by Neha Yazmin
She’s jogging.
Good.
“But his bedroom door was locked,” she goes on. “Who the hell locks their bedroom door when they leave the house?”
I can picture her roll her eyes as she rushes away from Callum’s flat.
“I tried to use an unlocking spell, like I did with the front door, but it backfired…”
“What do you mean by that?” I demand. “Unlocking spells don’t backfire. They work or they don’t work because of poor spell-casting or lack of magical power. They don’t backfire.”
“Well, mine did and it hit me in the face,” she snaps.
“What?”
This sounds absurd.
“I felt like I was electrocuted and then…” She pauses, her breathing slowing down. “I don’t remember. I must’ve fainted. And then I woke up outside the front door.”
“How did you get outta there?” I say in an unintentional whisper.
“Dunno. And I definitely didn’t lock that door. I woke to the sound of my phone ringing.”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t make sense…” I murmur. “Maybe you made it out yourself and locked the door and don’t remember this bit, either…? I don’t know,” I sigh. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Just get home and text me when you get there.”
“Home? What about Imogen?” she snaps, outraged. “What did Callum say, anyway?”
“Nothing that gives us any clue as to where she might be.”
I sigh.
“But we can’t give up the search!” she insists.
“No. And we won’t. We’ll start looking first thing tomorrow morning,” I promise her. “Right now, it’s late and dangerous for you to be roaming the streets by yourself. Especially if you fainted. You need to get home and rest.”
“Well, I do feel a bit… peculiar inside…”
“There you go,” I say, relieved that she’ll go home. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring over a tonic that will drain out any harmful magic that may have entered your system when your spell ‘backfired’. Just in case.”
“No need,” she assures me. “I have plenty of those tonics at home.”
“Okay. Goodnight Jax.”
“That’s the thing, though,” she mumbles glumly. “It’s not night time anymore. It’s past midnight.”
Meaning: If Imogen was the victim of a ritual designed to transfer her powers to a dark witch, she’s not alive anymore.
She’s dead.
Chapter 12
THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY PLACES YOU CAN SEARCH IN THE NIGHT WHEN YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE TO LOOK.
It’s gotten rather chilly now, so I hug my jacket closer as I sneak into a quiet little alley so I can transport myself home.
I make a point of never transporting inside my flat, in case Aiden’s home – he needs his privacy; no one wants their little sister to appear out of nowhere if they’re getting intimate with their girlfriend – and once the spell has brought me to my doorstep, I take out my key and unlock my front door.
I step inside and a shiver runs through me.
It’s a lot cooler inside than it is outside.
Normally, my flat is warmer than it is outside, especially during the day – the summer sunshine streaming in through the large windows gets trapped inside, heating up the place.
That’s why the first thing I always do when I get indoors is open the windows – it’s so hot I can’t breathe.
Don’t worry; I always shut the windows before I go out.
Today, I haven’t had the energy to let air into my flat.
Haven’t had the state of mind to care about the stifling heat, not when Imogen is likely to be in danger.
The unexpected coolness of my flat right now would have been a bonus if it was daytime.
It must be a lot colder tonight than it felt…
Shutting the door behind me, I drop my bag on the floor and lean against the wall, exhausted.
Eyelids heavy, I feel like sleep will pull me under if I close my eyes right now, even though I’m standing.
With a sigh that morphs into a yawn, I approach my bedroom, hoping that I can sleep a few hours.
Sleep deeply so I’m rested enough to go looking for Imogen at first light.
With half-shut eyes, I kick off my sandals as I walk to my bedside cabinet to drop my keys and plop down on my bed, feeling too lazy to take my jacket off.
Belatedly, I realise that the sound my keys made as they landed on the drawer was not what I’m used to.
Was not the sound of metal hitting wood.
It was a soft thud rather than a sharp clang.
Rolling my head to the side, I try to determine exactly what I placed my keys on.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that a thick book is sitting on my bedside drawer.
I don’t keep any of my study guides or text books there – they’re piled away neatly on my desk at the other end of the room.
And I’m not reading any novels at the moment, so there shouldn’t be a book by my bed.
There wasn’t one there when I’d left to meet Callum…
Well, there was the A-Z, but I’d stuffed it back inside one of the drawers.
Eyes adjusting further, I note that this mysterious item does appear to comprise of glossy white pages…
In a flash, I sit up and switch the bedside lamp on.
I gasp.
It’s the A-Z!
But I put it back inside…
I hadn’t taken it out in the first place!
Shoving aside my keys, I pick up the thick book and examine it.
Last time, it was open, half of it folded back to display just one page, just like it is now.
Showing the same page, perhaps?
If so…
Wide awake now, I bring the book close to my face and try to determine what area in London the map on this page is depicting.
Soho!
It’s a map of the streets in Soho!
Where I met Callum earlier tonight…
I find the street with the crowded bar that we hung out at, crowded only because…
Because of Henderson’s burning down!
It’s just a few doors down, the waitress had said.
Therefore, it’s on the same street as the bar Callum took me to.
The same street on this page of the A-Z.
Without thinking, I cast a transporter spell to take me to Henderson’s.
*
This late at night – or rather, this early in the morning – the streets are thankfully deserted.
I sigh in relief as I scan my surroundings and find no signs of life around me.
In my haste to get here, I’d forgotten to cast an accompanying cloaking spell, which I usually use to conceal myself when I materialise at my chosen destination.
In my haste, I’d also forgotten my shoes.
At least I still have my jacket on, and my phone in its pocket.
No time to conjure me some sandals, I stand on tiptoes as I face the blackened door to Henderson’s.
There’s yellow tape criss-crossing the entrance, ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ signs stuck to boarded up windows and a foreboding feel to the place.
The front door is metal and has a huge iron lock securing it.
A quick unlocking spell makes light work of it and it snaps open as though I’ve used a key.
Sure, I could transport myself inside, not disturb the lock, but who knows what kinds of health hazards lie inside?
I definitely don’t want to land on broken glass, not when I’m barefoot!
Carefully, I retrieve the lock and place it on the ground to one side of the entrance. I slowly push the door open a few inches.
Still, the smell of ash and charred wood and burnt carpet hit me immediately and I cover my mouth and nose.
I conjure up a little orb of light, no brighter than a torch light, and let it hover inside the burnt down bar.
Destruction is all around.
The bar is more or less knee high now, and no signs of tables or chairs.
They all burned down…
On tiptoes, I slip into the black space that used to be a popular drinking place and close the metal doors behind me.
Now, I let my glowing light burn bright, illuminating the entire bar.
It looks worse.
One hand still protecting my mouth and nose from the smell, I stretch out my other hand in front of me, palm facing down.
And a narrow path forms on the ground for me, clearing away burnt bits and broken glass to create a safe passage for me to walk to the rear of the building where I see a doorway.
I hurry to it, not wanting to waste any more time.
I’m sure this part of the venue was only for the staff to access as it seems to lead to a set of stairs that I assume would take you down to a cellar. Perhaps where all the alcohol is stored away.
All that alcohol has of course burned away, fuelling the fire – that’s why this place is so wrecked.
I magically sweep clear another path for me down the stairs and take two steps at a time until I’ve rushed into a huge empty room.
Stupidly, the first thing that grabs me about this basement space is that the floor is not littered with broken glass.
It should be carpeted with little shards of glass – it’s where all the bottles of wine and spirits and beer would have been stored.
But the floor is clean, pristine.
How…?
Even more stupidly, the second thing I notice as I stop at the mouth of this room is that I was wrong at first.
This isn’t a huge empty room.
It is indeed huge – as big as the bar upstairs, perhaps.
But it is not empty.
Near the far corner of the room sits a table.
A round table, made from wood, in mint condition.
And on the table lies a body.
A female body.
She’s lying on her back, arms outstretched, hands hanging limply over the edge of the table.
Even from here, I can tell she’s not breathing.
I can almost feel her cold, cold skin; I get goosebumps all over.
My entire body goes ice-cold, too, legs leaden and arms trembling.
Although I know this can only be the girl I’d come searching for, I still breathe a silent prayer that it’s not her.
It can’t be her.
Chapter 13
BUT IT IS HER.
Imogen.
Both her wrists are slit – sharp lines at the base of her hands – but the rest of her body looks unharmed.
She’s dressed in a simple white dress, sleeves down to her elbows and the hem reaching her knees, and she’s barefoot, toes pointing at the ceiling.
She looks so peaceful, she could be sleeping.
When you see someone who has seemingly died from slit wrists, you automatically think suicide and you instinctively picture blood.
Lots and lots of blood.
That’s why my brain doesn’t register the lack of blood until a good minute after I’ve stood by her corpse, shaking at the knees and breathing deeply to keep myself upright.
Tears pool in my eyes and then spill down my cheeks as I examine the table Imogen is lying on.
Not a spot of blood.
Not even a minuscule drop of it.
Without thinking, I begin to circle the table, legs trembling, searching the floor.
Nothing.
There’s no blood.
There’s no blood anywhere in this room.
Not on the table or the floor or on Imogen’s bright white dress.
Even her wounds are clean.
Has someone cleaned it all?
Has the killer washed away all the blood that would have poured out of those cuts on Imogen’s wrists?
Poured out until she died from blood loss?
Unless… she died elsewhere and was moved here afterwards?
Was this bar burned down so that Imogen’s body could be brought and kept here?
She couldn’t have been here before the fire – she’d have burned to a crisp.
You’d think the killer would set fire to the place to get rid of the body, wouldn’t you?
Get rid of the evidence.
But why burn Henderson’s before bringing the corpse here?
Well, that’s assuming that the killer was responsible for the fire – perhaps they just needed to stash the body somewhere and an abandoned, burned down bar was the best they could come up with?
No.
Bodies are usually dumped in canals and rivers, in bushes and out-of-the-way fields and forests.
Not in burnt bars.
Burnt bars that would be investigated for insurance purposes and then refurbished.
Hmm. This is a strange one.
Maybe she was killed nearby? And this wreckage was the best place the killer had to dump her corpse?
Who knows?
Anyway, I have to call the police.
I have to call Jax.
And Simone?
Can I handle calling her? Telling her and her family?
No.
Not when I failed to save Imogen.
Besides, I’m not trained for this sort of thing – delivering news of the death of a loved one.
There are people better equipped to do that.
*
The police arrived about 20 minutes after I called the emergency services.
I held off on calling Jax – I knew she’d come right over, and probably get here before the police, and the last thing I wanted was for the detectives and constables to find two people surrounding the dead girl’s corpse.
It’s bad enough that I’m being treated like a criminal by Detective Inspector Carver, a ruggedly handsome man in his late thirties, early forties tops.
“You’ll have to come back to the station with me, Miss Adams,” he says now and clears his throat. He does that after he ends almost every sentence he utters.
“Sure.” I nod to show my willingness to help.
The cool night air stirs my hair, makes me hug myself tight.
I was ushered out of the cellar when the forensics team arrived and now I’m by the entrance of Henderson’s, accompanied by DI Carver.
Or rather, being interrogated by him.
He narrows his grey eyes at me, like he’s surprised I don’t mind going with him to the station, most likely to answer the questions he’s already asked me:
“What makes you think this is Imogen Hardy – how do you know the missing girl?”
Her sister Simone asked for my help in looking for Imogen.
“How do you know Simone Hardy?”
I met her today through a friend – Jacqueline Gilmore. The two of them go to the same school. They were looking for Imogen too, until it got dark.
“Why did they come to you for help?”
You’ll have to ask them, Detective. But I think they just wanted someone a little older to help out.
I couldn’t mention that it was my superior magical ability that led Jax and Simone to ask for my assistance.
“What made you think to look in Henderson’s?”
I was passing it and I got a bad vibe and decided to check it out.
I couldn’t tell him that my seemingly haunted A-Z had, more or less, pointed to this burnt down bar.
“How did you open the lock?”
I didn’t. There was no lock on the door, so I entered.
“There was a lock. It was on the floor by the entrance – didn’t you see it?”
No. I just pushed the door and it opened…
A lie that will pervert the course of this investigation, I know, but I couldn’t tell him about magic and unlocking spells now, could I?
“And there was absolutely no blood in the premises?”
No, Detective. None whatsoever.
“Did you get a whiff of blea
ch or cleaning products that would suggest the place had been cleaned recently?”
No, I didn’t.
“How do you think the victim died, Miss Adams?”
From the slits on her wrists, I’d say blood loss… But I can’t be sure. I’m not a medical doctor.
“But there’s no blood anywhere – how do you explain that?”
I can’t.
I’m just as baffled as everyone else that’s here, collecting evidence, taking photographs and waiting for the body to be bagged and carried to the ambulance.
“Do you think she was murdered?”
Yes.
“Why do you think that – slit wrists are common in suicides, aren’t they?”
I don’t think Imogen would have been too bothered about cleaning the blood if she’d decided to take her own life, Detective.
“We haven’t identified the body yet, so we can’t assume its Imogen Hardy. But why are you so sure that it’s her?”
I don’t know. I guess it’s because I was looking for her and she’s been missing since Sunday…
“If she was murdered, who do you think killed her?”
I wish I knew…
I hope it wasn’t Callum…
“We’ll contact Jacqueline Gilmore to see if she can corroborate your story,” DI Carver assures me now.
I give him another supportive nod.
His eyes narrow further.
I sigh.
He suspects I’m lying.
Well, I am.
But not about killing Imogen.
“We’ll hold off on involving the Hardy family for now,” he informs me.
“Okay.”
“So, if you’d like to come with me…”
Carver spins on the spot and heads for his unmarked car parked on the road outside the bar and opens the back door for me to enter.
Taking a deep breath, I tiptoe towards the nondescript vehicle.
“One minute,” he says as I get to the open door. He sounds so suspicious.
I snap my head up to see his expression is just as distrustful.
“Yes, Detective?” I half-whisper. Unintentionally.
“Exactly why are you barefoot, Miss Adams?”
*
In the interview room – a small, stuffy room with a little table and four chairs placed around it – Carver is fixated on why I decided to search Henderson’s.
