“Maybe, but she never gave us her contact info. Maybe I can get it from the school district database. They must have addresses and phone numbers and stuff of all the subs, right?” Binx began typing on her phone.
“There you are, girls!”
Mrs. Feathers entered the room, a glass of white wine in hand. Binx pocketed her phone. Iris jumped to her feet; had Mrs. Feathers heard them talking? Were they in serious, major trouble? She glanced over her shoulder at Greta, wondering if they should cast a group memory-erase spell or whatever.
Greta stood up, too, and smoothed her skirt. Her face was pale, but she managed to plaster on a smile. “We weren’t feeling very social. Sorry. Were you looking for us, Mrs. Feathers?”
“Yes, I was. I know this is such a sad day, so I was trying to find something positive to help us all go forward. I was thinking, wouldn’t it be lovely to commission a bench or a sculpture or a fountain for our school, in Penelope’s memory? I just spoke with Principal Sparkleman, and he said he could ask the PTA to raise money for it. I’ve heard you’re very artistic, Greta, so I thought I could pick your brain.”
“Sure, yes, of course.”
“Maybe we could come up with a list of ideas and present them to Mr. Hart and Ms. Guzman in the next week or two? And the PTA, too? Come, I want to show you Penelope’s room. Perhaps it will inspire us. Her mother said it was fine for us to go up. Excuse us, girls.”
Greta joined Mrs. Feathers, and they disappeared into the hallway. Binx turned to Iris and Ridley. “Calumnia. Did she say… Ms. Guzman? Who’s that?”
“She’s Penelope’s mom. Didn’t you meet her?” Ridley asked.
“Not really. I thought her name was Mrs. or Ms. Hart.”
“Nope, it’s Guzman. Why?”
Frowning, Binx pulled out her phone and scrolled through it quickly. “Patricia Meeks… Dominick Trovato… Eleanor Guzman,” she read out loud.
“Who are those people? Wait, is Eleanor Guzman Penelope’s mom?” Iris asked.
“I thought she told me her name was Elena, though,” Ridley said, confused.
“Eleanor Guzman is…” Binx hesitated. “So, I found her name through this app.… She’s part of this, um, project I’m doing. About witches. It’s kind of a secret, and… blurg, I really can’t talk about it.” She threw up her hands.
“You’re keeping a secret from us?” Ridley demanded. “What is it? Spill!”
“I can’t. I promised. Maybe soon, though. I’ll ask, okay?”
“Ask who? Are you saying this Eleanor Guzman is a witch? And that she might be Penelope’s relative?”
“Look, I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to find Ms. O’Shea.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
As the two girls typed furiously on their phones, Iris’s brain began to spin again. She leaned forward and put her head in her hands and squeezed as hard as she could. Sometimes the pressure helped, but at the moment, it made her brain feel even spinnier.
Iris wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but at some point, the family room door opened and closed. She glanced up. A poodle with curly white hair lumbered in, its big brown eyes dull with grief.
Penelope’s dog. The one in the window.
“Socrates!” Ridley set down her phone and knee-walked across the rug, holding out her hand. “Hey, guy. Remember me? You poor thing, you must miss her so much.”
Socrates sniffed at her hand and whimpered. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing his head. Binx joined them, patting Socrates on the side. Iris slipped off the couch and reached out to pet him, too.
The second Iris’s hand made contact with his soft, curly fur, her brain seemed to explode. A flurry of strange images ripped through her neurons. She was having a waking nightmare.
A small gray house. A big oak tree. A crow perched on a stone birdbath.
Inside, a prisoner tied up in a red chair.
A teacup full of blood. No, tea. No, poison.
The prisoner was Penelope.
No, it was Greta.
Iris leaped to her feet and began scratching her arms, so hard that she drew blood. “Guys? Okay, I just had one of my crazy visions, and… where’s Greta? I need to talk to Greta, like, now!”
“She went up to Penelope’s room with Mrs. Feathers,” Ridley replied.
“I think she might be in trouble. Or she’s going to be in trouble. I think she might be a prisoner in a little gray house with a birdbath and an oak tree in the front yard—”
“Are you joking? Is this a joke?” Binx cut in.
“Whatever. Let’s just go find Greta, okay?” Ridley said, looking worried.
The three girls left the family room and headed down the hall, Socrates trailing after them. They went up a set of stairs and found Penelope’s room on the second floor, way in the back. Iris recognized the flower-print curtains from yesterday’s Nancy Drew stakeout mission. The room was large and light-filled, with lemon-yellow walls and a big desk covered with computers, video cameras, and makeup samples.
“Greta?” Iris called out.
Silence.
“Mrs. Feathers? Greta?” Binx said loudly.
More silence.
Ridley’s phone was pressed against her ear. “I’m calling Greta now, but she’s not picking up.”
“I just texted her, too. No answer.” Binx’s hand shook as she scrolled through her phone. “Guys? This may seem random, but… do you know if Greta is related to a Patricia Meeks, Dominick Trovato, Norman Smythe, or Adelita Suarez?”
“Her great-grandma’s name was Adelita.” Iris spoke up. “I saw her picture at their house. She was pretty, like Greta. I don’t know about the Suarez part.”
“If her last name is Suarez, well… I think this might mean that Greta and Penelope are both descended from C-Squared. Callixta Crowe.”
“Um… what? How do you know this?’ Ridley asked skeptically.
“I’ve been… I just do. Please, you have to trust me. I don’t have time to explain,” Binx insisted.
She continued scrolling through her phone, her fingers flying.
