“Miss Meadows,” says the female. Short and frumpy, with a no-nonsense haircut and too-big blue eyes. “How are you feeling this morning?”
What kind of question is that? I’ve been up for devil knows how many hours after watching a man get executed.
As one could imagine, I feel like a damn rockstar, lady.
Instead of voicing this, I shrug.
She nods, as if the gesture is some sort of agreement. She places a manilla folder on the table between us and takes one of the chairs across from me. Her partner does the same.
“I’m Detective McCarthy, and this Detective Brooks,” she continues. “We understand you’ve had yourself a rough handful of hours. You must be exhausted.”
Then wtf did you ask?
I nod.
“Do you mind telling us what happened, Miss Meadows?” Detective Brooks asks.
“Your men killed someone right in front of me.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, despite the fact that I’d spent the last few hours contemplating what to say as I sat alone in this small, cold, too-bright room.
The two detectives exchange a glance. The tiny action cranks up my anxiety. I tell myself that I have done nothing wrong, so there is no reason to be so nervous… but my palms sweat, and I will my leg not to gyrate.
Dear Goddess, I must be nervous if I was using words like gyrate.
Detective McCarthy looks down at the manilla folder, cocks her head as she studies it. She flips open the folder and eyes it in a way that forces me to take a glance.
And immediately wish that I hadn’t.
Brown eyes look out from a dark face. A face I think I might never forget even if I truly try.
“Edmond Harvey Jackson,” says Detective Brooks.
A name I have never heard before, but will never forget.
“What were you two doing?—”
The question is cut off as the door opens. The detectives’ heads swivel. I think only my eyes move, the rest of my body frozen as if by ice.
A man with an ugly mustache, paunch belly, and similarly uncomfortable and frumpy clothes pokes his head in. He glances at me.
“Her lawyer is here,” he says.
The detectives don’t look happy about this. They turn back to me with faces that have shed the thin mask of amicability.
“What do you need a lawyer for, Miss Meadows?” Detective Brooks asks. “Have you done something wrong?”
Never mind the fact that they’d taken my phone and hadn’t let me call anyone.
Before I can respond, a harsh voice from beyond the door says, “That’s enough.”
A moment later, a tiny woman with glasses perched on her nose, and heels that add three inches to her less than five-foot height, enters the room. My stomach twists as I see her.
But it drops out through my feet as I see who follows next.
Olympia Owens.
One of the Superiors of the Philadelphia Coven.
The two witches stare at the two detectives, and after a moment, the detectives stand up to leave.
Olympia flashes me a look that I cannot begin to decipher as she follows them out, leaving me alone with Esther Jennings, the Coven’s retained attorney. Her attire is much sharper than the officers’—a dark blue blazer and matching blue slacks paired with a watch worth as much as a vehicle, and those heels that augment her height. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, and her brown eyes radiate intelligence. She takes one of the chairs the detectives vacated.
One might think her presence makes me feel better. One would be wrong. It is no small thing to have the Superiors directly involved in one’s affairs. No small thing at all.
“Hello Mira,” Esther says, as if we have spoken a hundred times before, which we never have. I only know of her because every witch in Philadelphia knows of her. She does not know me from Eve.
At least, she hadn’t before this morning.
Something tells me she knows a lot more about me now.
Shit on a stick.
“Hi,” I say.
I am two years past thirty, but I feel like a child sitting before this witch. A naughty one, at that.
“How are you?” she asks.
I fight an incredulous look. These mofos have to be kidding me. Sometimes pleasantries are important. Sometimes they just make shit weird. The current situation definitely fell into the latter category.
“Peachy,” I say.
Esther smirks humorlessly. She produces a piece of paper, laying it flat on the table between us, and then spins it so that it faces me. She pushes it toward me and lays a silver quill beside it.
“Sign this,” she says.
My brow furrows. I stare down at the paper. Though I am an avid reader, it takes me several moments to make sense of the words.
“What…?” I say.
It is all I can get out.
“Sign it,” she repeats.
“But it says…”
“I know what it says. I wrote it.”
“But…”
Esther stares at me without blinking. Her nose is as sharp as her eyes and clothing.
I lean forward, my voice low. I am hardly aware I’m doing it. “But they shot him right in front of me. They murdered him for no reason!”
Esther’s jaw tightens. “As your lawyer,” she says, “I’m strongly advising you to sign this. Sign this statement, and we can walk out of here right now. We can pretend that none of this happened. You can go home. To Flora and Winter and Echo… Isn’t that what you want, Mira?”
I do not like the mentioning of my sister and nieces by name. I stiffen.
Yes, going home was what I wanted.
It was likely what Edmond Harvey Jackson wanted, too.
I say this to the witch.
Esther replies in a low voice, “He was a criminal, Miracle.” She glances around before adding, “He was a wolf. The Superiors do not want any involvement in this. With humans knowing about supes, witches must fly under the radar. This is not the kind of attention our kind needs… You understand, yes?”
I can only sit
