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He stops on a particular day and studies the notes I have written down.

“There’s nothing here that covers the time of the murders,” he says.

“I have other planners,” I respond. I usually have several going at once. This is just my most functional one. “I don’t have them with me, but I could bring them here if you need them.”

My nerves fray as it settles in: I’m a suspect in a murder investigation.

The officer slides the planner aside. “Let’s move away from Miss Evensen’s case for a moment, shall we?”

I exhale, then nod.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen one of these murdered witches, is it?” he says.

I tilt my head a little as Officer Howahkan flips through the papers on his clipboard and taps something he sees. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He grabs a pen and again taps the sheet of paper he’s looking at. “I see here that you were interviewed at the scene of one of the other murders.”

My breath catches as I remember there was something with Sybil. I have a murky memory of crime scene tape and the forest around Henbane, but as I reach for more, I…I think I might’ve seen something, but maybe my mind is just making that up? I can’t be certain.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I—” The spells on the room won’t allow me to say I don’t remember because, technically, I do have a little memory. “I think there was something in the woods behind Henbane—I remember the yellow tape—but there’s really not anything else.”

“So this memory is gone too?” His gaze is steady on me, steady and accusing. “That seems awfully convenient.”

“No,” I respond, “considering we’re talking about clearing my name, I’d say it’s ratherinconvenient.”

Officer Howahkan’s eyes continue to linger on me for a beat too long before his attention returns to his papers. “It says here that you and a woman named Sybil Andalucia were jogging on a trail that bisected the crime scene. One of my colleagues stopped and questioned you.”

I’m at the mercy of those notes; I have no recollection of the incident.

I lift a shoulder. “My friend and I sometimes go for a morning run.” When we’re feeling particularly empowered—or self-punishing. “But I don’t remember that one in particular.”

“Hmm,” he replies. “Seems as though you were in the wrong place at the wrong time on two different occasions,” he says.

A sick feeling churns in my stomach at the underlying insinuation—that maybe this was no coincidence at all.

This is just what investigators do, I try to tell myself.They press at cracks, knowing only the suspicious break.

Except memory loss makes me particularly brittle, guilty or not.

For a moment, I peer into the dark spots of my own mind, questioning myself. I cannot know what I have forgotten.

Officer Howahkan must sense the direction of my thoughts because he sets his clipboard aside and leans forward, folding his hands in front of him. “Ms. Bowers, I am going to ask you a hypothetical question. This is not an accusation; I am just curious: Could it be possible you were involved with these deaths and simply don’t remember?”

The mere thought makes the room tilt. I feel light-headed and queasy with unease.

I shake my head, forcing down my rising panic. “That’s not who I am,” I say hoarsely.

“How do you truly know?”

How do you truly know?

I rub my arms, his words making me feel dirty from the inside out. “My mind and my conscience aren’t the same thing. I can forget what I’ve done without forgetting who I am.”

Of course I didn’t kill those women.

But you might have killed some last night, my mind whispers.And Memnon may be finishing the job right at this moment.

“Am I being accused of murder?” I say softly, my insides all twisted. “Because if I am, I need a lawyer.”