Page 7 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
But no one else is offering him a bunch of money, so whatever danger this curse represents, he’s game to deal with it. “Elaborate on how people are gettinghurt.” Mateo says.
“All sorts of ways,” Topher says, trying to make the world’s smallest, waxiest napkin do anything about his tears. “An air conditioner … horrible. Tree branch … speared. AFor Leasesign got caught by the wind. It was arrow-shaped. A wiggly inflatable arm car dealership thing.”
Holy actual shit. Mateo desperately wants to ask about the wiggly arm guy, but Topher’s not done, and it feels kind of insensitive, maybe.
There’s lots of car crashes: the bus thing that very morning, multiple intersections, at a drive-thru, and even in front of Topher’s house days ago. Topher hesitates on that last one,fingers drifting up to his damp cheek as he whispers. “That woman died. Very badly.”
The face off!
Okay. Wow. If any of it’s real, that’s a lot.
However much he can get out of this guy isn’t worth dying for.
Unless it’s, like, really a lot of money.
The lack of reaction to the consultation fee is a bright blaring siren call in Mateo’s mind, drowning out the fact that he was just knifed. If he’s doing this, he needs to get paid even if he can’t figure out what’s happening or fix it.
First, show that he’s compassionate. “That sounds difficult.” Second, say some shit to sound smart about it. “If it’s a curse, and I’m assuming it is right now, it has some interesting characteristics. Abnormal, even.” Solid.
And it’s only sort of bullshit. He didn’t put the ad on WorkList with nothing to offer. Being raised by a powerful bruja who was also a shit mother meant that he’d heard and seen a lot of things he was forbidden from seeing and hearing. He’d picked up some stuff.
Topher’s eyes become watery balloons again.
Hope. And a willingness to pay for said hope.
He’s on the line. Mateo just has to not reel too fast or jerk the line or however the hell fishing works.
“If it’s a curse,” Mateo says, taking the last sip of his coffee to work out something cool to say, “That means someone cursed you.” Fucking obviously. “Got any enemies? Make anyone mad? Classmate? Or a coworker at whatever your real job is? Anyone hate you?”
Like a wet dog left alone in the rain, Topher’s head dips. “No. I mean, not that I can think of. I finished school two years ago, and this stuff only started about three months ago. I don’thave a job. I mean, I did today. But normally, I don’t. I don’t talk to a lot of people. But. I mean … I’m also not very good with people sometimes. Most times. All times. So. Maybe? But not that I remember it being bad enough for all this. The, uh, killing.”
Useless. Okay. Other routes. “What about your parents? Do they have any enemies?”
“My dad works on Wall Street.”
They share a beat of silence.
“Right. So, dad pissing someone off is an angle,” Mateo says. “What about mom?”
Topher bodily curls around the cup, intensifying the sad dog look into ASPCA-commercial levels. This dog has never known love. Dramatic music’s already blaring from the overhead speaker. “Probably nothing to do with her. She left a little before Easter. Left my dad, I mean. I mean, she left the house, so … she left me too, I guess. Technically. But, I mean … it’s him she was leaving. Not me. We haven’t really talked since. But she’s busy. She has a busy job.”
Jesus. This guy is a bunch of yikes topics. Also, he’d just basically said his mom did it. Curse stuff starts happening right around the time she bounces? Not answering calls? Sounds sus as hell. He can’t say that, though, or he won’t be able to run up the bill. Except now he has no idea how to respond because that was a slightly too intimate information dump he’d absolutely asked for.
“Okay. This gives me a place to start.” Nailing it. “I’ll need you to email me some basic info. Your parents’ full names, any close family or friends, and any of your father’s business partners or associates’ names.” Wall Street guys had partners and associates, he was pretty sure.
Topher bobbles his head.
“And just to be perfectly clear,” Mateo says, needing to stress this disclaimer so hard. “I don’t know if I can help you.”
Topher bobbles again, the song overhead crescendoing.
Channeling every crime procedural Ophelia’s made him sit through while painting his nails, Mateo says, “Put me on retainer for a week. The rate is—” A pricing structure for magical research based on knowing the guy’s dad works on Wall Street forms. “Two grand. Half now, half at the end of the week.”
It’s too much. It’s deranged. Mateo braces for Topher’s shock and then outrage.
“I don’t think I have that much on me right now,” Topher says, like there was a possibility he could have that much on him right now. Phone is in hand without a thought, tapping away. “The banks are closed … you probably don’t take card. I have PayNow?” Topher’s suddenly striking, engaging, beautiful, and not-too-big eyes look at Mateo questioningly.
“PayNow works,” Mateo manages as Topher hands over his phone so Mateo can type in his username with hands that want to tremble. He hits enter, and the cell in his pocket chirps. As he fishes it out, he has to use every ounce of self-control to keep his customer service smile in place and not just, like, cackle. A one. A five. A pair of zeros. Four-dollar twenty-cent service fee subtracted. It’s the most beautiful email he’s ever received.
