Page 25 of Wicching Hour

I grabbed my phone and sat beside him on the couch. “We should just do it now. You’re going to go to sleep soon, and I need to get to work.”

We used the thirteen minutes the cookies were baking to create an order. I had lots of baking supplies to replenish, and he had a love of pot pies. Who knew? There were frozen individual-serving ones he liked to fill his freezer with. I also made sure he got some fruits and vegetables. When I suggested chips, he told me he never ate them when he was working—and he was almost always working. He couldn’t touch old texts with greasy fingers. I suggested pretzels and he said he’d give them a try.

Once we were done, he went back to his RV to sleep and I cleaned up, put on my work clothes, and went into the gallery to move all the items the Winslows had purchased for the shipping people who would be arriving later today.

Using the list Mary Beth had left me, I gathered a great deal of my art into the open café section of the gallery. Remembering, I went into the fire room to get the additional items they’d chosen yesterday morning, wheeling them out to join the rest.

While I was at it, I gathered all the artwork with white dots—a far smaller number of items—for the second collector. Mary Beth had texted me back while I was baking, giving me a list for him and informing me the same shipping company would take care of his purchases as well. She also told me to check my gallery banking account.

After everything on the lists had been double-checked, I clicked into my banking app and about had a heart attack. I sent a mind-blown emoji to Mary Beth, and she responded, telling me that didn’t include the big order for the twelve-inch octopuses I needed to work on for the Winslows, nor the window for Mr. Cheng. I still had a couple of months to complete the first order and even longer for the second. When I was done, I could expect two more large paydays.

Bursting with pride, I looked over my gallery, knowing even if I never sold another piece of art, I could take care of myself for life. Eyes welling, my throat tightened. Why was I crying?

I brushed away the tears as I wandered around display tables. I’d done this. I’d created something that others valued and because of that, I never had to worry about being a burden to the family who didn’t much care for me, or about having to move in with Mom or Gran. I’d fought to stand on my own, to express what was in me, and enough people appreciated my art that I was making a living on my own terms.Damn.

A loud knock sounded at the front door. Startled, I looked out the back windows. The sun had barely risen. The clock against the café wall read 6:20. Who in the world? I pulled up the security camera feeds on my phone as the loud pounding came again, followed by the buzzing of my phone.

Detective Hernández was calling. And Detective Hernández was standing at my front door. I jogged over and opened the original cannery metal door. I’d intended to replace it with something much nicer but decided a fancy door would ruin the abandoned cannery look.

Hernández, red-eyed and somber, gave me a look that told me everything.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, opening the door wider for her to come in.

“Can you come with me while the scene is fresh?” she asked.

I held up a finger and jogged back to the studio, grabbing my backpack and some cookies in a napkin. When I went back, I handed her the cookie pack. “I know you’re not hungry, but you need to eat something. Maybe sugar from a friend will ease the pain a bit.”

Flicking my fingers, I locked up the gallery and headed to her car. Hernández put the cookies in the cup holder and started her engine. We were in the car for at least five silent minutes before she said, “It looks like he broke in after I called to check on her.”

In the dream, the killer had been waiting outside, watching the back of the house. He heard a phone ring and then the lights turned on. Eventually, they all turned off and he moved in. It hadn’t happened yet. I’d dreamt it before it happened, called the police, and still hadn’t been able to stop it.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you about this,” I said. “She was your friend. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her grief washed over me and made my head pound. “It’s Arthur’s case. He knew Gaby too—she works at the station—but they aren’t friends. I told him about our phone calls, but I might have left things out. You should tell him everything from the beginning,” she said.

“Of course, and I’m very sorry about your friend.” I knew my words were hollow in the face of her grief, but I also felt compelled to say them.

She nodded and continued driving in silence. Eventually, she turned into a neighborhood of small, neat houses, lined up in a row, and my stomach cramped. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t known where we were headed, but now I was going to have to watch Detective Hernández’s friend being murdered.

THIRTEEN

Well, That Sucked

When Hernández pulled up, Detective Osso was standing out front, talking with a man in a white coverall that left only his pale face exposed. Osso walked over and opened the passenger door, leaning in before I could get out.

“Sofia, I’ve got this,” he rumbled in his deep bear voice. “You go home, be with Andie, and try to get some sleep. I’ll call you in a few hours. Okay?”

I felt her struggling, wanting to make sure her friend was taken care of, but she finally nodded and turned her head away from all the police activity. Osso stepped back and let me exit, gently closing the car door after me and tapping the roof.

Once Hernández had driven away, we walked up the path to the door. “This isn’t like the other one,” he said. “He was more violent this time.”

The cops on scene watched us approach with expressions varying from disgust to wary hope. Another person in white coveralls gave me paper booties to put on over my sneakers before I entered the house.

“There are too many people here,” I whispered, knowing he’d hear me. “It’s too chaotic. Can you bring me back later once they’ve all left?”

He paused at the entrance to the short hall. “I could, but can you try? Everyone is a little worked up right now. Gaby was one of our dispatchers. Everyone knew her. That’s why there are so many people milling around.”

Five people were standing in the living room, talking quietly. Two were in white coveralls, the rest in uniform. It felt like more in the small space. “Aren’t the extra people mucking up your crime scene?”

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