by Cate Lawley
Hillary pulled a tiny, little-used notepad out of her purse. She usually used a dictation app on her phone, but that didn’t seem appropriate. She scribbled a few notes on the options Smitty had provided so they could mull them over later, but the choice seemed pretty clear. “Well, we’re on a deadline, and figuring out a set of arbitrary circumstances sounds pretty time-consuming. If forgiveness is important, then either Grace’s mom has to forgive Brad before she’ll remove the curse, or Brad has to forgive someone in order to trigger some loophole in the curse. Right?”
Again Smitty offered an apologetic smile. “I think so. Maybe. I mean, it’s hard to say. But for sure the person who has done the cursing should be able to break it.”
Hillary wanted to tear her hair out in frustration—except then she’d have to get new extensions. Hair-tearing was a bad idea. “Why can’t there be a clear answer?”
Gramps reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Because that’s how life is, peanut. It’s complicated and uncertain and messy.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s just what happens when magic gets involved.” Hillary gave him a dour look, but she also gave his fingers a quick squeeze before he let go.
“I’m with Walter,” Brad said. “Magic adds another dimension, but guaranteed the root of all this is a parent’s reaction to losing a child.”
Smitty assumed an apologetic demeanor, flushed a light pink color, and addressed the empty chair. “You’re sure you weren’t impaired in any way at the time of the accident?”
“I don’t think so…” Brad shook his head.
Hillary felt for him. He didn’t think he’d done anything—and the reports they’d read supported that conclusion—but to have no actual memory of the accident…what a terrible thing. She quickly answered, “Nothing in any of our research indicates that he was. In fact, it specifically says he wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol in a few of the news reports.”
“Well, then I’d focus on the two options we discussed: winning over the mother and working out if Brad’s forgiveness of himself or Grace or the mother plays some part in a loophole or ‘out’ built into the curse.”
“Getting my memory back about now would be convenient.” Brad scrubbed his hands across his face. Hillary watched in fascination as his hands and face briefly merged together around the edges.
Hillary had to peel her eyes away. Turning back to Smitty, she pulled a card from her purse and handed it to him. “Thank you for all your help. If there’s anything else that you think of, can you give me a call? As you know, we’re on a tight deadline.”
“Of course.” Smitty stood up and reached out his hand.
Hillary shook his hand and then Gramps. Smitty nodded in Brad’s direction. “No charge. I didn’t have anything concrete, and I don’t charge for initial consults anyway.” He lowered his voice and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Have to weed out the crackpots.”
Hillary smiled. He’d grown on her. He was still annoying, but he was a good-hearted, well-intentioned guy, if nervy and a little odd. “Thank you, truly, Smitty. We appreciate your help.”
Once he’d left, Hillary turned to Brad. “Your memory is number one priority for the rest of the day. That and any information we can find on Grace, her mom, and the accident.”
“Agreed. Let’s get this show on the road, peanut. We need to get back to the house and dig up some information.” Gramps was already standing, ready to go.
Brad was curiously silent, both in the coffee shop and on the ride home. Hillary worried about him. There were questions none of them had addressed and they had to be weighing on him. If he did regain his physicality, how would he explain his disappearance? If he didn’t, was something worse in store for him? Or would be in ghostly form forever? Those were just a few of the questions floating around in Hillary’s head. She could only imagine what Brad had come up with.
Chapter 15
Two hours of looking over Hillary’s shoulder and Brad felt like punching a wall. Except he couldn’t actually punch a wall. And he wasn’t the kind of guy who derived satisfaction from smashing things. He rubbed his face.
“You look like you need a break.” Hillary peered up at him. “Seriously. I’m the one typing and getting the sore mouse-clicking finger, but you’re the one looking wiped. Something’s wrong with this picture.”
She did that a lot, poked at him when he wasn’t at his best. Probably a back-handed attempt at kindness. And he had no doubt that she was kind. Wrapped up in a somewhat stressy, high-energy package, but at the core was kindness. “It’s frustrating. Watching you dig through all of these articles without being able to do the research myself.”
“And without finding much.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that, too. How is the tragic death of a young woman so hard to find? It shouldn’t be difficult, especially since we know I was the driver. You’d think it would be plastered all over the news.”
“Oh, there’s magic involved. I’d bet my next pedicure.” She gave him a crooked smile. “That’s good though. It means the accident and the information related to it is important somehow.”
He felt sick that a woman had died while he’d been driving. Even worse, that woman had been someone he must have loved, and he couldn’t remember even the smallest detail about her. Not her name, the color of her hair…nothing. The gaping hole in his memory felt horridly wrong. Different somehow than the rest of his missing memories. Maybe it had something to do with the guilt that Mary Margaret had detected in his aura.
Hillary’s phone chirped, pulling him back to the present.
She picked up her phone absent-mindedly, but after a quick glance her attention sharpened. “I didn’t know it was possible to send text messages from a blocked number.”
“That doesn’t seem right. Trash it; it’s probably a virus.”
“Seriously, how do you stay up to date? You don’t even have a phone,” Hillary said as she tapped the screen. “It’s a website.” She tapped the screen again.
Served her right if she ended up on a porn site. He was about to tell her so, when she turned to her computer and started typing.
After a few seconds, she tipped her laptop screen back so he could better see the web page displayed.
He felt gut-punched.
“You getting that creepy chill again?” Hillary asked. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
The site was a virtual memorial for a pretty dark-haired petite girl who died a little over eight years ago in a car accident. No name, just pictures.
“Why no name?” Hillary whispered. “And why have a memorial site that people can’t easily find? A clue from Glenda? A legitimate memorial, but altered and hidden by her mother?”
“It’s her.” He knew it the moment the picture appeared. An uneasy feeling, a foreboding, overcame him when he looked at her picture. “It’s definitely Grace.”
Walter had gone home to water his plants, retrieve the mail, and do those routine things that make people feel comfortable in their own space. He hadn’t yet returned when Hillary made her big discovery: a comment on the memorial site by one of Grace’s friends. A friend who was alive, easily discoverable through social media, and happy to answer a few questions for a memorial article about Grace.
“Jackpot.” Hillary clicked out of the messaging app she’d used to “interview” Grace’s friend Sarah.
“You’re suspiciously good at lying through your teeth,” Brad said.
“I’m completely comfortable with that aspect of my personality. But it makes Beth uncomfortable, too.” She spun around in her chair to face him. “Grace Galloway. Her mom’s name is Adele, and the accident was just outside of town. I don’t know the exact spot, but I’m familiar with the area and Sarah said it’s marked.”
Brad stood, stunned. This was it.
Hillary bit her lip and wiggled in her chair. “So, what do you think? We go, right?”
Brad wasn’t sure how he felt, but he kne
w without doubt they had to see the crash site. “We go.”
Since Walter was at home and neither of them wanted to bother him if the trip didn’t pan out, Hillary and Brad drove to the crash site without him.
They spent the first several minutes in silence. Brad suspected Hillary was giving him time to digest the new information. But they hadn’t learned much. What he needed was time, more time than they had, to prepare himself for a nasty memory dump. He’d seen a woman die. That he might regain those memories was both a terrifying and an empowering prospect. Any piece of his past regained was a step closer to becoming whole again. But he couldn’t even imagine what this particular memory looked like.
Hillary's eyes darted between him and the road. “It’s not much further.”
Brad nodded.
“You haven’t remembered anything else?”
“No. Other than an absolute certainty it’s her, nothing.” Brad turned to watch the passing landscape in the hopes it might trigger some other memory.
Grace. A simple, somewhat old-fashioned name. Grace Galloway. If the name was old-fashioned, the woman on the site certainly hadn’t been. Vibrant, cheerful, fun, and thoroughly modern. The classic name didn’t seem to suit her. And it didn’t taste right in his mouth.
“You’re sure you’re good with this plan?” Hillary asked, worry creeping into her voice. “The last time we made a breakthrough into your past, you disappeared for three days.”
The car slowed, but Brad doubted Hillary even realized she’d dropped down five miles under the speed limit.
“I’m sure.” A thought distracted him momentarily from the fear of what he’d discover. “Where exactly did that text come from? I mean, it has to be Glenda. But why won’t she just call?”
“Or call us back.” Hillary’s hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. They were pulling off the road to the shoulder.
Then he saw it, what Hillary must have spotted from the road. Flowers in varying stages of decay or desiccation, a photo, a cross planted firmly in the ground.
Brad debated pushing himself through the car’s door—an unpleasant but effective method of escape when he was caught in enclosed spaces—but Hillary hopped out of the driver’s seat before he could summon the effort. She waited, holding the door, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He crawled out on the driver’s side without taking his eyes off the piles of flowers. Some were fresh.
The thud of the car door closing startled him.
“I’m coming with you,” Hillary said, her tone hard to read and her face carefully blank.
It was a silly statement. They were parked no more than fifteen feet from Grace’s memorial. But Brad knew what she meant. “Absolutely.”
The road hadn’t looked familiar. The roadside spot, littered with flowers and marked by the cross certainly didn’t. The picture he recognized, but only because it had been on the website. Whoever had chosen the picture had made an odd choice. It wasn’t the happiest or the prettiest picture. Grace sat in a swing that hung from a tree, and she looked off into the distance rather than at the photographer.
Brad took a step closer—then he fell to his knees. A sharp pain—needles, knives, a hacksaw—pushing into his brain. Tearing, ripping, shredding. Fading. He reached for his head, expecting a wet, bloody mess, but he felt only his hair. He tried to stand, but his vision swam and he sank to the ground.
Chapter 16
Hillary watched in horror as Brad staggered, clutched his head, and fell to the ground. By the time she thought to pull out her phone and dial 911, she realized 911 wouldn’t help—because he had no physical body.
She fell to her knees next to him. “Can you hear me?”
He nodded.
“Can I do anything?” She reached out to try to touch him, but all she felt was cold and a thickening of the air. Her eyes could see him, but her hand couldn’t feel him. The juxtaposition of incompatible realities made her head spin. She jerked her hand back.
He tried to answer, but no words came out. He writhed on the ground, so clearly in pain, but he didn’t cry out. Or he couldn’t.
Hillary tried desperately to think of anyone who might help. Anyone who would know what to do. She dug through her contacts for The Goode Witch Shoppe. No chance Glenda would be in now, not after so many failed attempts to contact her, but Hillary had to try. There was no else. She tapped the call button.
“The Goode Witch, how can I help you?” Glenda said in calm tones.
“It’s me. It’s Hillary. Brad’s here, we’re at the crash site, and he’s hurt—I don’t know what to do.” She tried to stay calm, but the last word came out almost as a wail.
“He’s fine.”
“He’s not fine,” Hillary snapped. What was wrong with this woman?
“Hillary, listen to me. You’ve broken the rest of the memory charm. Sherwood is getting his memory back, and it’s not an easy process. But it won’t damage him. Are you listening to me, Hillary? He won’t be damaged. Just tell him it’s going to be okay and it will be over soon.”
In some part of her brain, Hillary knew she should keep Glenda on the phone. Ask her as many questions as she could, and store up that information for later. Because Brad was fine. Glenda said he was fine. But Hillary was looking at him, and he wasn’t fine. She set the phone down on the ground.
“You’re okay. I talked to Glenda.” Hillary would almost swear he choked on a laugh. “Really, I did. She said you’re remembering. It’s just going to be a little while and then you’ll be all right.”
Hillary watched him roll on the ground, his hands clutching at his head, and she hoped she hadn’t lied. Glenda hadn’t actually said how long this pain would last. Oh, no, please don’t let it be much longer.
She inched closer and reached her hand out, but didn’t touch him. “Everything’s okay. You’re going to be fine. Just fine. It won’t be long.”
And then it was over. Brad’s form stilled, and Hillary had a brief second to see his pale, worn face before he disappeared.
She sat there staring at the place he’d occupied for some amount of time, she didn’t know how long, before she finally remembered Glenda. She looked for the phone and found it a few feet away. But there was no one on the line. She considered dialing her again, but she just knew that Glenda wouldn’t be there.
Tired, confused, and more worried for Brad than she probably should be, she got into her car and headed to Gramps’ house. She had to update him, and that was a conversation better had in person.
Brad, Steve—he’d have to pick one. He thought about it, considered what felt right. Brad. He’d been Brad for seven years, and he wasn’t that same kid who’d dated Grace. Or the same kid who’d driven that car eight years ago.
Brad sat down in the grass a few feet away from Grace’s memorial. He could jog home. It would take him a few hours, but he could do it. And he would—in a little while. He remembered the picture. He’d actually taken it. Grace’s father had died a few days earlier. They hadn’t been close, but she’d been unprepared and had taken it hard. It seemed an especially strange choice for her memorial. Not only did it not show the woman he’d loved so long ago—there was nothing of her happy, carefree nature in that picture—but the memorial had to have been created by Adele. Why would Adele choose a picture taken by the man she must hate more than any other?
Of course, that hatred hadn’t begun with the accident. Adele had always disapproved of him. He’d never been good enough for her daughter. Maybe in part because he wasn’t the same as Grace and Adele; he was a man with no magic. At the time, he’d known nothing of witches, nothing of spells or curses or magic.
He’d shrugged away Adele’s dislike and said she’d come around. When Grace had worried over her mother’s disapproval and the way her mother treated him, Brad had teased her into a better mood. In retrospect, maybe Adele had been right. Maybe he hadn’t been good enough for Grace. But he’d loved her as best he could. In his youth and his inexperience, he m
ay not always have made the best choices—but he’d loved Grace. More importantly, she’d felt loved, and she’d been happy.
He knew the truth. Grace had died in an accident he couldn’t prevent. He’d loved her in every way he’d known how. She’d been happy with their lives together, and excited for their next adventure. And yet the weight of a terrible guilt still weighed on him. The weight had been eased somewhat by his lapse in memory. But the very act of robbing his memories had frozen them in place. The grief and the guilt had lingered, muted and hidden, but still there.
A few pieces of the curse’s puzzle finally fit together. He knew with a profound certainty one person he needed to forgive: himself. Maybe acceptance and forgiveness would help break the curse; maybe it wouldn’t. But that vague sense of unease, that taint of guilt that permeated his aura, it had been with him for the last seven years. Carrying it, even unknowingly, could have made him weaker and more susceptible to the curse. Maybe.
Whether his own forgiveness played a part or not, he now understood why he’d been cursed. He wasn’t meant to feel guilt or grief, nor to share Adele’s pain. That had certainly been an accident, because Adele would want to claim Grace’s loss as hers and hers alone. And if her curse made him nothing, if he was no one, with no connection to the world or the people in it, then the grief of her lost child was kept all to herself. And that isolation worked twofold. It also acted as his punishment for taking her daughter away. At least now he could guess why she hadn’t simply killed him right away.
But Glenda had found a way to twist the curse. Who else but Glenda could have orchestrated his introduction to Walter? Made certain that Walter could see and hear him? Found a champion—as initially reluctant as she might have been—in Hillary?
Without Glenda or Walter…without Hillary… It was too terrible to contemplate.
