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“No,” I say softly.

“Ah.”

I’m suddenly tired, so tired. I know how this looks.

I rub my eyes as Nero leans his body against my leg. “Is there any way to fix my notebooks? Some spell that can return them to the way they were?” I ask.

The moment I voice the question, my hope flares to life.

A spell, of course.

Officer Howahkan gives me an inscrutable look. “Maybe,” he says, watching me carefully. “Magic is capable of lots of things.”

I exhale my relief.

“You can check my phone,” I say, eager to give these officerssomething. I grab it and hand it to the officer. “I use it for notes and scheduling all the time.” It’s just not the main thing I use.

“Wehavechecked your phone,” Officer Howahkan says.

Oh.

He looks almost sorry as he adds, “If we’d found evidence on it that proved your innocence, we wouldn’t be sitting here now, having this conversation.”

“Are you planning on arresting me?” I say quietly.

The officer shares a look with his partner. “No,” he finally says. “Not today, Selene.”

CHAPTER39

I don’t spook easily,but I nearly shit my pants after the officers’ visit.

Surely I can be placed somewhere away from the crimes during the time they were committed? I mean, I live in a house with a hundred other women. Someone somewhere should be able to vouch for me.

Officer Mwangi calls in a team to collect what they can of my notebooks’ delicate remains, and once they arrive, I leave the room so they can do their thing.

I have to believe they’ll be able to reverse the damage Memnon inflicted on them.

I descend the stairs to Sybil’s room, Nero following in my wake. I notice a few side-eyed glances from other witches in the halls, and I get the impression word has spread that I am a suspect in the recent string of murders.

The thought of my coven sisters turning on me is terrifying. If any group is good at refusing to persecute others, it’s witches. We’ve been on the receiving end of it too often. But even we witches have our limits. I wonder how close this coven is to reaching theirs.

There’s also the nagging possibility that some of the witches I live alongside could’ve participated in that spell circle. Another terrifying thought.

When I reach Sybil’s door, I can hear her on the other side of it, murmuring.

I knock. When she doesn’t answer, I grab the doorknob and push it open.

I mean, technically, it’s rude to barge into someone’s room, but also technically, Sybil does it to me all the time.

Also, the last time she saw me, I was fleeing her with a mojito in hand, trying to keep all my secrets to myself.

I can’t do it anymore.

When I step into her room, I see Sybil sitting inside a chalk circle she’s made, the soft lilac plumes of her magic swirling around her as she continues incanting a spell in low tones. Nestled along the edge of the circle are lit candles, their flames flickering in time to the rise and fall of Sybil’s voice.

The sight of it reminds me all over again of my burning books and Memnon’s glee. I draw in a deep breath, forcing myself to keep it together.

On the opposite side of the room, Sybil’s owl, Merlin, sits perched on a bust of the veiled maiden that’s nearly been overtaken by the vines growing rampant in her room.