She pretended not to hear him.
Scarlett dropped her bag and coat in the back room, then paused for a moment.
I need to figure this out.
She thought of texting Amanda, then realized that Amanda wouldn’t be able to help her with this. The person she really needed to confront was Ronnie. She hadn’t believed what he had told her about the wheelbarrow, and she had argued with him about it, but now everything she thought she knew about last Thursday night was in question.
Something happened that night. And she had a growing suspicion she was a part of it.
Was it Ronnie who got her involved?
She took her phone from her purse, texted Ronnie, then hurried back onto the shop floor.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Karl, stepping in. “I can take over.”
Karl stepped to the side as Scarlett rang up three bottles of merlot for Nancy Bryant, a middle-aged woman who came in twice a week with the same order.
“What happened?” Karl whispered behind her.
Scarlett ignored him and beamed at the customer.
“Nancy! How are the kids? Did Bobby pass that test you were worried about last week?”
Nancy smiled. “Oh, thanks for asking. You know what a struggle it’s been for him this year.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have the test results back yet, but he told me he felt much better about this test than the last one. He answered all the questions, at least!”
“Well that’s an improvement already. You know, I think you did the right thing getting him a private tutor.”
“I sure hope so,” Nancy said. “It’s been a struggle for both of us.”
Scarlett handed Nancy the receipt for her purchase. “Well, you certainly deserve to treat yourself to a glass, then!”
Nancy laughed. “Don’t I know it!”
“You have a great day, now.”
“You too!” Nancy cooed as she headed out. “Celebrate the small victories, that’s what I always say.”
Scarlett heard the back-office door close.
Karl was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
It was dark on the streets of Bicester. The lamplights cast ovals of luminescence and pools of shadow; Scarlett kept her eyes focused on the dark places, searching for signs of danger.
She was not the only one on the streets tonight. Cars purred past her and pedestrians clomped along the sidewalk but from time to time she found herself alone in the night and felt a chill of fear edging up her spine.
Someone was watching her.
Scarlett had felt the same tingle on and off all week. There were forces in the dark, beyond view, keeping watch. Pawing at her. Monitoring her.
But were they watching over her, or waiting for their chance to pounce?
Neither possibility gave her any comfort.
Scarlett quickened her pace and thrust her hand inside her bag, feeling for the keys. They jangled at her fingertips. She clutched the keys in a tight fist with the long car key protruding like a spike between her fingers.
Just in case.
Relieved, she reached home without incident and hurriedly let herself in. She turned on the light and locked the door behind her.
“Amanda?” she called out.
No answer. Looked like she was on her own tonight.
Again.
She set her bag down on the sofa, then removed her sweater and tossed it over the back of a dining chair.
Scarlett wanted to call someone just to hear a friendly voice. She thought of Tim and Cliff, but her relationship with each of them was complicated. Amanda might pick up the phone, but Ronnie was probably home by now and Amanda wouldn’t be able to talk for long.
Aunt Tabitha, she thought. Her true guardian angel. Her rock.
She dialed the number but hesitated before pressing send.
What can I tell her?
Scarlett realized she may have told her aunt too much already. If she said any more, it would only worry her aunt even more. Additionally, there was always the risk of exposing Aunt Tabitha to whatever danger Scarlett might face. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
She turned off her phone.
There was a pile of dishes in the sink from last night and this morning. She glanced around and saw clutter everywhere. Unopened mail. A jacket on the sofa. Shoes scattered on the floor. Scarlett was normally much tidier than this, but her house was starting to manifest the distractions in her mind.
She went to the kitchen to scrub the dishes, her first small step to putting her life back in order.
+++
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
Two hours later the dishes were done, the counters wiped, the floor mopped, rooms tidied, and the clean laundry folded.
Scarlett rewarded herself with a glass of wine and sat on the sofa, wondering if she should turn on Netflix or pick up a book. She toyed with grabbing the Group and Vector Theory book from her bag… but she’d need Jammie Dodgers, and the accompanying sugar lift, if she was going to tackle that kind of heaviness at this hour.
She dropped her head back against the sofa back and closed her eyes for a moment.
Manstraction. That’s what she needed now. She picked up her phone and turned it back on. It illuminated the room with its harsh white reboot light. She squinted, and waited for it to finish.
Then she called Cliff. No hesitation. No debating or wondering. She just hit “call”.
“Hello?” he answered.
“It’s Scarlett.”
“I know. Caller ID. What’s up?”
“Do you have a minute?”
“For you I have all night.”
“It won’t take that long.”
“It might,” he said rakishly, “I’m a patient man.”
She ignored the banter and spoke matter-of-factly. “I need to see you.”
“I need to see you too. In the worst possible way. Or maybe the best. I’ll let you decide.”
Scarlett was in no mood for flirting. “Just talk,” she said.
“If it’s sex talk, I’m in.”
“You’re not in.” She could feel her frustration mounting. “Not by a long shot.”
“You called me. Can’t say you weren’t thinking of me.”
“I was thinking of you,” she admitted. “But I’m not asking you on date. But I do need to see you.”
“Come over, then.”
“I’m not coming over.”
“No problem. Your place works for me.”
“Not here, either. Somewhere neutral.”
“I can’t believe you’re putting me in neutral.”
“Meet me in town?” she suggested.
“White Hart?”
“God no. Not there.”
“Where then?”
“How about the town square?”
“Always good for some PDA.”
“No public displays of affection, Cliff. Just a chat.”
“What the hell,” he said. “I’ve got more than one gear. I’m okay with taking it slow.”
She checked her watch. It was twenty before ten. “Can you meet me there at midnight?”
“Sure. Midnight it is. See you then.”
+++
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
Scarlett felt pumped up, her heart racing. She paced inside the doorway, watching the clock. It was ten minutes to the town square, and she didn’t want to get there early, only to wait by herself. She needed to time this right, to minimize the danger of being on the street alone at night with a killer on the loose.
She checked her watch. It was almost ten to midnight. She could make it if she walked fast.
But if I walk too fast will I look like a victim?
She knew that killers picked out their targets by the way they walked and acted. She wasn’t sure what made for a good victim, but she thought high-powered walking probably showed strength, not weakness. Then again, she wasn’t a kille
r herself, so how would she know?
The second hand on her analog watch swept to its zenith.
Now, she thought.
Scarlett grabbed her coat and opened the door. She glanced around before stepping outside, then went out and locked the door behind her. She put her coat on and slung the purse over her shoulder.
Purse inside the coat, she thought.
She took her coat off again, hung the purse over her shoulder, and put the coat on over the purse.
Okay, much better.
With her purse hidden, she felt less like a target.
Who am I fooling, she thought. I need to worry about killers, not purse snatchers.
She stepped out onto the sidewalk and power-walked toward the bright lights of the town center. She kept a brisk pace, her mind swimming about everything that had happened to her since Thursday night.
It was Thursday itself that she couldn’t figure out. The video evidence didn’t match her memories. Cliff had been there. So had she. What had they talked about? What had really happened that night? Was she involved in a murder? Was that even possible?
She had thought Tim was the danger, and maybe he was. If she lied to an investigator, she might go to jail even if she was innocent of the murder. She wanted to tell the truth but didn’t know the truth. That made every step she took that much more precarious.
Tim had told her that he didn’t think she was to blame, but he had kept the video from her for days. It could almost be considered entrapment. He already knew she was at the White Hart on Thursday night, so why even ask her about it. He knew more about what she did that night than she did herself.
As Scarlett approached the square she saw that most of the cars were gone. The pubs were quiet and closed. This wasn’t London or New York. People went to bed at a reasonable hour, and you didn’t want to be caught out late alone.
Scarlett approached the memorial in the center of the square. She chose this location because it was well lit, and therefore safer. Probably. She thought no one would try to kill her in such an open spot.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
Approaching the memorial alone, she felt terribly exposed.
There were still a few vehicles nearby, though they were parked and appeared to be unoccupied.
In the car park near the memorial was a white van. It was between her and the final meeting place.
She felt suddenly anxious. Vans were always suspicious. You never knew what might be hiding inside. She’d seen plenty of movies and television shows where the bad guys jumped the girl from their lair inside a van.
But she told Cliff to meet her at the memorial, and to get there she would have to go around the van. She was committed now, and there was nothing for it but to keep walking.
As she came around the side of the van, she saw four figures on the memorial steps.
Her heart jumped. She was sure the memorial would be empty. Why was there a crowd at this hour?
At first, she couldn’t tell who they were. Four men, no women. A gang of some sort. Adults.
She wanted to stop walking but didn’t want to appear weak or silly.
Scarlett approached the men, trying to appear confident and filled with purpose. But inside, her veins pumped with adrenaline as her body strode forward like it had a will of its own.
The four men turned and were all looking at her now, as if they’d waiting for her a while.
And then she saw their faces and recognized them.
Karl, Cliff, Tarquin, and Ronnie.
+++
Slater Residence, Bicester, England
Hidden from her view, Tim followed Scarlett on foot. He remained a safe distance behind her and on the other side of the street, keeping as much as possible behind the coverage of trees and parked cars, and sheltering himself as needed from the bright sweep of passing headlights.
Scarlett had left her house and headed into town like she was on a forced march, covering the distance at nearly a race-walking pace. Tim had no problem keeping his distance, but keeping pace was another matter. Scarlett seemed jumpy, too, reacting to the headlights and the movement of shadows as the cars passed her by.
And yet she had chosen to leave the safety of her home and walk alone at night in a small town that might still be harboring a killer.
What the hell is she doing?
His best guess was that she must be meeting someone in town, probably at the White Hart or another pub.
But she wasn’t heading toward the pub. Instead, she turned into the center of the pedestrian area of Market Square.
As she walked toward the memorial, Tim saw a white van parked nearby. He tensed at the danger even before he saw movement near the memorial. It looked like a small group of people was lying in wait for Scarlett. She was walking straight towards them, but it seemed strange for her to meet a group out here in the dark. There were four of them and by the size of their shadowy silhouettes, they appeared to be men.
Tim felt the surge of adrenaline he’d felt on combat missions in Afghanistan.
Something was wrong with this setup. Scarlett may have come here of her own volition, but to Tim it seemed like she could be walking straight into a trap.
He was trained for urban warfare, but never expected he’d be conducting operations on the high street.
He crouched behind a tree, watching intently, wishing he were armed. He held his breath, waiting to see who Scarlett was meeting.
+++
Market Square, Bicester, England
Scarlett walked up to the group of four.
“Karl?” she said incredulously. Her boss stood in the center of the group.
He offered her an apologetic smile. “Yeah. Sorry.”
She felt confused at seeing all four of them together. Karl, Cliff, Tarquin, and Ronnie. She had thought of them as operating in different universes, and now her world had collapsed in on itself. There had to be an explanation, but she couldn’t yet fathom what that might be.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Karl took a step towards her.
Instinctively, warily, Scarlett stepped back. “How do you all know each other?”
Karl stopped and stayed where he was, as if trying not to frighten her off. His relaxed demeanor wasn’t helping her nervousness.
“There’s a lot we need to explain to you,” he admitted.
“I saw you and Tarquin at the shop… and Ronnie said you brought him the wheelbarrow… and Cliff? I don’t understand.”
Karl raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Look, er… ” he glanced back at Ronnie, “I can’t stay. I have to go and attend to something. I’ll be back in a few.”
And with that he left. He took three steps back, then turned away from her, and the darkness seemed to envelop him, as if he had the power to gather shadows in his wake.
As he moved, she heard no footsteps.
Unnerved Scarlett shifted her attention to the others. “Okay, tell me.” She looked at Ronnie, specifically. “Tell me what’s going on right now.”
No one answered at first. They seemed hesitant, as if they wanted to speak but some power forbade them.
She knew each of them, and had a relationship with each, but in her mind none of them belonged together, and only Cliff belonged here. She had asked him to meet her.
He must have contacted the others.
This had to be some sort of conspiracy. “You’re all in on it?” she decided, willing one of them to jump in and either correct her or confirm her accusation.
Ronnie stepped closer, and Scarlett stepped back again. Like Karl, he paused, as if sensing her mood, wary of her skittishness.
“Yes,” Ronnie said. “We’re all in on it.”
Cliff stepped up next to Ronnie. “And so are you.” He held her gaze like she was a wild animal he was trying to tame.
“Me?”
That made no sense. She wasn’t in on anything. She had no part in the murder of Bill Knight, and if they all did, then they
must know that she was innocent.
Where they trying to frame her? Had one of them tipped off Tim Clarke? Had they gone to the police to offer evidence that would shift the blame from themselves to her? Her mind reeled at the possibility, but right now anything seemed possible.
“You helped us once before,” Cliff revealed.
“Helped you how?”
Ronnie moved half a step closer, and Scarlett held her position, trying not to bolt with fear. She had come this far. She needed to hear the truth, no matter how damning.
“You helped us cover it up,” said Ronnie.
“Cover up what?”
Tarquin stepped in to join the other two. “We tried to make you forget.”
“You took the potion,” Cliff said, “but it just didn’t stick.”
“Potion?” Then remembered the coffee she’d had with Cliff, and the video of her and Cliff at the pub. “You drugged me?”
Suddenly, things started to make sense. If she was drugged, that might explain the nightmares and the confusion. They had given her a potion to forget.
But forget what?
“Karl has a theory,” Tarquin explained. “He believes that you may be descended from the local witches…”
Witches?
“Which is why it keeps wearing off so quickly,” he finished.
“But we have a bigger problem,” Cliff said. “Tim Clarke, the tin soldier, is coming after you.”
“And, well, all of us,” added Ronnie. “We can’t get caught or questioned.”
Tarquin nodded sagely. “They just need to take a blood sample from any of us and we’ll all become part of the military experiments for eternity.”
Military experiments?
Their words sounded like nonsense, yet they appeared deadly serious. And given the events of the past week, Scarlett had no choice but to give them a fair hearing. The world had gone crazy, and in a mad world even an insane explanation made a strange kind of sense.
“Why?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“Wrong question,” said Ronnie. “Better to ask, ‘What are we?’”
Her stomach froze. But then she forced herself to repeat the question. “Okay, what are you?”
A Very British Witch Boxed Set Page 19
