Page 79 of Accidentally Vacationed with an Incubus

The next photo was of Jen’s room. It was nearly identical to how it looked now, except for the mess. Teenage debris littered every surface. Stacks of empty glasses and plates crowded her nightstand and dressing table. Discarded clothes and accessories were strewn across the floor in careless heaps. And her bed... It looked as if she had been lying there moments before, a human-shaped impression surrounded by a sea ofcandy wrappers. To the side, an empty, heart-shaped box of chocolates sat abandoned.

A sudden, irrational surge of jealousy twisted through me. Someone had tried to woo my mate with cheap chocolates.

I bet it was her stalker.

Fucking Rowan.

The same Rowan who had been so obsessed with Jen that he had conducted his own investigation, conveniently dropping off these police files—filled with his own notes—so he could heroically prove her innocence.

I let out a slow breath.

Look at everything first. Hate on the orc later.

I turned to the next photo. Jen sat curled on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by police officers. In the shadows of the upstairs landing, barely visible in the background, the familiar figure of BooDini loomed. The little ghost hovered at the railing, its sheeted form crumpled in distress, staring down at the scene below in confusion.

Jen looked... emotionless. Grief hit everyone differently, but she hadn’t even shed a tear in the photo. She just sat there, hands resting limply in her lap, her beloved tattered hoodie swallowing her small frame, a backpack slumped beside her. Her gaze was unfocused, staring into nothingness as the mortal police combed through her home.

It was unsettling. Wrong.

A sticky note read:

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Why call the mortal police and not the Headless Hollow Sheriff’s Department?

Someone inside had to make the call—someone who ‘invited’ the mortals, bypassing the town’s magic. Otherwise, the mortal police would have never been able to find the house.

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The next photo was of Jen’s tattered checkered bag, its contents carefully laid out beside it. An emptied wallet rested on one side, its contents—her ID, a photo of her parents, and about a hundred dollars—neatly arranged beside it. Next to that, her phone, a pouch of crystals, a tin of trinkets, a tea flask, and a change of clothes had been methodically placed, as if someone had wanted to catalog every detail of her life.

Below the bag, set apart from everything else, lay a pair of wire cutters, the metal glistening with fresh oil, sealed inside an evidence bag.

Jen never denied cutting the brakes, I reminded myself. In fact, she was pretty adamant that it had been her.

A sticky note was attached to the photo, the handwriting sharp and almost frantic:

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Why pack a getaway bag only to not run away?

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My lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing about this case made sense.

I turned to the final document. Jen’s interrogation transcript. Fifty-three pages of it. I exhaled sharply and flipped through the thick stack of paper. And despite my irritation, I was reluctantly thankful that the orc had highlighted the most important parts.

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OFFICER HUGHS: Walk me through the day leading up to the deaths of your parents.

JENNIFER: I spent most of the day... moping around. Mom told me to have dinner ready for when she and Dad got back, and then we’d go to the movies.

OFFICER HUGHS: Back from where?

JENNIFER: The Cadmuses’ house. Ms. Cadmus has been sick, and they were spending a lot of time over there.

OFFICER HUGHS: Did you feel like your parents were neglecting you?

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