Page 70 of For Dear Life

Voices and music come from the rear, and I edge along to investigate who’s here.

Definitely shifters—two men who’ve decided they no longer need their shirts, the pair’s skin and jeans covered in gray dust. Which is Trent? Who’s the other?

One has long curled hair pulled from his face, possibly brown, but the dust streaks it gray; the other guy sports a shaved head. They sing along to their awful music while demolishing a wall with bare hands.

Shifter labor—cheaper than hiring machinery.

Rowan made me promise not to speak to anybody unless absolutely necessary. His definition of ‘necessary’ differs from mine, and I stand, preparing to quiz the pair.

A second set of voices come from inside the building, and I duck back behind the dumpster, watching and waiting for people to descend the still intact wooden staircase. Instead, two men walk through a doorway leading from a room I looked into that they were definitely not in.

A cellar? Blood magic? We need to return at night once we’ve gleaned information from the witch indoors.

I edge back behind the dumpster and watch as the two men approach the shifters.

One’s older—the witch husband from the photograph inside the house? And the other... From the hospital. The one Dorian identified as Adam Woodlake. He may look less officious in khaki cargo pants and a pale green shirt than when wearing the gray suit, but the man scanning his surroundings with a calculating gaze is unmistakably the same witch.

I clutch my phone tighter. I knew there’d be a connection.

Adam greets and then speaks to both shifters as bank notes exchange hands, but disappointingly he doesn’t use their names. They grin and nod as Adam also gestures inside the derelict building, informing the pair he wants the walls that divide two rooms taken down by the end of the day.

My phone fills with images as I point and click.

How long have shifters worked here? Surely a house this size could be demolished quicker than the length of time since Rory died.

But the witch. Excitement surges in my chest. I have proof of a link between the murders. Finally.

As the older witch continues to instruct his shifter workers, Adam walks a short distance away and takes something from his jacket pocket. I’ve barely time to register that the brick-like phone matches the other one I’m carrying before said phone vibrates in my pocket.

My eyes widen as the whisper-silent buzzing continues.

I have my evidence. We need to leave before either witch sees us. My teeth grind. If the witches hadn’t appeared, I could’ve spoken to the shifters and easily extracted more information.

“Maxwell. What the fuck is going on?” asks Adam.

But I definitely need to get away.

“Where were you last night? Your four-legged friend is drawing attention. What the fuck did you to do him?” Adam stares at the ground, pushing at a lump of brick with the toe of his shoe. “If this is because you don’t like the price we agreed, you get nothing. Meet me at the house tonight and sort the situation before I do.”

Rowan can’t move as fast as me and the woman in the house will definitely tell this guy that we visited if I don’t get into the house and mind-wipe her asap.

I’ve now confirmed the message received the other day was for Maxwell. My detective heart fills with joy as imaginary lines connect people in my mind. Now to discover who these two shifters are. They could’ve attended the fire the night Wesley died, as I couldn’t see the whole group in the dim, but they weren’t at Wesley’s memorial with Viggo.

The moment the Adam’s back is turned and he strolls to rejoin the group, I sprint back around the front of the house. No time to call or text Rowan.

I burst back inside to find Rowan chatting to the witch, who’s all smiles—but no photos. Where are his powers of magical persuasion?

Don’t act weird. Don’t act weird. “Your cat attacked me.”

The witch’s smile drops. “Pardon?”

“Vicious creature.” I look at Rowan, wishing for once we had bonded telepathy. As planned, the witch stares at me. “We’re leaving. We never visited you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” she asks.

Good grief. I didn’t factor in the difficulty of mind-wiping a half-deaf witch. “I said, we never visited you. The tea and cookies are for the shifters,” I say loudly. “That’s why there’re three cups.”

“Yes. They don’t usually like my tea, but do enjoy the cookies.” She rises and picks up the tray as I continue to play around with her mind.

---