Page 26 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Topher nods. “Some. I don’t really, um, I mean, dad has an office here, but I’m usually in my room.” Right. The naked-lady house with the least human-friendly living room known to man didn’t imply a close family dynamic.
“Show me around,” Mateo says, steering Topher deeper into the house. “Since someone cursed you, there might be signs of it in the house. Maybe even a focus to amplify the effect.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yes. The … uh, whole house, or?” The panic of a layperson asked to disarm a bomb overtakes Topher. “I mean, the whole house is fine. It’s just, there’s a lot of rooms. We don’t use most of them. They’re guest rooms. Except we never have guests. And there’s a lot of bathrooms. Fifteen. More bathrooms than rooms. Do you want to see the bathrooms?”
A sheen of sweat sits on Topher’s brow, and Mateo’s realizing that without direction, a faucet spins wide open and Topher spews uncertainty. “Let’s start with your room, then check out your dad’s office.”
It gets Topher moving, and Mateo follows through two more living rooms, a can-sit-the-last-supper-twice-over-sized dining room, and a massive and functionless area before the stairs. Topher provides stilted narration as they walk, also unclear about the function of most of the rooms.
Hand on knob, Topher goes to lead him into his bedroom, but then stops so abruptly that Mateo bodily bowls into him and has to catch himself on both Topher and the doorframe.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Topher says, arms spread wide, also braced against the doorframe. “I didn’t, um … I mean, I left in kind of a hurry. I don’t know if, I mean, it’s probably fine, but …”
Mateo backs up a few steps, hands raised in surrender. “You can make sure your room isn’t a mess. I’ll hang out right here.”
Hunted mongoose eyes vibrate in desperate gratitude, and then Topher slips into the room, pulling the door shut soundlessly like he stood there with both hands on it and eased it closed with breath held. A real loathing starts in Mateo’s gut about a dad he only saw for twenty seconds, and he has to yoga breathe his teeth back into bluntness. They’re getting sharp at everything today. Which isn’t great. In the past few days, he’s done a lot of minor magic—and a lot of healing. He’d napped at the hotel, and it had been dreamless, but he’s dreading tonight.
Topher opens the door, and it’s clear that rich people are exhibitionists, another curtainless floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooks the backyard. All the furniture’s matching matte gray, the bed huge and neatly made and stacked high withnonfunctional pillows. This whole house is an impersonal yet expensive hotel. There’s almost nothing that could be out of place so Mateo can’t imagine what Topher cleaned up. The only signs of life are a neat stack of math books on the dresser beside a framed photo of Topher, his dad, and what must be his mom.
Walking to the frame, Mateo picks it up. Mom’s gotta be Mateo’s height or taller, towering over her tiny son and normal-dude-height husband. Long, colorless hair flows down to her butt. She’s like if a high-fashion model got upscaled—meaning she’s not just large but a little weird looking. Thin mouth, small nose, high cheekbones, and a narrow chin. The air of a startled bird with the same large, watery eyes as her son. He doesn’t need to ask, but he does to be conversational. “This your mom?”
Topher nods, back pressed to the window, giving Mateo as much space as possible.
Setting the frame down, Mateo squints around the room. “I’m going to rummage around. Is that okay? The focus I mentioned could be anywhere.”
Topher hesitates, eyes darting around like he’s trying to remember where he’s stashed every sordid secret. He eventually nods, and Mateo begins his riffling, desperately hoping he doesn’t run into anything weird. There’s something wildly unpleasant about shoving your hands in someone’s underwear drawer while they mutely watch you, so Mateo gropes for conversation. “You really haven’t talked to your mom in three months? Since the curse started?”
Another pause. “I know we talked right before she left. Maybe once right after. I didn’t realize what was going on with me right away. Things steadily got worse and worse as more accidents happened, but she was having a hard time too. I didn’t want to make her worry.”
The timing of Topher’s mom going MIA had made her seem sus. Not that moms can’t just split—insert self-deprecating joke here—but the unpleasant dad and the blood magic is causing another theory to form. Like maybe the mom isn’t alive anymore. “Were you and your mom close before your parents split?”
A soft hum of thought from behind him. “I think so? She’s nice, and smart, and funny. By the time I finished school, she seemed way busier than before, so we didn’t get to hang out as much. I think it’s that thing, you know, when the kid goes to school, so the parent gets to work.”
Mateo, having never gone to school or had a pleasant mother, did not know, but nods. “What’s she do?” He moves to the closet, pausing to gape at the massive size. A bed could fit inside. It’s so tidy, too. Everything hung up is shades of gray, and all of the hangers are identical.
He realizes Topher hasn’t answered yet and leans back out. The sun is starting to set behind his pale form, making him difficult to look at, but he’s fiddling with his hands again. “I don’t know,” Topher eventually says. “I … I think it’s something like what dad does. Something with money. That’s probably weird that I don’t know, isn’t it?”
The last thing this guy needs is for the single positive interpersonal relationship in his life to be criticized. So, Mateo shrugs. “I don’t really know what my mom does, so I can’t judge anyone.” This is starting to bum them both out, though, so he steers toward something soothing. “Maybe she just didn’t think of mentioning it since she started while you were busy. By the time you were done with school, it was old news to her.” He’s pretty sure that’s how people work.
Another little hum. A thing he’s realizing that Topher does when he doesn’t know how to reply. Mateo, having done hisbest, leaves Topher to his sad and starts groping around in the corners of the closet. He’s immediately distracted by the clothes. The button-ups and tees are brandless expensiveness, soft fabrics, and the suits off to one side look custom. A closet full of perfectly tailored or handmade things is such an insane power move.
“Can I ask a question?”
Mateo drops a sleeve like he was caught trying to steal it and not just checking out the stitching. That anxious face peers into the closet, waiting until Mateo gives permission.
“How come you were okay after getting cut?” Topher’s warbly voice asks. “And you had teeth. Different teeth. Pointy teeth. Twice. When we ran and during my tarot thing. And your blood was black. Is that a … a spell or?”
These are completely reasonable questions Topher should have asked days ago. That doesn’t mean Mateo wants to answer them.
“Yeah, a spell,” Mateo says, skirting around Topher, wanting out of the closet and away from him. This is a professional situation terminating in a few weeks. Can’t have Topher out there knowing things about him. He’s obviously got no one to tell—except his jacked personal driver—but still. “Really high-level protection spell. It’s on Ophelia too. That’s why we’re not stressed being around you.” It’s more like a conflation and simplification of information. Thereareprotection spells in place.
“Oh that’s—I’m so glad to hear that.” Mateo only feels a little bad that Topher looks genuinely relieved, eyes tracking Mateo out of the closet and to the bed but staying rooted in the closet doorway. “It would be horrible if something happened to you while you were helping me. I mean, or ever. Ever would be bad too. But it would be my fault if it happened from this. AndI’d feel bad. I mean, I’d feel bad if something happened to you even if it wasn’t my fault.”
“Thanks,” Mateo says loudly to halt the flow. How can someone be so rich, so bad at talking, so sad, and so relentlessly nice? Wanting a distraction from a level of human decency he can’t match, he starts delicately lifting the comforter of the carefully made bed like that could be hiding anything and tries again. Something easy. Safe. Simple. “You like math?”
“Math?” Topher repeats in confusion.
Baffled right back at him, Mateo gestures at the stack of textbooks.
