I laid my hands on the window frame and pressed my face against the glass. I was not going to break into that woman’s house. That little girl was never going to be more to me than a small bonfire, seen at a distance. I didn’t need her name.
There was a small door to my right. I ran to it and yanked it open. It was a bathroom, thank God. I would have hated to vomit into one of Cynthia’s closets.
I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth. My emotions were back under control, and I felt better. I felt like myself again. I didn’t want to be some angry hard-ass who bullied his way toward his enemies. I didn’t want to be Annalise.
That gave me pause. How many dead bodies had Annalise seen? How many dead children, killed by some jackass with a spell book? No wonder she acted the way she did.
I heard a man and a woman start shouting at each other, and I headed toward the door. On the way, a small picture in a silver frame caught my attention. It was a black-and-white photo, taken a long time ago.
On the left side of the picture was a man in a dark waistcoat. His face bristled with white whiskers, and he had the satisfied look of a man who fed himself well. In the center was a tall, angular man in a long, road-worn coat with a walking stick in his hand. His hair was a little too long and needed combing, and he smiled out of the side of his mouth. He looked like a smooth talker and a bit of a con man, the sort of friend you keep for a lifetime but never, ever trust. Both wore hats and old-fashioned clothes. I guessed the picture was taken in the thirties.
On the right was a young girl in a pretty white dress. Her hair was bobbed, and her little shoes pointed slightly inward. I could see, at the lacy cuffs and collar of her dress, a faint spider’s web of black lines. Tattoos. She had turned her solemn little face to look up at the con man, and I could see by her profile that she was Annalise.
I stared at the picture, dumbstruck. She looked eight or nine years younger than she looked now, but I was sure the picture was taken at least seventy years ago. Who was the man she was looking at? A second glance at him showed tattoos covering the back of his hand. I squinted at Annalise’s face. She looked love-struck and slightly awed. Was this her teacher?
The shouting started again. I set the picture down, opened the door, and went out into the hall. There were doors all around and voices were coming from behind one of them. I walked toward the sound.
“Now, Cabot,” a man said. “There’s no reason to be so upset. Cynthia didn’t-“
“Don’t tell me what she did!” a man shouted. I guessed it was Cabot. “I know what she did! I have eyes!”
“Well, here’s a good idea for you,” Cynthia snapped. “Use them.”
“Things are going to come around again,” Cabot said. “Things are going to be made right. You watch, and you
I had almost reached the heavy oak door when it flew open. A man in his mid-fifties with a heavy paunch and a blotchy face stormed past me. His thick, dark hair was speckled with gray.
There was something in his expression that I didn’t like. He looked like a man who didn’t care anymore.
I watched him stomp off. His clothes had been expensive once, but the heels of his boots were worn away and his jeans were frayed at the bottom.
“I thought I told you to wait in the library.” Cynthia had moved up next to me. She looked irritated. “Well?”
I heard the front door slam.
“I’m nosy.”
She glared at me. After a moment, she said: “Come into my office. Please.”
I followed her into a small room. The floors were hardwood, and a large desk dominated the far corner. The only adornments on the walls were a pair of kimonos set in wooden frames.
A fat little man sat on the couch, rubbing his face wearily. His long, graying hair hung over his shoulders. “That man exhausts me-“
“Frank,” Cynthia cut in, “this is Raymond Lilly. Mr. Lilly, this is our mayor, Frank Farleton.”
Frank lifted his face from his hands and looked up at me in surprise. He didn’t look pleased to see me. “I know who you are. What are you doing here?”
I turned to Cynthia. “Call me Ray. I’ve seen the mayor before but didn’t introduce myself. He was too upset about your brother’s seizure. Isn’t that right, Mayor Farleton?”
“What are you doing here, please?” he asked again. At least he was polite.
“She invited me. How long has Charles been having seizures?”
The mayor struggled off the couch. He had to huff vigorously to lift his bulk onto his feet. “What do you mean? Who invited you?”
I heard the front door slam again. No one else seemed to notice it. The office door was behind me to my left, the desk in front of me to the right. I backed against the wall and slid my hand into my pocket next to my ghost knife.
Cynthia strode behind her desk and offered me a strained smile. The mayor sat on the corner of her desk. “I don’t think Frank means who invited you to my house. I think he means who invited you to Hammer Bay.” Her pretty smile betrayed a touch of scorn. Her hands were shaking. She was having a bad day. “But,” she continued, “you’re here to answer my questions, not his. And if you don’t feel like answering, all I have to do is call Emmett Dubois. Once I tell him you broke into my car and tried to take the keys-“
The office door burst inward and Cabot charged in. I was ready for him, but I was still too slow. He lifted his arm. He was holding a pistol.
Time seemed to slow down. Cabot aimed at Cynthia. His teeth were bared, his cheeks flushed red.
