by Jessica King
Her throat closed at her attempt of casually working her mother into the conversation as a simple “victim.”
“But you might want to consider your transportation, who is allowed on set with you, things like that,” Vince said, filling in for her without missing a beat.
She silently thanked him and decided not to tease him too relentlessly about his reactions to Aline.
Aline’s pointed glance led to both of the men in suits taking out their phones and tapping away, presumably to check in with the studio on who would be allowed on set for filming. Emily was already pacing at the far end of the room, her murmurs echoing off the arches of the house as she pressed a finger into one ear and held the phone tight with her other hand. She started muttering something about a rental car.
“I do have quite the team,” Aline said, following Ivy’s gaze. “They’ll take good care of me.”
Ivy nodded, though she felt a burst of ice run through her veins. The other women, including her mother, hadn’t had anything special about them. But this star, whose schedule and life were so public—she was unreachable, true, but she was simultaneously trackable by fourteen-year-old fangirls. How was she to escape an experienced serial killer of over two decades?
“We need to get back,” she said to Vince, who suddenly looked like she’d deflated his dreams of Disney Land. “We will keep you updated,” she said to Aline, who gave her thanks as Nathan returned to the room, toting a large camera, lighting equipment, and a tripod.
+++
Sunday, February 12, 2017, 4:44 p.m.
Aline sprinted up the steps of her L.A. home to her temple, a windowless room in the heart of the second floor. She had smiled prettily for Nathan’s pictures and had remained calm for Emily, who was so constantly frazzled these days, now that Aline had hit what Emily referred to as “The Big Time.”
But here, in the candlelit darkness that successfully shut out the assaulting afternoon light of the outdoors, she could finally hyperventilate. She passed fresh lavender beneath her nose and breathed in deeply. She imagined roots growing out of her feet into the cold floor beneath her and pressed her hands into the comforting, cool grain of the wood table she’d placed against the wall.
She flipped through the pages she’d printed from the online resources she’d found—there were few, but they were there—and found the runes for peace. They weren’t complicated, thank goodness; she’d never been very good at the visual arts. She took a piece of charcoal from their crystal holder and drew it along the ground, before pressing herself into them in child’s pose. The tile didn’t hold charcoal well, and the fine bits of it scattered as she took long breaths outward, but it was working. After crushing a variety of herbs and placing them into the kettle in the corner, she was starting to feel much better.
She whispered the blessings of peace until they were engraved in her mind. She’d never been good at other languages. French was her native tongue, and learning English had been an absolute necessity, though sometimes the simplest words escaped her. Chanting in Latin had been a challenge she hadn’t anticipated upon becoming interested in the Wiccan world, but she still tried her best.
She murmured words of peace, breath, calm, and…acceptance. That was what she found she needed most in times like these. Acceptance of the situation. By no means was she accepting her death. But accepting that there was someone out there—a credible, experienced someone—who wanted her dead…it was hard to include in the things she thought of as “true.” Nothing would change it, not even the most powerful spell she might conjure, though she did begin the ritual for protection all the same.
“Can’t hurt,” she told herself, pulling out the marigold and the coins and beads she would need to surround herself with to ignite a shield of magical protection around her. She carefully placed the items into the design she’d downloaded, this one still warm from the printer. The glow of candles flickered against the dull metal of the coins and beads, and she tried to lose herself in that unpredictable movement of light.
She hadn’t told the detectives she was scared. She donned her acting skills so well at this point, she’d nearly convinced herself. She certainly didn’t want to insult Marcus or Inga. She told them long ago that she trusted them with her protection, and she had meant it. But she was still scared. Scared out of her mind. Suddenly, it seemed as though the light of the candles reflecting off the tile and coins was not controlling itself. It seemed as though the darkness were pushing the light to and fro like a piece of silk caught in the ocean. She lit more candles, the space growing bright enough that the lines and edges of the room no longer seemed so dim.
“Everything will be fine,” she said even as her hands shook. She began.
+++
Sunday, February 12, 2017, 6:37 p.m.
“We need Computer Guy,” Ivy said, pulling up the basic HTML of the website that had labeled her mother, Aline, and the previous victims as witches. She liked to pretend she knew how to hack her way into a criminal’s computer, but she just didn’t have a knack for technology the way detectives on the television shows she’d watched growing up did.
“He has a name, Ivy,” Vince said as he dialed his desk phone. The office was busy now, a bustle of movement and printer screeches.
“I can never remember it.”
Vince threw his balled-up sub wrapping at her. A stray piece of stringy lettuce landed on her keyboard, and she picked it up like a worm, her face contorting in disgust. “Ivan,” Vince said. “It’s Ivan. It’s literally your boy name.”
“We need Ivan,” Ivy said. She pointed to the gangly piece of green. “Gross.” She tossed the paper into the overflowing mini trash can at her side. Ivy could tell she was spending too much time at work when her trash can filled up with food wrappers and scrap paper more quickly than the cleaning crew could get rid of it. She accidentally knocked over the empty two-liter of soda sitting next to the bin and sighed. She’d been trying to kick her soda habit, and it wasn’t going so well. She unscrewed the cap of her most recent vending machine purchase, and it fizzed in the most delightfully refreshing way. Maybe it wasn’t worth giving up.
“It’s lettuce. It’s mostly water,” Vince said, kicking his boots up onto his desk. He held the receiver of his phone to his ear with a shoulder as he popped the tab to his own can of soda. “Hi, Ivan! You mind coming up here for a second? Got something we need you to hack into.” A pause. “Excellent.” He hung up.
Ivy looked expectantly at Vince before breaking out into a yawn.
“Lovey,” Vince said, his voice flat. “On his way.”
Ivy nodded and took a gulp from her soda so large her cheeks puffed.
“Thought you were trying to not,” Vince said, pointing to the soda.
Ivy swiveled her chair so Vince couldn’t witness her soda consumption. “I’ll start next Sunday,” she said.
Ivy’s chair creaked as Ivan leaned back before twisting. He worked at a rapid pace, despite his relaxed posture. Ivy’s computer looked like it had a virus, for how many windows popped up on her screen in rapid succession.
“The website is coming from multiple servers,” Ivan said, as though he were impressed. “Which, in your case, would definitely raise suspicion, because most websites like this, with such simple design—pretty sure he made this off WordPress—are not nearly this sophisticated behind the scenes. Whoever is behind all this has to be some sort of tech guru or something. It’s well encrypted and has a lot of tracking features.” He ran a hand absently through his too-long, dark hair, the other hand still tapping away. “If we’re careful enough, they might even know we’re snooping.”
Ivy didn’t like the sound of that. She remembered the plethora of cameras and touchpads built into the walls around Aline’s massive home. Systems like those would be run on a closed circuit, but with the complexity of technology had come a new complexity of crime no one had accurately expected. “Do you think whoever is running this could hack into a home security system?” I
vy asked.
“Depends on the system and some variables, but in theory, yes. A person with the skills behind this site has the skills to hack into a system like that,” Ivan said.
“This is recycling,” Joyce said, barely stopping in her tracks as she moved past Ivy’s desk to pick up the two-liter. Joyce’s short hair was pulled back into a tiny bun on the back of her head, her hair still wet from a shower.
“You’re back!” Ivy said.
“I’m back,” she said, turning her back to Ivy as she walked. “I work regular shifts like a regular person!” She waved the soda bottle before turning into the kitchen.
“So, can you track this to one location?” Vince asked, pulling Ivy back to the conversation at hand.
“The last entry was made from somewhere here,” Ivan said, pulling up a window, revealing Google Maps with a large yellow circle pointing out several suburbs in Southern California’s residential areas. He traced the circle on her screen, the fluorescents reflecting on the face of his watch. “But that’s pretty vague to track down one house. I’ll send all this stuff downstairs and keep an eye out. But until there’s another entry, it’ll be difficult for me to narrow this down any further.”
Another entry would mean Aline’s “WIP” changing to a date. But at least they had an area. She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, hoping the feel of her hair away from her face would make her feel fresh, more awake.
“I can work with his,” Ivy said. “Thanks, Ivan.” She looked at Vince with raised brows, who gave her a thumbs-up at her use of his name.
Ivan nodded and unplugged a thumb drive before making his way out.
“What are you thinking?” Vince asked. He now appeared to be on his third cup of coffee since the early-morning wakeup call she had provided.
Ivy looked at the clock. She’d been up for too long. She scrubbed at her face with her hands. They still smelled like rich perfume, which Ivy didn’t like on herself. She reached for her hand sanitizer. “I think that it doesn’t make sense that there is a witch-hunter-tech-guru living somewhere in the burbs pretty much openly stating that he plans to kill a famous actress soon.” She shook her head. “Might head out early.” She nodded to his coffee. “Caffeine’s not doing much for me anymore.”
Vince nodded. “I’ll hold down the fort. Call you if anything changes.”
“Don’t call Aline’s people without my supervision,” Ivy said, flashing him a grin.
Vince crossed his arms but grinned all the same. Ivy slung her backpack across her back, quickly sending herself the image of where her mother’s killer likely lurked.
“Who says she’s not calling me?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday, August 31, 1974, 3:10 p.m.
Barb had listened to “Hound Dog” for what had to be the fifty-millionth time as she moved around the kitchen. Blueberry muffins were her fame at Westbound Church, and she knew they were going to be expected at the churchwide picnic that evening; she would not disappoint.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Barb said, spinning as she spoke into her whisk, promptly brushing batter off her skirt. She wiped her hands on a lemon-yellow towel before waving it in front of herself like a flag.
Barb was feeling particularly happy. Marshall had made it through the most recent wave of layoffs at the station, and despite the recent death of her favorite musical icon, she was going to have a lovely evening with the women of the church (who believed her top-four favorite musicians were all of The Beatles, who were decidedly less provocative to the slightly older women than “that man Elvis”).
She pulled the last batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, closed the door with her foot, and turned it off. A perfect five dozen. She’d put them in a cute basket and be the talk of the town for a week. She knew it was a church gathering and that she shouldn’t be competitive, but she couldn’t wait to watch people say that Mrs. Berry’s key lime pie was great, but that Barb Harris’ blueberry muffins were simply sublime, simply magical.
At least it would shut up everyone about the fact that she still wasn’t pregnant. People asked her every Sunday if she and Marshall were going to be having children soon. She hated that question. Hated the way Marshall’s lips fell the tiny fraction that only she would notice, even if she weren’t looking directly at him.
They’d tried for so long, and the doctor said it was him, not her.
Barb had told him it was okay. That she was okay, and that they would adopt once they’d saved enough money. That Pumpkin was enough of a baby for her now.
As if she could hear herself being thought about, Pumpkin scratched at the back door, whining to be let in. Barb knew the dog shouldn’t really have free reign of the house, especially after they’d finally put in the new carpet, but she couldn’t resist. She opened the door, and Pumpkin flew through the house, yapping as she made a circle throughout their small home and arrived back in the kitchen for her snack.
Barb scooped a bit of pumpkin pie filling into the dog’s bowl, a porcelain bowl that matched their own but had a deep chip in the rim. Pumpkin didn’t seem to care as she ran to lap it up. It was how they’d found her. Barb had heard a whining sound beneath the porch. Not knowing what tempted dogs the most, she and Marshall had coaxed the poor thing out with a piece of Thanksgiving pie.
“You’re the perfect baby for me,” she said, leaning down to hug the dog, who huffed pumpkin-scented breath into her face. “Why didn’t you like mint?” she said, laughing as she pulled away from the tail that hit her side, a thousand tiny, furry hugs.
The screen door creaked, and Barb looked up at the clock. “Marshall?” she asked. “You get off early?” She put a muffin on a napkin. The picnic wouldn’t miss one, and she knew Marshall loved to taste test her baking. “Marshall?” She placed the muffin onto the tablecloth—a plastic material covered in a design of colorful fruits and flowers. She went back to the counter for the pitcher of lemonade.
She turned around to a man who was certainly not Marshall. Barb had always told her husband that he had kind eyes. When he asked if she knew anyone with unkind eyes, she’d slapped his shoulder and told him to accept the compliment. Her play fighting had made his kind eyes crinkle at the edges.
This man had unkind eyes.
“Ah,” she said, taking a step back, her hand pressing into a warm stack of muffins. “Can I help you?”
Pumpkin growled at the stranger, moving to stand in front of Barb. When he didn’t answer, Barb swallowed.
“Are you a friend of Marshall’s?” Barb moved toward the back door, and the man shook his head.
His eyes were too dark for how light his hair was, and he pulled out a long stick connected to a metal piece that he had been hiding behind his leg. Barb shoved the back door open, and Pumpkin raced out, barking as if she were cheering for Barb to follow her. But Barb had hardly made it through the threshold when harsh hands gripped around her arms. She screamed, and the man closed the door before Pumpkin—her teeth bared, and her eyes filled with an anger Barb had never seen—could make it back into the house. Pumpkin barked and tore at the door as the man dragged Barb back through the house.
She screamed and felt the cloth over her face before she could think to hold her breath.
When she woke, it was to horrible burning pain. She screamed against it and looked through bleary eyes down at her foot. The man was sitting by the fire Barb had stoked that morning, holding the sole of her foot against the metal rod.
She yelled for him to stop. He was branding her, like a farm animal. Salty tears trickled against her parched lips.
“I’m burning the witchcraft out of you before I kill you!” he yelled. “You’ll be too weak to come back, Amelia Partridge!” Barb searched her mind for an Amelia Partridge, but she couldn’t find a name or a face at all. “It’s for the greater good,” he said when her tears turned into sobs.
“Please,” she begged. “Please!” She tried to pull her foot away, but every movement of her musc
les hurt, and his grip was too strong. Surely brands weren’t meant to go so far into the skin? The smell of her burning flesh was horrible, and she was certain she would never want to eat barbeque again.
When the man shifted and pulled away the brand, she saw a gun tucked into the hip of his pants. Perhaps she’d never have the chance to eat barbeque again. She pulled her foot into herself, sobbing at the pain, even as her arms tried to pull her away.
Sirens sounded down the street, and she screamed, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!”
The man’s eyes darted toward the window, and he looked as though he were about to dart away.
“I’m here!” she screeched again, her voice breaking from pain. Her sweat-slippery hands struggled to gain purchase against the too-soft carpet.
The man pulled out a gun as she got to her knees and started to crawl behind the couch and toward the back door again, where Pumpkin had not ceased her barking.
A horribly loud bang, and though Barb couldn’t feel the bullet, her body fell to the floor, her cheek pressing into the vinyl of the kitchen. The sirens were getting louder, if she could just hang on …
“Amelia Partridge, Felicia Drews—” Barb barely managed to look over her shoulder at the foreign names. She tried to tell him. Tried to tell him that she didn’t know these women. She had no idea who they were, but her lips were still, and her eyes were heavy, and the sirens were so quiet to her now. “Catherine Fields, Marlene Suggs.”
She vaguely heard the door slam open, and she took a stuttering breath, filling her nose with the smell of blueberry muffins and pumpkin pie filling.
“Barbra Harris!” he yelled. She felt the bullet this time; she knew. It was worse than the brand, which still made her foot pulse. But this pain she didn’t feel for long.
+++
Monday, February 13, 2017, 7:59 p.m.
Erin Preston swallowed. A sticky note was stuck on top of her presentation notes. She shifted from foot to foot behind the heavy velvet curtain as someone announced her onstage.
