Page 22 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
“That’s the spirit,” Mateo says and pats Topher’s knee like Topher’s his new stepson he’s just been introduced to on the day he lost the big game. At around the third pat, he realizes Quincy is staring at him in the rearview mirror. Right. The driver can totally hear the words about curses. Not wanting to deal with whatever judgment might be there, Mateo relegates the paid-driver’s bulk to his peripheral vision. Whatever. It’s not like he’ll ever see this guy after today.
They pile out of the car.
Ophelia, in a rare moment of delicate compassion, puts her hands on Topher’s cheeks like someone might do before a kiss and commands: “Three deep breaths. In for five seconds. Out for five seconds. Starting now.”
Topher, startled into compliance, does exactly what she says, silently goggling with arms limp at his sides and eyes perfect circles. That neon flush heats Topher’s cheeks again, and why not? Ophelia’s terrifying, but she’s also cute, and obviously into this guy who’s obviously into her, which is, like, great. Probably a conflict of interest or whatever—professionally speaking—but otherwise fantastic for everyone.
It’s this moment Mateo realizes his tongue’s been absently worrying over the tips of sharp teeth. From the near car crash, he guesses, and doesn’t think about the time delay there.
“It’s just a conversation. You can do this,” Ophelia concludes.
“Right,” Topher whispers readily, and Ophelia releases him. It must be hell to blush that easily and visibly, and Mateo feels a twinge of something that must be sympathy. Loving Ophelia is like loving a rocket ship. One day it’s going to shoot into space while shedding noncritical parts that will then hurtle back toward the planet, burn up on reentry, but sometimes take out a cow.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” Topher says, and it takes Mateo a confused moment to realize he’s talking to Quincy. It’s the first words Topher’s directly spoken to the man.
“That’s fine,” Quincy says, offering Topher a tissue and then running his paid-driver hands through Topher’s chaotic mess of hair, forcing some order into it. “I’ve got a book.”
Topher, unreactive to the extremely personal hair thing that has scandalized Mateo, nods and they start toward the towering office. But Mateo’s distracted, fully staring at Quincy now, watching the man get back into the SUV.
It’s only then that it occurs to him that Quincy isn’t some random day driver. “Topher, do you, like,knowknow the driver?”
“Oh, yeah. Yes. Quincy’s worked for me for a few years,” Topher says distractedly, leading them through a heavy door and into a lobby that looks like a Roman statue threw up all over it. Every inch is gray-swirled marble except for the inches that hold a line of security guys.
The rigid postures and serious business vibes bring his attention distressingly back to the fact that he still hasn’t thought of a single thing to ask Topher’s dad.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The inner lobby of Christopher Nystrom’s office is worse than the downstairs lobby. Worse here, meaning expensive and like a place Mateo should be shot for occupying.
The walls are covered in ugly abstract art that either took someone ten minutes or ten years to make. A literal golden door bars them from accessing the office beyond. The far side of the room houses a plastic-lipped receptionist baked into the wall in a to-go-style window. His orange-tan face gives Mateo a head-to-toe look, purses his lips to say something passive aggressive—for sure—but then catches sight of Topher. That smile stretches back into place. Despite Topher’s tumbled bedhead and mouse-on-uppers energy, he’s got some inherent money-scent this man is sensitive to, and they proceed to have a polite conversation.
“Conference room three,” Plastic-Lips Man says before a soft chime sounds. Inexplicable. Until the golden doors start to swing open.
They’ve been deemed worthy.
Behind the door is aggressively boring. Rows of cubicles form an endless grid. The edges of the room are lined withglass-enclosed offices with wall-to-ceiling windows letting in the too-bright day. Everything’s transparent. You couldn’t scratch your nose without it being visible from seventeen different seats. Absolute hell. It’s the first time in his life Mateo’s grateful for the dark, burnt-hair-smelling back room at work.
Conference room three sits tucked in a far corner—or as tucked as you can be with an unimpeded view of the world around you. A massive table takes up most of it and reflects the sun painfully. Mateo walks to the window, taking in the insane view. There’s water all around Seattle, but this is sparkly California water.
“There’s drinks and food and stuff,” Topher says, flitting about the room, trying to get an angle all around the office, presumably to spot his father.
“Where?” Ophelia asks because she can always be counted on when free is involved.
Topher seems to have forgotten that he spoke, pressed to a glass corner on tiptoes with his head on swivel. “Where?” he repeats, diverting his attention back to them in confusion.
“Where’s the drinks and food and stuff?” Ophelia drops into the seat at the head of the table, because of course she would.
“Oh, sorry. Sorry.” Topher throws one more forsaken look toward the glass wall before focusing. “I’ll go get … or I’ll find someone … or …” He’s locked in an infinite loop of existential indecision, seesawing between the door and the lone phone at the center of the table.
A towering man in a relentlessly navy but well-tailored suit stomps up to the conference door. He’s in his fifties or sixties and composed of a series of tightly stacked cubes. Square head, broad chest, graying hair in a nothing style that is also a square. No particular point of interest to call out, so he probably lovesRalph Lauren’s fall catalog. In size alone, it’s hard to conceive of his relation to Topher.
Something on Mateo’s face alerts Topher, and his loop is broken as he turns and wilts.
The guy—Christopher Nystrom Sr., for sure—points at Topher and then hooks a thumb to the left. He doesn’t perceive Mateo or Ophelia, only gives Topher the constipated expression of someone who’s been waiting hours even though they’re early for his four-hour window.
Topher whirls back to them, hands held up … as if either of them has made a move to follow and he needs to stop them. “I’ll be right back. I didn’t get to explain anything. Or, I mean, I didn’t want to on the phone. And I probably need to explain some things. I mean, I don’t think he’ll be very receptive if he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“It’s okay,” Mateo soothes, and Topher flits out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him so it doesn’t so much as click. The dad is already gone. He hadn’t waited for Topher’s brief words to them, so Topher has to hurry after him. During Topher’s pitiful work shift, Mateo had thought the power walking was a weird Topher quirk. Now he thinks it has to do with keeping up with his jerk dad.
