Page 38 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
It shouldn’t be surprising that Linnéa’s rich too, but the different flavor to her fortune is striking. Christopher’s home was the flavor of wealthy that was purchased full price and put on show so everyone understands how many more digits exist in his bank account than yours.
Linnéa Nystrom’s wealth feels cozy. The row house had to run multiple millions, but it’s not the biggest on the street. The foyer has a warm pale wood and floral motif. There’s a simple coatrack, hung with a lady’s long wool coat and scarf. A pair of off-season boots are pressed to one side. It smells like flowers andfresh-cut grass, and as he listens in the foyer for sounds within, he tries to work out what could be making that pleasant scent.
When he doesn’t drop dead, Ophelia and Topher slip in behind him.
They give Topher a moment to stare around, but the sudden watery look in his eyes makes it clear the townhouse feels mom-ish to him. They’ve got the right place.
Mateo cranes around the stairs to look beyond. A few doors, one must be the garage, and a room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He takes the lead.
No body on the floor of the garage, no pentagram painted on a wall in blood, no sacrifice in the middle of the library. There’s a candle that smells like fresh grass, so there’s one mystery solved. None of the stink of the blood magic on the door is inside. It’s a perfectly normal home.
A silent yet heated conversation later and Mateo is still leading the way even though Ophelia in her tiny paper-thin girl shoes would be quieter on the creaky stairs. Extremely recently they’ve been made aware that getting knifed and burned isn’t a game ender for him, so he gets to win everywho should leadfight.
Topher takes up the tail.
Keeping to the wall edge of the stairs, Mateo steps as slowly as he can in his chunky boots. Every third step produces a soft creak followed by them pausing to listen. Nothing stirs each time, so they continue up.
The second floor has a kitchen and dining space. It’s been redone, but not into minimalistic modern hell. Might even be the original cabinets.Shabby-chic. Rich people’s poor people play. Not a lot of places to hide here. Mateo checks the fridge because he’s seen enough horror movies to have the passing thought that sometimes the body’s in there.
Thank fuck it’s not.
One more floor. Up they go.
A new smell reaches him just before the top, and this time he knows what the unfettered sweetness means.
The third floor is airy and bright, a large window letting in the midday sun. It also highlights the stark rust streak of dried blood on the eggshell couch, splashed across two cushions and onto the white area rug beneath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Shit,” Ophelia whispers from behind. Her hand finds the back of Mateo’s arm, holds on at the elbow as she peers around him.
As much as he’d been convinced that something had happened to Linnéa Nystrom, the blood still startles him. He’s seen a good amount of death in his twenty-three years, and he doesn’t even know if the owner of the blood is dead, but his pulse quickens at the thought of the likely outcome.
Ophelia and Topher are behind him, so he shifts his stance so neither can get past on the stairs.
Break into the blood-magicked house—this really was his worst idea yet. Topher’s seconds away from seeing blood that must be his mother’s. Seconds away from losing the little bit of family he has who actually cares about him.
Mateo turns to Ophelia and whispers urgently. “Both of you go back to the car. Please. I’ll check up here, and then we’ll figure out what to do.”
Displeasure surges behind cerulean eyes, red lips in a tight line. “No.”
“What’s happening?” Topher whispers.
Ophelia turns and catches Topher’s shoulders. “There’s blood.”
Topher goes very still, blinks hard twice, and then finds Mateo’s eyes. “I want to see.”
The irrational desire to protect Topher takes hold, but if her body’s somewhere in here, it’s not like he can hide it from Topher for long.
They all step into the living room and approach the blood-splattered sofa. Up close, it’s grim. Blood’s like that. A russet splatter, worse than if it was bright red because that means it’s been sitting there a while. Whatever caused it has fully happened.
Ophelia stays beside Topher, his hand held in hers while Mateo regards the splatter from a few different angles like he can CSI it. He ends up squatting in front of the main streak. It’s notsomeone bled out hereamounts, but it’s also notminor accidentquantity. Looks like a cup at least. A splatter of something that gushed.
His fingers get less than a millimeter away before he realizes what he’s doing and yanks them back.
Why was he trying to touch it?
But he knows why.
