Page 25 of Bewitched by the Wicked Witch (The Bewitching Hour #4)

Sixteen

Sage

A fter leaving Callum at the coffee shop, I found myself taking the scenic route home when my phone buzzed. I glanced down at the text from Callum:

"Tommy just made some weird comments about Beverly's work schedule - knew way too many specific details."

My mind immediately began churning over the implications.

The timing and specificity felt less like casual knowledge and more like evidence of careful surveillance.The questions followed me home like persistent ravens, nagging at me as I descended into my underground sanctuary.

Cosmo claimed his favorite cushion, but I found myself unable to settle into any productive work rhythm.

Something was bothering me on a level that went beyond the obvious danger currently stalking our community.

After an hour of restless pacing, I finally gave in to the impulse that had been building. I pulled out my laptop and typed in search terms I'd been avoiding: Blackstone car accident eighteen years ago Old Hollows.

The results were frustratingly sparse, a brief obituary that read like a form letter, a single mention in council minutes about replacing my father's advisory position.

For two prominent researchers who had served on multiple committees, their deaths had generated remarkably little documentation.

The absence felt deliberate, like someone had worked very hard to ensure their story remained untold.

Twenty minutes later, I stood on Gran's front porch, watching her tend to herbs that glowed with subtle inner light. She moved among her plants with practiced grace, but there was tension in her shoulders that suggested she was expecting difficult questions.

"Sage, dear! What brings you by so unexpectedly?"

Her smile was warm, but something flickered in her eyes when she noticed my expression.

"Gran, I need to ask you about my parents," I said without preamble.

Her pruning shears paused mid-cut. "What specifically about them, dear?"

"I've been having the most fascinating memories resurface," I said, watching her face carefully.

"About the week before they died. Dad had papers scattered across his desk, symbols and diagrams that looked remarkably similar to the ones we're seeing now.

What are the odds of such a delightful coincidence? "

Gran's expression went carefully neutral. "Your father was a dedicated researcher, Sage. He studied all sorts of historical documents."

"But these weren't just historical, were they?" I pressed, taking a step closer. "They were current research. Recent findings. And he was scared, which was so unlike him. Fear didn't really suit his personality."

She turned back to her herbs, but I could see her hands trembling. "It was such a long time ago, dear. Memory can play tricks?—"

"Oh, how thoughtful of you to suggest I'm delusional," I said with deadpan sweetness. "But I'm not particularly interested in being gaslit today, Gran. Not when young women are disappearing using the exact same symbols I saw on his desk eighteen years ago. The symmetry is almost poetic."

Gran's shoulders sagged, and for a moment, she looked every one of her considerable years.

"Your parents were incredibly good people, Sage," she said quietly. "Everything they did was motivated by a desire to protect this community."

"Protect them from what?" I asked with clinical curiosity. "Or should I say, from whom?"

"From the same darkness we're facing now," she said, finally meeting my eyes. What I saw there sent ice through my veins. Fear. Real, bone-deep terror that could only come from experience. "But some stones are better left unturned, child. Some truths carry a price that's too high to pay. "

"How delightfully ominous," I observed. "More dangerous than letting whoever killed those girls continue their hunting? Because that seems like a rather significant oversight in community safety."

Gran's pruning shears clattered to the stone pathway. "I never said anyone was killed."

The admission hung between us like a spider's web, beautiful and deadly. "How interesting," I said softly. "A Freudian slip, or just the truth finally making an appearance?"

Gran was already turning toward the house, her movements suddenly frail. "I think you should go now, dear. And perhaps you should be more careful about the questions you're asking. Some people don't appreciate being investigated, especially when they have so much to hide."

As I walked back to my car, Gran's warning echoed in my mind with delicious clarity. The pieces of a much larger puzzle were starting to fit together, forming a picture that was becoming beautifully, terrifyingly clear.

My parents' deaths and the current disappearances were connected by something far more sinister than coincidence. And someone in Old Hollows had been keeping that deadly secret for eighteen long years.

How absolutely thrilling.