Page 44 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Topher, urged on by this misunderstanding, goes back for more curiosities. “The, um, spell? That lets you heal? Did your mother do it before she left? So you’d be safe?”
Perfectly logical conclusion to make if you’d never met her.
His face must have done something because Topher flinches back. “Sorry. Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” Mateo says for reasons beyond him. He’d rather go out a window again than talk about this, but the alternative is lying down on this couch with nothing but his own terrible brain to keep him company. Hell, maybe someone else’s family drama will distract Topher from his own. That’s almost like being nice and supportive. “Ophelia said my mom is a crazy powerful blood witch, right?”
Topher bobbles.
“She isn’t just powerful. She’s the scary person other scary people are scared of. When I was a kid, like, my whole childhood, I was convinced that if I said one wrong word, she’d kill me. Not an exaggeration. I’m talking ritual murder.”
“But …” Topher says, shifting closer, searching Mateo’s face. “It’s healing, isn’t it? So, she must have wanted you safe?”
Despite having a crappy dad and the questionable nature of his missing mom, Topher’s struggling with the idea that a mother could be terrible. To be fair, shoving a demon in your kid is a whole other level that Topher probably lacks the imagination for, even after a day like today.
This is a bad topic. Just blow him off and go to bed. A million excuses flip through his brain. Hell, even agreement is fine. It doesn’t matter what Topher knows. It doesn’t matter if he lies to him. He’s lied to him a dozen times already. Say he must be right, say moms are complicated, and say good night. He’ll probably never see Topher again after tomorrow, a thought that sits sourly in the back of his throat.
“It’s not a protection. She didn’t do it to keep me safe. This kind of magic has a cost, and she’s not here to pay it. I am,” Mateo says instead of a lie, unable to even be shocked at himself because he’s too tired to be anything but honest.
Topher pulls in a loud breath, eyes doing that jittery thing they do when someone’s thinking. He even puts a cold hand on Mateo’s, probably trying to come up with a soothing line to follow that ill-advised truth-adjacent yet still vague comment. Good luck with that, Topher.
“You saved my life today,” he says with an unexpected firmness, leaning closer so they’re making a lot of direct eye contract.
For a fraught few seconds, Mateo thinks Topher’s going to kiss him again—and Mateo doesn’t lean back, doesn’t shout, doesn’t hold up a hand to block the other. He only stares between Topher’s pale lips and gray eyes.
But then Topher continues talking, tone earnest, squeezing his hand. “Whatever the cost is you’ll have to pay for doing that, I’ll pay it with you, if I can. I promise.” At this point, Topher seems to realize he’s made a bold declaration about things he doesn’t know jack shit about, while being really touchy. His cheeks go scarlet, and he releases Mateo’s hand. “Sorry. I just mean, I want to help.”
Instead of thanking him and sharing a moment of honest human connection, Mateo says, “Wow. He really thinks he can buy his way through everything.” He’s truly horrified at his own pathological need to avoid all sincerity.
Topher cracks a smile, releasing his hand and standing. “My platinum card has no limit. I usually can.” This important reiteration of how unexpectedly Topher’s always-down-to-clown delivered, Topher snatches the mugs from the table and whisks them away to the sink. He doesn’t look at Mateo as he rinses them or as he loads them into the dishwasher. He does look at Mateo just before leaving the room. A second of full and horrible eye contact and that weak smile, and then he’s gone.
The silence that follows is filled with more fraughtness as Mateo diligently doesn’t analyze whether he’s disappointed or relieved that nothing happened there.
At least he’s no longer thinking about the nearly dying thing, when the hell Dagger Lady or Evil Wizard will pop out again, or the Schrodinger’s missing mom who’s either murdered or attempted murderer.
Now he’s thinking about how alone and defenseless Topher’s about to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next morning, Topher delivers a flimsy yet plausible story to his lawyer as he perches on a bar stool in Quincy’s kitchen, not eating a plate of eggs they’ve each got in front of them. The warbling quality of Topher’s voice and his overwrought yet deeply repressed disposition sells it. It helps that the core elements are true. Not that Mateo’s overanalyzing every single thing Topher’s doing today.
They keep it simple: Missing mom, blood in house, and Topher’s overwhelming ignorance. Mateo and Ophelia are entirely omitted.
Call done; they head back to their hotel so Topher can gather up his things from his sleepover and Mateo and Ophelia can wait around for their flight that evening.
In his room, Mateo drags on his last outfit, a bone-deep weariness weighing his motions and lingering whiplash down his neck and spine. He’s whole, functional, and on the road to normal by the time he brushes out his hair and puts some lipstick on.
No one’s talking, except the bare minimum for logistics, so when Mateo goes to the living room, he nearly backs out againbecause Topher’s the only one there. He’s seated on the edge of the couch, bouncing a leg, and fiddling with his phone.
Having come to no emotional consensus about the events of the past few days, Mateo’s been dealing with it by avoiding all eye contact with Topher. That wasn’t flirting last night. That was heartfelt emotions—the worst kind—and requires introspection he’s extremely bad at even when there’s not a near-death experience and a magical murder mystery in the mix.
That habit of Topher’s to not fully enter a room is rubbing off on him as he oscillates between living room and bedroom. But it would be wildly too dick not to say anything at all. Question mark of emotions aside, he’s taken a lot of money from this very nice guy who’s just trying not to hurt the people around him.
“All packed?” Mateo asks even though he’s pretty sure Topher only needed his laptop.
Topher’s head pops up, eyes large and steady and unnervingly on him as he nods.
Mateo should have backed out of the room. Or done what he hadn’t managed last night. Be sympathetic. Show some level of basic human consideration to another human going through a difficult time. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you? For, like, emotional support?”
