Page 58 of An Amateur Witch's Guide to Murder
Curled on his side with eyes closed, the weight of the past few days somewhat slides off of Mateo. Topher’s nearly free. Sure, there’s a whole murder charge to deal with, but maybe Topher’s rich enough that it’ll just go away. Mateo’s demon thing is seemingly in check too. Nothing’s fixed, but at least it’s no longer actively broken.
These are good things. Great, even. They should mean sleep.
But his brain is trying to relive the past few days in a way he has zero emotional capacity to deal with. Maybe it’s just that the demon can’t relax until Topher’s in this hideous house. Mateo has no idea how long processing takes, but he imagines Topher’s arrival should be any moment now. Quincy hadn’t texted that everyone in jail was dead or anything—he’d have led with that—so hopefully Topher’s brush with incarceration was uneventful and not extremely traumatizing.
“You’re fussing,” Ophelia says, and Mateo tips his head to see her also tipping her head and staring at him.
“You’refussing,” he counters like a child.
“You’re worried about him,” she says, which is a response out of absolutely nowhere. That she means Topher but hadn’t said his name and that he was actually just thinking about Topher makes it embarrassing.
“You’reworried about him,” he counters again like a child.
“I am. I like him. He’s weird,” she admits easily, as if they’re people who admit feelings. She studies his face from her nearly upside-down-to-him vantage point. “Are you heartbroken?”
“Should I be?” He doesn’t mean to ask it, but she’s forcing him off balance with her upsetting eyes. Or maybe being a demon all day did something to his wiring. He doesn’t want her answer. Doesn’t want words put to whatever it is they are to one another. If they never say it, it’s not something else for them to lose.
Her horrible azure gaze studies him critically, mouth tilting into one of her more scathing smiles. “You’re so stupid.”
Something in his chest loosens. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking away from her, admiring the ugly décor. Loving how gray and square and featureless it is.
She takes pity on him just long enough for him to think she’s dropped it. “You like him, too,” she says. Proving she is trying to catch him off guard.
“Totally. His most attractive feature is his bank account, and who doesn’t love a murder rap. If anyone likes him, it’s the demon. It’s beingsoweird about him,” Mateo says with too much forced glibness in his voice. “Why the hell do you think I like him? He’s alright. I’m not saying I hate him or anything. If I were into nervous mice that are ninety percent eyes, he’d be my first pick.”
“You’ve described him as at least seven different animals to me.” She says it like it explains anything, but when he turns and stares at her like she’s the dim one, she adds: “You don’t describe anyone to me. You don’t notice anyone but me. Outfits don’t count.”
Huh.
Floundering for a denial, all he can think of is that he’d even searchedanimals with large eyeson his phone to add to the mental list.
He’s saved from inner reflection—thank fuck—by Ulla walking loudly into the room.
“This is taking too long,” she declares.
Mateo and Ophelia both sit up, dig out phones, check against the clock, but they honestly don’t know what’s too long here.
So they start texting.
And they wait.
And wait.
Mateo even forgoes text for horrible actual call. Six rings and aleave a message. Quincy should have answered. Even if he were driving, he’d have answered. He had that phone-through-speakers thing Ophelia’s car is three decades too old to have. He tries Topher’s cell too, in case it’s back in his possession, but no dice.
He even tries Christopher, but it goes right to voicemail.
No one’s picking up or texting back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Thereisa lot of traffic,” Mateo says, eyes on the red line on his screen representing the cars crawling on every side of Ulla’s white BMW they all ride in. “And an accident.”
Ophelia makes anuh-huhof humoring agreement, and Mateo clicks his phone screen off just to click it on again a few seconds later. They’re traveling the same path Quincy would probably take from the jail to Christopher’s house, though in reverse.
Why?
A vague hope that they’ll spot the other car.
