Page 27 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
“Oh. Yes. I mean, I do, but those aren’t math books,” Topher says, wandering to the stack to pick one up and show Mateo the front. It reads:Structures, Algorithms, and Systems.
Squinting, Mateo drops the comforter. Aren’t algorithms math? Oh no. He’s suddenly the stupidest person in this room and can’t ask what the title means because Topher’s looking at him pleasantly like he’s supposed to know. And he’s paid Mateo a lot of money. Based on context clues of the bad CG graphics sci-fi-ish cover he says, “So, like, computer things?”
Topher nods and Mateo wishes he could high-five himself. “I double majored in computer science and business,” Topher explains, setting the book back down and flipping the cover open idly. “I really liked the computer science classes. Business was because of my dad. Those classes were boring but it’s good to have a solid business foundation.”
“I do hear that,” Mateo says because it feels like he should agree. But a distant alarm is sounding in his skull—a dim realization as he watches this very rich and well-dressed guy leaf through textbooks fondly. Computer science and business are smart things. Despite his inability to function in the ecology ofa print shop, Topher might be smart. If he starts trying to talk about either of those things he majored in, it’s going to quickly become clear that Mateo’s only barely rocking a GED certificate. Okay. Easy. Just keep the conversation on Topher. “Where did you go to school?”
Gaze darting up from the book, Topher hesitates before saying, “Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”
“Oh?” Mateo says, baffled as to what Topher’s expression means. Maybe it’s a bad school? Kinda sounds like a trade school so maybe that’s embarrassing for rich people. Not wanting him to feel bad about a thing Mateo absolutely doesn’t care about, he adds, “I got really nervous you were going to say Harvard.”
That insubstantial smile flickers over Topher’s lips as he says, “It’s a pretty good school for computer stuff.”
Okay. He’s gonna call that a successful human interaction. Having no cool information about Massachusetts, computers, or business to carry this conversation further and unable to pretend looking at the top of the bed is still happening, he squats and goes elbow deep under the mattress to root around.
Fingers brush against something. There’s an uneasy moment where he’s positive it’s going to be a sex toy he’ll have to diplomatically hurl across the room, but what he has in hand is a little figure of a woman. It’s definitely magic-adjacent because he doubts Topher keeps cryptic figures under his mattress for fun, but before he can ask, a navy-clad figure fills the doorway.
“Why the hell is there a girl in my pool?” Christopher Nystrom Sr. asks. The large man doesn’t wait for an answer, turns and stomps away, expecting Topher to follow—which Topher does, an apologetic look thrown to Mateo before he’s jogging after his father’s back.
Mateo stands but doesn’t follow. Not because he’s unconcerned with this guy’s hostile attitude toward his own kid, but because he’s extremely concerned—a sharp-toothed, swimming head, heat in his stomach, and a mass of something thick and virulent seeping into his quickening heart kind of concerned.
Claws could so easily sink into the father’s body, root around, seek out the most delicious parts—the consistency of firm, hot Jell-O. It would be so easy to separate organ from the rest of the meat, and the squelch of insides ripping would be intoxicating. Liver or spleen first, pressed to lips for a relishing moment before teeth shred with ease. Pleasure would fill his mouth, the blood a delicious condiment. Au jus. A candied taste to accent the snap of flesh, the heady, salty richness of a meat so recently pulsing with life.
Bracing against the doorway, he sways.
A blink and he’s in the living room, Ophelia’s hands on his chest, like she’s stopping him from going forward. Her washed-out robin’s egg eyes are wide and directed up at him. She’s in a swimsuit, which meant she’d come with it under her dress.She’s sublime and undimmable, even after death.This thought feels alien in his head, not because it’s untrue but because he doesn’t typically think in such dramatic terms. The world blurs briefly, and he finally thinks to look beyond her, to understand what’s happening loudly a few feet away.
“Please, just talk to them. I know you don’t believe me, but things are really bad. And they’re helping. Please,” Topher begs, using his flimsy body to block the way to the foyer.
Christopher Nystrom Sr. looks like if a slightly doughy linebacker ate another one. Muscle under a thin layer of dude who works in an office. He’s unmoved by his son’s desperation. “I don’t know what lies these swindlers have fed you.” His face ispink with anger as he turns to direct his hostility at Mateo. “But I’m not biting. Get out of my house before I make you.”
They need to leave. Mateo’s heartbeat is an assault on his rib cage, and the edges of his vision are dimming. He’s transfixed by the thin layer of skin holding in all that meat.So easy to puncture along the gut and let everything spill onto the floor. Hot juice and organs. He could reach in, pluck free, sink teeth into, and then he wouldn’t have to hear the meat’s voice anymore.
Warm hands cup Mateo’s cheeks, drawing his attention down to Ophelia’s sedative gaze. Steadying him. He forces himself to focus on her perfect halo of wet curls from the pool, even as his mind stutters with reconceptualizing the rest of the scene.
Not meat. A man.
The agitation in the room is teetering in his skull. Christopher is staring at him, daring Mateo to say something so he can kick his ass. But the dream that may or may not be a memory of his hands buried in guts comes unbidden and he starts salivating.
An ache works its way to his awareness, the little lady figure in his hand gripped hard enough to hurt. Forcing fingers open, he stares at it, Ophelia’s attention on it too.
“What?” she asks softly.
A maddening thought occurs to Mateo. The little lady figure is familiar, even though he has no idea who it is, and something about this familiarity means Christopher is lying. He needs to leave this room now, but they need to ask something. “The mom?” he whispers to Ophelia. She’s the biggest unknown. The central mystery. The thing that seems so unresolved here.
Ophelia turns to Christopher and says loudly.
“Where’s your wife?”
They all see it.
Christopher Nystrom Sr. has the same highly reactive complexion as his son. The pallor shifts, skin that was furious red, blanches.
For one solitary moment, he looks guilty as all hell.
Then it flips back to anger. He puts a hand on Topher’s shoulder and bodily moves him out of the way. “Out. Now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
