Page 13 of Bewicched

“’ello.”

“Hi, Phil. Can we pretend I didn’t call earlier? I was in a really bad mood”—a demon-fueled one—“when I called. Declan’s fine.”

“You sure? I’ve got another deck guy I usually use. He won’t be available for a couple of weeks, though. If you don’t mind waiting, I can call him.”

“It’s fine. I’d like the deck redone as soon as possible. I’m out there all the time and I’d prefer it didn’t disintegrate beneath me.” Declan had said he needed the work, and I felt the truth in that. He’d be out there. I’d be in my studio. I wouldn’t even need to deal with him.

“Okay, great. I haven’t gotten a hold of him yet, so we’ll pretend the call never happened.”

“Perfect. Have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I lifted my arm to block the headlights coming up the road.

“Sounds good, honey. Good night.”

Phil was my Uncle John’s good friend, one who often still thought of me as the odd little girl who wore long sleeves and gloves and would, when we met at the beach for holiday picnics, tell him the areas that werebadand he should keep away from. Even then, the echoes of violence upset me and I wanted to keep him safe from them.

Phil would laugh off my warnings, but my Uncle John would pick me up and hug me to him, carrying me on his hip. He knew.

When I finally got home, I changed into sweats and pulled out a fresh canvas. I mixed the paints and lifted the shutters, watching the moonlight play over the waves. Sometimes I sketched first, but tonight I just wanted my brushes and the paint.

As Pearl was on my mind, I painted her last moments. Under the dark churning water, a ghostly silhouette holding her down and waiting for her to choke out her last breath. The ocean surrounded her, accepting her. It was the shadow lurking above the waves that held true menace.

I knew it was the wee hours of the morning when I put aside the canvas, but I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t done. One more image wouldn’t let me rest.

7

Wanna See My Fort?

When the workmen arrived, I was just putting down my brush. Bone weary, I went through the gallery to the front door. Phil and three guys, one of whom was Declan, were laying down tarps and hauling in their tools.

“Morning.” Phil patted my shoulder. “You look tired. Pull another all-nighter?”

I nodded, zombie walking back to my studio. Maybe if I drew the shutters back down on the studio side and put on headphones to block out construction sounds, I could get some sleep. Probably not—let’s face it—but it was worth a try.

“Oh, hey, Arwyn,” Phil called.

I ducked back through the adjoining door. “Yeah?”

“There’s a woman out here to see you.” He glanced over his shoulder out the front door and then shrugged, going back to spreading out tarps.

I shuffled back, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to wake up. When I made it to the open front door, I stared at the woman in khakis, a button-down, and a blazer, leaning against the side of her car. I knew that face. Why did I know that face?

The woman moved to the base of the stairs. “Ms. Corey, I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Sofia?”

A bright smile flashed, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You remember. I’m Detective Hernández now.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, coming down a step and sitting. “I think one of my cousins mentioned you’d become a cop. And a detective now, cool. So what can I do for you?”

Detective Hernández watched the workmen moving in and out of the gallery. “Do you have somewhere private we could talk?”

“Sure.” I stood, started to sway forward, and caught myself on the newly installed railing.

“I told you that’d come in handy,” Phil said as he walked back to his truck bed.

“We’ll go to my studio.” I waved Detective Hernández in.

“Wow.”

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