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But I end up telling her everything anyway.

* * *

The rest of the coven finds out only a few hours later, while Sybil and I watch a baking show on her laptop, the two of us still nestled in her bed.

It’s impossiblenotto know about this latest murder, considering the number of forensic specialists I’ve heard tromping up and down the stairs, undoubtedly heading into and out of my room to collect and catalog evidence.

Eventually, I drag myself out of Sybil’s room, taking a pen and a few sheets of lined paper so I can attend classes today and take notes.

I don’t know why I bothered to attend today; I sit there and robotically scribble down everything my instructor says. I don’t really process any of it, my body tired, my brain fuzzy.

Why did I have to go out into the Everwoods like some sort of junior detective? I shudder when I think about Nero wandering in that forest alongside a murderer, one who practices the dark arts.

Toward the end of class, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.

Forensics is done with your room. You can return.

Relief and trepidation flood my system.

After class ends, I head back to my house, running my hand over one of the stonelamassuas I walk up to my front door. Once I enter, my heartbeat quickens.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just my room. I’m ready to be reunited with my things.

I head up the stairs and down the hallway, the rooms in my wing of the house awfully quiet. Usually, there’s laughter, or shrieking, or animal vocalizations from my coven sisters’ familiars.

When I get to my door, I hesitate, remembering the blood on my sheets.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, I grab my knob and turn. Opening my door, I step inside, and almost immediately, my nose scrunches at the smell of disinfectant and the layers of faded magic still clinging to my room.

The blood has been scrubbed away from the windowsill and floor, and my bed has been stripped completely—someone’s even performed a sanitizing spell—but I can still sense the faintest traces of dark magic.

The room feels less inviting than when it was bare of all my things.

I blow out a breath.

There’s only one thing to do.

Clean.

* * *

It takes several hours to scrub, bless, and ward my room to my satisfaction. Once it’s done, I order myself a new comforter and sheet set, wincing inwardly when I realize I charged more on my credit card than I have in my account.

And I still have to buy Nero more food.

I rub my forehead, a throb building behind my temples. The thing about being poor is that you’re always one minor problem away from ruin.

The comforter was my minor problem.

I log on to my bank account and count how long I have until I need to pay my bill.

Twelve days.

My stomach twists with unease. Twelve days to figure something out before I officially go into debt.

I scrub my face, feeling lost.

There was something though, wasn’t there? Some solution to fix this?