Page 79 of Wicche Hunt

I waved at the water. “Thanks, Dad! I’m okay!”

Osso moved away from the edge and put me down. Hernández had a hand on her chest, her eyes wide.

“What?” I asked

“You walked right to the edge and stepped off. I don’t know how Arthur got there in time to catch you.” Hernández was shaking her head. “We thought you were out of the trance. I’d just asked you what you’d seen and you walked straight over the cliff.”

“It was like watching Wile E. Coyote,” Osso said. “I thought you were fine, just wanting to look where Garza would have gone over, but there was no hesitation.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “You gave me a damned heart attack.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “Garza didn’t die when the shovel hit. He was waking up as the killer rolled him to the edge. He felt the kick over. The poor man was terrified as he dropped. And his last thoughts were of his wife and kids.”

Hernández took my arm. “Can you move farther away from the edge, please.” She blew out a breath. “I think I aged twenty years in that moment. If my hair turns gray, it’s on you.”

“I really am sorry. I don’t usually move around like that.”

They both looked like they might be sick.

“What do you say we head back? I’ll buy you both dinner on the way home. Wait. No.” I checked my phone. “I’m supposed to be meeting Declan for dinner. I’ll bake you guys a thank-you-for-saving-me-and-I’m-sorry-for-scaring-you surprise.”

“With honey,” Osso said as he pulled another glove from his pocket and picked up the shovel again before heading back toward the car.

THIRTY-ONE

Wicche vs. Gun

Once in the back seat, I went into my backpack and pulled out a sketchbook and pencils. “If you can keep the ride as smooth as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

Hernández turned in her seat. “You have a face for us?”

I nodded. “I’ve got both of them as teenagers. At a guess, I’d say they were fourteen or fifteen. And then I have one as an adult. He was standing in the dark, but I have a feel for his adult face.”

I started working on last night’s killer as a teen and had a thought. “Can you guys get yearbooks for the school?”

“We’re already working on it,” Osso said, “but the school loves nothing more than to deny requests and line up lawyers to shout about privacy.”

“Is there an assumption of privacy for a yearbook?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t think,” Hernández replied. “It’s filled with pictures and names and handed out to the entire student body. We got a judge to sign the warrant, but they’re fighting it.”

“All their damn stalling stunts are getting people killed. If they’d cooperated from the jump, we might have a line on these bastards, and maybe Luis Garza would still be alive.”

We were all frustrated into silence. Closing my eyes, I found the face again and drew.

By the time I was finishing the third face, I looked up and realized no one was in the front seat and the car was parked in front of the gallery.

Hernández, Osso, and Declan were sitting on the steps chatting. I put my pencils away and tried to open the door, but it was locked. All the windows were open, so I called, “Am I under arrest?”

Declan laughed and Osso took out his keys and hit the unlock button. I walked over, handed Hernández my sketchbook, and sat beside Declan. He wrapped an arm around me and kissed my head.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, resting my hand on his knee.

“We didn’t set a time and you were busy.” He looked over Osso’s shoulder at the sketches.

“Oh, here,” I said, taking back the sketchbook and ripping out the three pages. They were trying to be careful with the images, gently flipping the sheets back and forth. Now they could study them all at once.

Osso tapped the adult portrait. “This one killed the teacher and the groundskeeper.”

Hernández shook the taller teen’s portrait. “And this one killed your cousin and the dean.”

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