Page 46 of Wicche Hunt

“There’s no crime,” he insisted.

Hernández stared him down. “Are we going to have a problem here, sir?”

He broke first. “I suppose I’ll need to put in a call to the mayor about this. I’d appreciate when you girls are done that you clear out these cars and that horrible yellow tape. The children don’t need to see that.”

His gaze finally moved past Hernández to me. Looking me up and down, his face darkened as he took in the paint-splattered sneakers, overalls, and hair. “You’re a police officer?”

I shook my head, desperate to hex the pompous pusbag for referring to us asgirls. I hated petty little men like him.

“Ms. Corey is a consultant,” Hernández said.

He turned on his heel and walked back through the main doors, neither holding them open for us nor giving the detective any more of his attention.

I caught up with her in the huge entry. “Are we sure that weasel didn’t do it?”

One side of her mouth tipped up. She looked up and down the now empty hall and then pointed me to the right. “It would make my year if I got to slap my cuffs on him,” she muttered. “Girls.”

The wide hall had a thick rug in muted colors running down its center. The walls were a dark wood with carved details. Large, ornate pendant lights hung from the ceiling and every fifteen feet or so, there was a break for a classroom door. There were no glass panels in the doors, like the ones at my old schools. These were solid carved wood with brass plates in the center, giving the room number and the teacher’s name.

The bright yellow police tape at the end of the hall stood out against all this darkness. This school clearly eschewed the use of brights and pastels.

Hernández checked her watch. “We have about twenty minutes until the next bell and the halls fill with students.” She pointed to the base of the stairs. You can see the bloodstain.”

I ducked under the tape and stared up the steps. Yep. This was what I’d seen. Stuffing my hair down the back of my top, I crouched and slipped off a glove.

“Do you want me to hold your backpack?” she asked.

Moving my shoulders, I gauged the weight and my balance. “Nah. I’m fine.” I touched the bloodstained carpet with one finger.

“This discussion is over. Every student here signs an honor code. You know that better than anyone. Plagiarism is a clear violation of that code.” The Dean of Discipline walks down the hall, angry he has to deal with the student’s parent. Again. This is what’s wrong with these students. The parents are always defending their children’s poor behavior, all in pursuit of an Ivy League acceptance. Well, the student has already received a warning. He squandered it and now he’ll have to deal with an F in his Government class. They’re already bending rules, letting him retake a portion of his class, allowing him to resubmit his final research paper. His low C just became an F. There goes Harvard.

“It was an accident. I was working with him, tutoring him. We’d printed pages and pages of research so he could defend his argument. It was late. He was tired. I’m sure he didn’t even realize he’d done it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s seventeen years old. He understands what plagiarism is. He did the exact same thing in his World History class as a sophomore. Enough, now. I don’t even know why you’re inserting yourself into this. You’re tutoring. Fine. The next time you tutor, make sure they know that stealing someone else’s words and ideas without proper citations will earn them an F for the semester. Now, I’m done with this. I have work to do.”

He turns to descend the stairs and a hand holding a large chunk of glass slams against the back of the dean’s head. He pitches forward and goes flying down the stairs, breaking his neck.

The one who stands at the top of the stairs slips back into the shadows.

Opening my eyes, I saw Hernández holding out an alcohol wipe to clean the sticky blood from my fingers. Something pulled my gaze up and I found a pair of blue eyes staring down at me from floors above. Hopping over the bloodstain, I ran up the stairs, popped the police tape on the railing of the second-floor landing, and then ran up another flight. Classes were still in session. Who was watching me?

As I hit the top stair, I heard the soft shush of leather-soled shoes and the quiet snick of a door closing. I looked in every direction. The third-floor landing was empty.

Hernández came up the stairs right behind me. “What? What did you see?”

“There was someone up here watching us.”

A tone sounded and doors opened, feet pounding in the halls, up and down stairs, though it remained quiet on the third floor. I moved away from the banister to look down the hall. Perhaps the faculty offices were up here. Looking to the left, I froze.

“What is it?” she asked.

I pointed. It was the corridor that had been haunting my dreams and finding its way into visions.

Hernández had a moment too before she began to walk down the corridor. “It’s exactly as you painted it.” She opened her phone and pulled up a photo she’d taken of my painting. She, no doubt, was comparing my painting to the real corridor, looking for differences that could be meaningful. She’d done the same with my painting of a path in the woods where a child had been taken on a previous case,

She hadn’t gone more than a few steps when we heard a familiar voice.

“This area is off-limits. The accident was on the first floor. You can’t wander around this institution without a warrant, and you won’t get one. The mayor is even now talking with the chief of police.”

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