Page 51 of Wicche Hunt

“Excuse me,” he said.

I turned, fingers twitching, readying a spell. “Yes?”

“Are you hiring?” His eyes kept darting to the mural over my shoulder.

“No,” I lied. “I already have a full staff.” He was right, though. I really needed to get on that. Part of me was hoping Hester would work here part-time. I wanted her away from all the memories, all the photos of her dead daughter. Forcing herself to leave the house and interact with others a few hours a week might be healing for her.

I’d also been considering asking my Aunt Elizabeth’s kids, Frank and Faith, if either or both wanted a job. They were still teenagers and, like their parents, kind people. Which was very uncommon for cousins of mine.

“I can do all kinds of work,” he said. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

“That’s nice. There are lots of other galleries around town and Carmel has tons.” I was having a hard time telling if he was just socially awkward or menacing. Declan hadn’t liked him being near me, but that could’ve been a wolf thing.

“Those places aren’t the same.” He rubbed his wispy mustache. “I’m supposed to be here, with you and the tentacles. I just know it.” His vehemence had me taking a step back.

“I see,” I said, flicking my fingers.

He checked his watch. “I have to go.”

“That’d be good. And just as a reminder, this is private property. Do you see the signs posted? You can’t park there, okay?”

He rushed off without answering, which was fine. I was happy to have him gone.

My phone buzzed. Declan.

“Hey, how’s construction going?” I asked.

“That obsessive guy’s car is back. Be careful when you get home.”

“Already here.” I watched while the sweaty man got behind the wheel and started it up. He pulled out without checking traffic, causing a minivan to slam on the brakes.

“I sent him on his way,” I explained.

“Good. There’s something off about that guy.”

“No argument,” I said, rounding the gallery to the deck. “By the way, I need tall gates on either end of the deck to keep weirdos from sneaking up on me.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. His voice had become easier to hear. He must have walked outside, away from the construction noise. They were still in demolition mode over there. They were being careful, though, as the building had a light smattering of structural damage. “I sketched out some ideas. I’ll show you tonight. Are you still up for dinner?”

“You bet.” I glanced around. Still no tennis ball. Hmm, maybe something happened to our ball.

“Great. I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun tearing stuff apart.” I opened the back door of the studio.

Laughing, he said, “Always.”

After disconnecting, I dropped my backpack and got a new tennis ball from the canister. I found the orange flippy thing to make the ball sail and went back out. The sun was so bright, reflecting off the waves, I wished I had sunglasses.

“Wilbur! Are you around?” I flung the ball, waiting for him to arrow out from under the deck. When he didn’t, I drooped. Where was he? Maybe I’d go swimming later. He always seemed to find me when I was in the water. I couldn’t do it now, though. The field trip to Cypress Academy had put me behind schedule.

Weaving my hair into a loose braid, I went in and got back to work painting the gallery.

Hours later, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I peeled the rubber gloves off my regular ones and fished the phone out of my pocket. Mom.

“Hey, Mom.” I put her on speakerphone so I could keep going.

“Darling, are you at the gallery?”

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