues, looking pensive. “Maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe Nolan was the target.”
“I don’t know, Benton.” I flash a grin and waggle my eyebrows at him. “Maybe there’s something between you and Savannah I don’t know about.”
“I’ve only had one crush since I moved to Salem, and it wasn’t Savannah.” Benton’s cheeks flush red, but his words make my stomach sink to the floor.
“Benton . . .”
He holds up his hands. “No, I’m sorry.” His whole posture deflates, but the red in his face doesn’t fade. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I promise I’ll get over it. I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”
I nod, but the awkward silence stretches between us, chipping away at the easy banter we usually have. “Let’s take a brownie break,” I say when I can’t stand it any longer. Benton agrees, so I lead him downstairs to the kitchen and slice into the brownies, still warm from the oven. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. “Do you want a corner piece?”
He recoils. “Middle piece or bust, Walsh.”
“Blasphemy,” I say, mocking a gasp. A smile quirks up the corners of my lips as I pull out one piece from the dead center. I grab a corner piece for myself and hold it up. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he echoes, making a fake clinking sound when he taps his brownie against mine. “Here’s to cracking the case, Detective Walsh.”
I laugh and take a bite, the chocolatey goodness melting over my tongue. We go through another brownie each, chatting about investigation strategies. Benton suggests we split up the guest list and interview our classmates as witnesses. I begrudgingly agree, and we head back toward my room.
My phone goes off again, and I finally pull it out. “Hang on a sec,” I say, unlocking my screen. There are three texts waiting for me. Two are from Gemma, but the first . . .
It’s from Morgan.
MH: You busy tomorrow?
Warmth spreads through me, but I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nerves or something else entirely. Before I give myself time to overreact—Is she asking me out? Is this a friend thing?—I check Gemma’s texts.
GG: Morgan is freaking out over here! What are you waiting for?
GG: Hannah. When the girl you have a crush on asks you out, it’s polite to respond.
My face burns. So she was asking me out.
HW: Should I say yes?
“Everything all right?”
“Huh?” I glance up from my phone and find Benton staring at me. “Yeah, fine.”
Benton finishes the last bite of his second brownie and wipes his fingers on his jeans. “What’s that look about?” He tilts his head to one side. “You look all . . . embarrassed.”
“It’s nothing.” I tuck my hair behind one ear, trying to avoid Benton’s questioning stare. I don’t want to rub this in his face, but we’re supposed to be friends, right? We shouldn’t have to dance around each other because of an impossible crush, one he’s promised to get over. “It’s that girl from the party. Morgan. I think she just asked me out.”
“You think?”
Before I can respond, my phone lights up.
GG: OMG of course you should!!! You two would be so cute together.
I bite my lip and turn back to Benton. “You know that feeling when you’re not sure if someone wants to hang out as friends or if they’re asking for a date? It’s like that, except it can be even more confusing when you’re both girls.”
“Ah.” Benton runs a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, that sounds complicated.”
You have no idea. I open up Morgan’s text, but my fingers freeze over the keys. Even with Gemma’s endorsement, the You busy tomorrow? still doesn’t seem super flirty to me. Did Morgan say something to Gem about how she feels, or is Gemma shipping us because we’re the only queer girls she knows? Am I shipping us for the same reason?
“What’s wrong?” Benton asks when my hesitation extends to ridiculous lengths. “Not sure if you like her back?”
“I barely know her,” I say, which isn’t entirely true. We’ve texted a ton, but I’m worried our easy banter won’t translate when we’re in person. Most of all, I’m worried that without the crystals I was wearing at the party, she won’t be interested at all.
“Isn’t that the point of a first date?” Benton asks, cutting into my thoughts. “To get to know someone?”
“I guess.” My phone buzzes in my hand as a new message comes through.
GG: Hannah Marie Walsh! Stop stalling. Put the girl out of her misery and respond already!!!
Fuck it. It doesn’t hurt to go out and see if we click. Even if we don’t, another queer friend is always a good thing. Gemma’s great, but she doesn’t always understand eve
rything I go through. She hasn’t even noticed how much her parents have changed around me.
I glance up at Benton, who gives me an encouraging nod.
HW: Totally free. What do you have in mind?
I watch the screen, waiting for the three dancing dots to appear. Benton and I head for the stairs at the front of the house, and as we pass the big bay windows in the living room, there’s a loud crash. I jolt away from the sound, raising my hands to cover my face, but I’m too slow. A sharp pain blooms across my cheeks and arms. My magic tries to protect me, but the binding charm keeps it locked inside.
“Hannah! Are you all right?” Benton catches me as I sway on my feet, dragging me away from the broken glass.
A brick lies on the floor, only a few feet in front of where I was standing. Our front bay window is in pieces across the living room. I’m afraid to look at my arms, my face, worried there’s glass lodged in my skin.
“Benton,” I say, my stomach clenching. “Can you see who threw it?”
He leaves me and runs to the window, which stands like a gaping mouth, a few jagged pieces of glass hanging on like teeth. “They’re gone.” Benton bends and picks up the brick. “But they left a message.” He unties the note from the brick and hands me the crumpled paper.
YOU’RE NEXT.
* * *
• • •
Benton calls for an ambulance, and I’m too shaken to protest. The paramedics remove bits of glass from my face and arms, disinfect the wounds, and bandage me up. All things considered, I’m not badly hurt, but Benton fusses over me like I’m on my deathbed. He refuses to leave until I call both my parents and tell them what happened. He also tucks the threatening letter into his bag so he can review it for clues.
I thought he was overreacting about the fire, but maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe someone is after him. After us.
Benton leaves with only moments to spare before my dad makes it home. Dad, for his part, is furious that I didn’t call him sooner and worries over me until I have to shout that I’m fine. Once he’s sure, Dad goes into work mode, calling the police and the insurance company.
While he talks to the officer and grumbles about being on hold, I’m texting furiously with Gemma, desperate for a distraction from this nightmare. By the time the handyman has boarded up the window and ordered a replacement, Gem and I have concocted a plan to make my date with Morgan happen despite being grounded.
At dinner, I tell my parents Lauren asked me to pick up an extra shift to cover for Cal’s doctor appointment. They nod and remind me to be careful. Despite Benton’s concerns for our safety, my parents don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Dad’s positive the broken window was meant for him, that a family member of someone he sent to jail must have done it.
I’m less sure, especially since the brick flew through the window right as I was walking past, but I’m not about to argue the point. I try to ride my wave of good luck, casually asking my parents if I can take off my binding ring during tonight’s weekly lesson with Lady Ariana. That request does not go over well. My parents decide to call my grandmother and fill her in on my infractions at the party. I still get to attend the lesson, but I’m forced to dust the altar while my peers work magic.
It’s the worst lesson of my life, but at least I have a date to plan.
The next day, as I get ready in the Cauldron’s tiny staff bathroom, I’m starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea. There’s approximately five billion butterflies causing havoc in my stomach. The patchwork of tiny cuts on my face is too fresh to cover with makeup, so my only weapon is a tube of lip gloss. I wanted to bring a change of clothes, but I forgot Mom’s classes didn’t start until noon today, and there was no way to sneak anything remotely cute past her when I left this morning.
My phone buzzes, the sound overly loud against the sink.
GG: No getting cold feet! Morgan is so excited.
HW: Is class done?
GG: We’re on break. About another fifteen minutes left. Get over here!
My reflection in the mirror smiles back at me. Maybe this look isn’t too terrible for a first date. I did manage to wear my favorite jeans, and the deep purple of the Cauldron T-shirt isn’t too awful. At least it’s not the highlighter-green fiasco Lauren tried out the first year I worked here.
The drive to the dance studio is brief, but my palms are sweating by the time I get there. I wipe them on my jeans after I park. You can do this. It’s just a date. With a cute girl. Who may or may not even like you without spelled crystals around your neck.
My thoughts continue to spiral, and I have to fight to force them away. I take a deep breath, asking the air to calm my nerves, but the binding charm on my finger prevents the elements from offering even the slightest comfort.
I shove aside the guilt over disobeying my parents, exit the car, and walk the familiar path into the studio and down to Room C. Music pours into the hallway through the open door. I lean against the doorjamb to watch, and the music sweeps me away. The dancers are working on a pointe number. Gemma is the lead of the piece, and it’s easy to see why. Her form is exceptional, her timing perfect.
But in the back row, the newest dancer is giving Gem a run for her money.
Morgan moves with a fluidity and strength unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The videos of her old recitals don’t do her justice. Her hair is high in a tight bun, which makes her features look focused and intense. Every movement is so precise, so emotive, it’s like she has complete control over every cell of her body. Every strand of hair. I can’t look away.
As the music comes to an end, the dancers strike their final pose and the instructor notices me loitering in the doorway. She glares in my direction, and I scoot out of the way. A few moments later, a dozen zippers slide across gym bags as the dancers unwrap their point shoes from their ankles.
The swarm of butterflies from earlier flutters their wings in my stomach.
Morgan emerges from the room first. A large duffel hangs off one shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, but that’s probably from the class.
“Hey, Hannah.” She stops short. “What happened?”
My fingers drift to my face. “Someone threw a brick through my front window yesterday. I’m fine though.”
“Are you sure?” She steps closer, the tips of her fingers brushing along the edge of my temple. I nod, afraid to breathe with her so close, and she pulls her hand away. “I’m going to change. Are you up for getting smoothies after?”
“Sounds great.”
Morgan glides down the hall to the locker room. Once she’s out of sight, I lean against the wall and brush my fingers across my face. The healing cuts send a pulse of worry through my entire body. I trust my dad’s instincts, but what if Benton was right? What if that brick was meant for us? Maybe I shouldn’t be wandering around town, powerless from the ring on my finger.
Gem sidles up beside me, and I force my fear away. “Excited for your date?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows and shimmying her shoulders.
“Go away. Before she sees you and thinks you’re giving me a pep talk,” I whisper, and nudge Gem with my shoulder.
“Do you need a pep talk?” The teasing is gone from her voice. “How’s your face feeling?”
“Is it that bad?”
“No! It’s barely noticeable.” Gemma pauses, the lie hanging between us. “Are you nervous?”
I fidget and avoid Gemma’s gaze. “A little. I never had to do the whole ‘first date’ thing with Veronica. I knew she liked me before I even knew I liked girls. This is new.”
Gemma straightens. “You’ll be fine. Gotta run!”
“Wait, what?” I watch Gemma race for the front door, and when I turn back around, I see what caused her to bolt. “Hey, Morgan. That was an amazing rehearsal. You’re really talented. Like, incredible. I’ve never seen anyone dance li
ke that, and I’ve even seen you dance before, in those videos you sent.” Someone please shut me up.
“Thanks. Those videos were from last year, so I’m glad to hear I haven’t gotten worse.” Morgan smiles, her lips freshly glossed. Her hair is down now, soft curls flowing past her shoulders. “Should we get out of here?”
“Sure.” I follow Morgan to her mom’s silver SUV, where she stores her bag. “So, smoothies, huh?”
“I’m not really a coffee person. Makes me too jittery.” Morgan leads me down the street to the Squeeze Café. “Gemma said this place was one of your favorites,” she says as she holds the door for me.
I thank her and pass into the cool air conditioning, a welcome relief from the hot summer sun. Morgan follows me in, and we wait in line in silence. I order a strawberry smoothie; Morgan orders a lemonade slushie. After an awkward stalemate over who should pay—we end up splitting it—we find a small table in the corner and settle across from each other.
“So,” I start, but I don’t know where to go from there. All my previous fears about our texting banter not translating to real life itch at my skin as the silence stretches between us.
Morgan takes a sip from her drink. “Sorry again about the impromptu kiss at the party. I feel like that’s maybe contributing to this awkwardness.”
Her frankness startles a laugh out of me. “I’m sure it would be awkward anyway. I’m not exactly good at first dates.”
“Is anyone?” Morgan brushes her hair behind one ear. “And it’s not like Disney ever showed us how to fall for another girl.”
I nod, sipping my strawberry smoothie. “This is the part where I ask you all the stereotypical first-date questions, right? Like ‘What brought you from Minnesota all the way to Massachusetts?’ And ‘How did you settle on Salem of all places?’ Are your parents captivated by the witch trials like all the tourists here?”
“Is your family not? Why live in Salem if you hate its greatest attraction?” Morgan quirks up an eyebrow and swirls the straw through her slushie.
These Witches Don't Burn Page 12
