“Depression can lead to suicide,” Dr. Dannon agreed. “But the means is still unusual.” He raised his hands, palms out. “But I won’t say it’s impossible.”
“And all the cuts were perimortem?” I asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Dannon confirmed.
“Were any of them defensive?”
“No, the cuts on his arms are no different than the others, and the direction is wrong for defensive wounds.”
“So his attacker cut him while he was still alive, but he didn’t fight,” Andy concluded.
“Was he restrained?” I asked.
“I found no evidence that suggest he was bound,” Dr. Dannon said.
I bit my lip. Magic wouldn’t leave marks the way rope or cord would. I knew of several spells that would hold a person immobile, unable to react to anything, no matter what sort of pain it might cause. “He could have been unconscious.”
“A possibility,” Dr. Dannon agreed. He hesitated. “Though, in my experience, no one inflicts pain like that unless their victim is awake to…respond.”
My stomach rolled. Fair point.
“Call me when you get the test results?” Andy asked.
“I will,” Dr. Dannon said. “And you’ll call if you learn something significant? More information can lend a different perspective to my findings.”
Andy tugged on his jacket to straighten the already impeccable lines. “I’ll keep you updated.”
We left the morgue in silence. Tom was waiting for us outside.
“You’re taking lead on the case.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir,” Andy said. “We’re leaving for the youth center now.”
“Good. Keep me updated.” Tom turned and stalked away a few steps, then paused and spoke over his shoulder. “Bradford?”
“Yeah?”
“It would improve my day if you found those kids alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
We both stared after him as Tom got into his car and drove off. Then we continued to Andy’s car. He didn’t speak again until we closed our doors behind us.
“So?”
I fastened my seatbelt and leaned against my seat. “The cuts were magically inflicted except for the one that killed him.”
He thought about that a minute. “Your conclusion?”
“I don’t have one. Drawing blood is a favorite pastime for several Otherworld creatures. They like blood—they like drawing it, drinking it, playing with it. Some use it for magic. Matthew was with them for an entire year; who knows how he got those cuts. The fey have a variety of magic and skills at their disposal. I’ve seen enchanted weapons with blades formed of energy or will. Some of them can inflict cuts like that with a glance, strange as that may sound.”
“Gives the phrase ‘a sharp look’ a different meaning, doesn’t it?”
Neither of us laughed.
He paused with his hand on the gearshift. “I would offer to buy lunch…”
“I’m not hungry.”
He sighed. “Me neither. Let’s go talk to Ms. Devons.”
I stared out the window, ignoring the nausea that always plagued me when I rode in a car and wasn’t the one driving. “I thought we’d find them alive.”
“Good. You should always have that hope—always go in believing you’ll find them, and they’ll be safe.”
“Power of a positive attitude?”
Andy glanced at me, his square jaw set in a hard line. “Power of a bad one.”
I tugged on the lapels of my trench coat. “Right. Let’s go find Grayson and Lindsay.”
Constellation House was located in a newish building in the heart of Cleveland. It was a Cleveland State University program that had been introduced only a few years ago. The grey stone of the building was new, the white siding that lined the top and formed the awning over the doorway still unstained and bright. Even the parking lot retained the memory of its creation, with smooth asphalt and not a crack or chipped paint line in sight. I got out of Andy’s SUV and wrinkled my nose. New building and determined upkeep also meant new mulch. I surveyed the baby trees. I could have helped you grow without the mass-produced garbage they poured all over you.
A few kids milled about outside the door, talking in small groups. They watched me and Andy as we walked to the door, and I smiled. “Can you tell me if Sarah Devons is here?”
One girl, a pretty brunette wearing jeans and a T-Shirt that said, Duct tape can’t fix stupid, but it can muffle the sound, pointed at the door. “First office on the left.”
“Thanks,” Andy said.
We walked inside and were immediately overwhelmed by the flowery scent of Febreze over a sharp scent trail of body odor. I closed my mouth, trying not to taste the air on top of the smell, and even Andy wrinkled his nose before smoothing his features back into the FBI mask. Neither of us commented on the smell as we followed the youth’s directions to a door bearing the name plate for three individuals, including Sarah Devons. I knocked.
“Come in!”
Andy opened the door. The office was on the larger side, but appeared smaller due the fact that three desks had been crammed into the space. The beige walls were warm despite the virtual wallpapering of giant Post-its, calendars, inspirational posters, certifications, newspaper clippings, and photographs featuring Constellation House staff and volunteers.
The woman sitting at the desk in the center squeezed a phone between her face and her shoulder as she squinted at her computer, tapping on one key at a time with the caution of someone in unfamiliar territory.
“That…can’t be right.” She shoved her fingers through her wavy brown hair, flipping it up enough to flash a layer of dreadlocks underneath. “This is an old file.” She paused. “What condition are they in?” Another pause. “Make sure you remind her that we can’t take clothes that are stained or torn. Last time, she gave us two trash bags full of clothes and there were only three usable shirts.” Pause. “I know, and she’s not the only one. A lot of people think that just because someone’s homeless, they’ll be grateful for any item of clothing they get, but being homeless doesn’t mean you have no pride. It doesn’t mean they don’t care.” Pause. “All right, bring them by tomorrow, I’ll be here. Okay. Thanks.” She hung up and glared at the computer.
“Ms. Devons?”
She held up her left hand, letting the light catch the gold ring on her second to last finger. “Hatchet. Mrs. Hatchet now. Just give me one sec…”
She tapped a few more keys then gasped. “No!” More tapping followed by a sharp sigh of relief. “All right, obviously I shouldn’t be doing this until after lunch. If I mess this up, I’m gonna freak out.”
She swiveled around in her chair and froze. “You…are not who I was expecting.” She shot to her feet, her cheeks holding the first hint of a blush. “Sorry, hi, I’m Sarah. Welcome to Constellation House. Did we have an appointment?”
Her tone pleaded with us to say no, and I wondered if people often made appointments for her without telling her.
“No, we didn’t have an appointment, I’m sorry.” Andy shook her hand. “I’m Agent Bradford with the FBI, and this is Shade Renard, a consultant. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about Matthew, Lindsay, and Grayson—the kids who went missing last year.”
It was as if someone flipped a switch inside her. She slumped in her seat and wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing as if physically holding herself together. “Poor Matthew. I had to identify him in the morgue last night.” Tears glittered in her eyes as she took a deep breath and forced herself to meet our gazes. “Did you find Lindsay and Grayson?”
“Not yet.” I lifted my chin. “But we’re going to.”
Sarah pressed her lips together and sat up, mirroring my confidence. “Yes. Yes, good, how can I help?”
“We need to know about Michael Keegan,” Andy said.
“The man who visited the kids during the art auction last year.” Her face pinched, and she swallowed hard. “Was it him?” S
he slammed her fists down on the armrests of her chair, a muscle in her jaw jumping as she clenched her teeth. “I shouldn’t have let him around the kids. God, how stupid! I thought he’d help the program, help get the word out. And he was so good with them! Even Richard liked him.” She pressed her fingers to her temples.
“What can you tell us about him?” Andy asked.
“Nothing.” Sarah shoved her fingers into the thick dreadlocks against her scalp. “Nothing at all. I have his name, and his stupid card, but—”
“You have his card?” Andy asked.
She straightened. “Will that help?” She lunged forward, tore open a cupboard in her desk, and pulled out a box. “Hardly anyone gives out business cards anymore, it’s all electronic, but this guy had an old-school feel about him. The cop from before didn’t want the card, said it just had his name so it wasn’t worth much.”
She upended the box, spilling a mountain of papers, receipts, and cards. She dug through with the intense focus of a prospector panning for gold, crowing with triumph as she raised the card she’d been searching for. “Here it is!”
She gave the card to Andy, and he took it by its edges, careful not to smudge any fingerprints that might be there.
“Wait, I have a paper bag,” I said. I unzipped my waist pouch.
“Love the fanny pack,” Sarah said, pointing at the pouch. “Convenient, aren’t they?”
I smiled. “But hard to organize.”
“Tell me about it.”
Sarah’s mood had improved, as if finding the card had been the triumph she needed to feel like the investigation was finally progressing. I knew the importance of treasuring little victories.
“So he never gave you a phone number, email address, any way to contact him?” Andy asked.
Sarah dug through the drawer in her desk and retrieved a stick of deodorant. “No. He barely talked to me at all, to be honest. He told me he worked with a group that sponsored art charities, and he wanted to speak to some of the kids, see their work. He gave me the impression he might be able to make our program even bigger.”
She removed the top of the deodorant and began applying it to her shirt on top of her shoulders. Noticing my stare, she smiled. “I’m a hugger.”
She said it as if it explained why she was applying deodorant to her clothes. Before I could decide if I really wanted to pursue the matter further, she braced her hand on the arm of the chair. “Listen, this program means something to these kids. It’s not just a fundraiser, it’s a chance to feel in control of something, to feel like they’re contributing while doing something they love. They express themselves in art in ways they can’t with words. They get praised for their work, complimented, they get to show off.” Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on the chair. “I should have been more careful. But you have to understand—he wasn’t a stranger; he was an opportunity. He was never left alone with them,” she added.
Andy watched the growing pile of junk in my lap with the wariness of someone expecting a bomb instead of the endless stream of candy wrappers, dog treats, and masking tape. I found a paper bag that had once held a comic book. “Here, give it to me.”
He handed me the card and I slipped it into the bag and folded it before putting it in my pouch.
“Did you ever see the car he was driving?” Andy asked Sarah. “Did he take a taxi, a bus? Did you see what direction he came from, left in?”
Sarah bit her lip. “No. Actually, I think he walked here. I never saw him in a car or getting into a taxi.”
“So he might live close by?” Andy said.
“Maybe.” Sarah drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Maybe he said something to one of the kids. You could talk to them, if you want.”
“We’ll want to speak to any kids he talked to. Can you think of anything else that might help?”
Sarah perked up. “Wait. There was one strange thing. Matthew…” Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. “Matthew had sold a painting before the show. He sold it to Mr. Teagues.”
“The man running for office,” I said, remembering.
She rolled her eyes. “Mayor, yes. God, I’m glad he didn’t get it. He played nice here leading up to the election, but as soon as he lost, he couldn’t dump us fast enough. Hasn’t returned a single call I’ve placed to him trying to follow up on all the promises he made.”
“What was strange about it?” Andy asked.
“Well, he purchased the painting, but agreed to let it stay here for the auction. It helps to have a few paintings marked sold, to drive the bidding. Anyway, someone stole the painting the night before the auction. I was so upset about the kids missing that I didn’t even notice until a week later, when I was going through the receipts from the auction.”
“Someone stole Matthew’s painting?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And he didn’t demand a refund?” Andy asked.
Sarah glared at the memory, her tone turning frosty. “Oh, he did. After he lost the election, he showed up in my office demanding I give him a refund. As if I have five hundred dollars lying around.”
“He spent five hundred dollars on the painting?” I asked.
Sarah snorted. “All a show for the papers to convince people he would invest in these kids. All bullshit.” She sat up. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I assured her.
“So you were on the hook for money.” Andy looked around. “This is a new program, new building. Starting a place like this isn’t cheap.”
“Cleveland State spent a long time planning this program,” Sarah said. “They invested heavily in its success.”
“But finances must have been tight, especially at first. And with the problems with the auction…”
If Sarah noticed where Andy was going with his questions, she didn’t show it. “Well, we had other kids step up and work hard on projects to replace what the kids took.”
I stepped forward. “Wait, the other kids took their paintings too?”
“Yes. They all took them. Or whoever kidnapped them took them.” She frowned. “I explained this to the last police officer.”
“He didn’t write it down.” I gathered up my things and shoved them into my waist pouch. “Did the police try to track the paintings?”
She shrugged. “They said they’d try, but it’s not as if they were from the old masters. They weren’t going to show up on the black market.”
“Did Mr. Teagues ever get his refund?” Andy asked.
“Every penny,” Sarah said. “I paid him out of my own paycheck.”
Andy took out his notebook. “So all three kids failed to show up for the rehearsal. Were their paintings gone then, or did they disappear later?”
“The paintings were there at the rehearsal, but by the time I finished talking to the police, they were gone.”
“They probably thought the kids took them,” Andy said. “That would have lent credence to the possibility they left of their own accord.”
“No, they wouldn’t do that. This show was as important to them as it was to me. This was a huge opportunity for them.”
I didn’t say it out loud, but if they’d been taken by the fey, then it was possible the sidhe had offered them an even bigger opportunity. One that few humans had ever said no to.
And many had lived to regret.
Chapter 5
“Several kids who participated last year are participating again this year,” Sarah said, leading us down a short hallway. “So you got lucky there. The next show is in a few weeks, so the art room is open n—”
“Mrs. Hatchet! Mrs. Hatchet!”
Sarah stopped and turned with a smile already in place. “Yes, Henry, hi, what can I do for you?”
A dark-skinned youth wearing a green T-shirt and dark blue jeans that looked two sizes too big for him careened to a stop two inches before he would have bowled Sarah over. He beamed at her and held his arms wide open, and she laughed and leaned in for a hug. H
enry looked at me and Andy and gestured at Sarah. “She’s a hugger.”
“I am,” Sarah admitted, eyes sparkling. “I’m a hugger.”
Sarah wasn’t a particularly tall woman, so when the boy hugged her, her shoulder met his armpit. Suddenly I understood the deodorant.
Henry squeezed her again, then let go. “I need a bike key. I have a job interview today.”
“Henry, that’s excellent! Yes, I’ll get the key for you. Just one sec; I need to get these people settled first. Meet me in my office in twenty minutes? Okay? Or Mark and Weston are playing games—you could go join them and I’ll come by as soon as I’m done?”
“I’ll wait by your office now,” Henry said, already backing down the hallway. “Don’t forget.”
“You know I won’t,” Sarah said.
We followed her down a few more hallways, passing a gym, a small kitchenette, and a laundry room before finally pausing outside a door in the center of the hallway.
“Do you want to address them as a group, or individually?” she asked.
“We’ll start as a group,” Andy answered.
Sarah opened the door. She made it two steps inside, then came to a dead halt. “Oh my God.”
My heart skipped a beat, and magic arced into my palm like a shooting star. Tension crackled in the air around Andy, and he lowered his hand toward his gun, but didn’t draw it. My mind threw up pictures of what we might see. Had the sidhe returned for more children? Had someone been hurt?
Before either of us could say anything, Sarah bolted into the studio, making a beeline for a table holding a clay sculpture. A young girl stood at the table, her tan cheeks smeared with reddish clay and a long braid of brown hair curled over her left shoulder. She held some sort of carving tool frozen an inch away from the sculpture, and her eyes widened as she watched Sarah waving at the piece.
“That is amazing!” Sarah pointed at the bust, noting the long hair that framed the sculpture’s face and over her shoulders. “Her hair is so detailed. How did you do that?”
My shoulders slumped as I realized there was no danger, only Sarah’s enthusiasm. Andy sighed and abandoned his gun to retrieve his notebook and pen from his breast pocket. He didn’t make a snide comment, but the click of his pen as he stared at the program director echoed with irritation.
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