Page 30

Chapter Thirty

As we drove through the village, I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. I’d not had the best of sleeps last night with the echoes of the day’s high emotions rippling through me, and I still hadn’t had my early morning coffee fix.

I didn’t realise quite how much I needed caffeine until the days when I didn’t get it and my temples started pounding and my eyes needed matchsticks to hold them up. If coffee ever became sentient, I would immediately pledge my allegiance and fight for its cause. But there was no chance I was going to ask Yanni if we could swing by Sonny’s to pick up a takeaway; time was of the essence and Mrs D was still locked up.

As the police car rumbled down the lanes, I thought about all the other tasks that I still had to do. I was no closer to solving the original problems Maddie had asked me to return to Witchlight for. Other than getting thrown out of Old Jacobson’s house and realising he had a serious amount of magic, plus learning Fraser Banks was ludicrously rich, and handing over that mysterious bank account number to Donovan, I was treading water and moving nowhere fast.

The reminder spurred me to send Donovan a quick text: This is urgent. Please update when you can. Also, if you have any miraculous investigative breakthroughs, now would be an excellent time to share.

With that done, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Much as I wanted to focus on the Flame, finding Warren’s murderer had to take priority. Hopefully his ex-wife would give us some much-needed clues.

Angelica Loren, formerly Storcrest, lived in an exclusive development on the edge of the village: twelve luxury houses that, according to the large sign outside the gated community, came with open-plan living areas, hot tubs in the gardens and prestigious views. It hadn’t existed when I’d lived here and I was surprised the council had given permission for buildings of that size, but I supposed needs must. Magical people needed somewhere to live and Witchlight Cove was one of the loveliest places for them to do that. Big houses also meant that these magical residents had money. I wondered if Banks had built the development .

‘Come on,’ I said to Eva as I opened the car door. ‘Let’s go.’ Immediately, she pointed her nose toward the house and gave a low growl. ‘Hey, what’s got into you?’ I asked. She didn’t move and growled again.

‘Is she a trained police dog?’ Yanni asked, eyeing Eva with the same curious caution as me.

‘She’s come with me on a lot of cases, but nothing formal,’ I replied.

Yanni nodded grimly. ‘Well, I don’t like that reaction and I trust her after she found Warren. Stay behind me, will you?’ She pulled out her revolver, holding it ready as we approached the front door.

I felt pretty useless: I wasn’t carrying a gun and I regretted having next to no magical skill. That was a regret that stayed with me regardless of the situation, together with many others like not studying for a practical degree. Wearing shoes that pinched my toes. That time I’d once waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at me. Still, I let Yanni take point. This was her gig, after all.

She knocked once. Although it wasn’t the most forceful of knocks, the door swung inwards. She looked at me and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: an unlocked front door wasn’t a great sign.

‘Hello? Mrs Loren?’ Yanni called. ‘Witchlight Police. We’d like to ask you some questions.’

Eva growled again and tried to push in front of me. ‘No. Stay back, girl,’ I said firmly.

I might only have minimal magic but if something happened I was more likely to survive than Eva was.

‘Stay close,’ Yanni murmured to us as we stepped inside.

The house seemed to pulse with tension. ‘Mrs Loren?’ Yanni called again. Nothing. Not a sound.

The house epitomised fashionable minimalism: white marble floors, whitewashed walls, a couple of bright art prints, a clean white kitchen island and a large white sofa. It was the kind of place that screamed ‘wealth’ but also whispered, ‘No one is allowed to have sex on the sofa.’ It didn’t exactly give off a homely vibe – and it didn’t offer many places for someone to hide. At that moment, that was something I was grateful for.

‘Upstairs?’ I whispered. Yanni nodded.

As we crept up the stairs, we continued calling Angelica’s name. I tried to home in on any emotions because I assumed that if a murderer was hiding somewhere, their emotions would be strong enough for me to feel even without any connection. But there was nothing. Either they could cloak their emotions or we were alone in the house .

We cleared the rooms one by one. ‘She’s not here,’ I said unnecessarily. ‘Do you think she hasn’t come back from her dance class yet?’

Yanni shook her head. ‘The front door was open. So was the back.’

I hadn’t even noticed that, I’d been too busy sweeping outwards in search of feelings. ‘She went out the back when we came to the front door?’ I queried. If she had, that smacked of guilt.

Yanni didn’t respond; even when evidence was staring her in the face, she seemed reluctant to speculate. ‘Come on, let’s go back downstairs,’ she said finally.

As we passed the last room before the stairs, I hesitated. It was a small office with a dark wooden desk and a laptop. That was what had caught my eye. ‘The screen is still on,’ I said. Normally, if you left a laptop for a while it went to sleep but this screen was still active. Had someone been typing a few minutes ago then heard our car pull in and fled? Unless the owner had turned off the screensaver, but what kind of fool did that?

‘Yanni,’ I said, moving toward the computer. ‘Come and look at this.’

‘What is it?’ She came in to look over my shoulder.

‘She left her emails open,’ I said.

Yanni’s brow furrowed as she studied the screen. ‘No. That’s Warren’s email account. The address is W. Storcrest.’

I stared at the email address at the top of the page. She was right. ‘Why would his ex- wife have access to his emails?’ I asked slowly.

‘I’m not sure.’

Mrs D’s words echoed in my mind, how the emails cancelling Warren’s donations hadn’t sounded like him. ‘What if Warren didn’t write the email to Mrs D? What if Angelica cancelled his donations so that she could siphon off some extra money?’ I couldn’t contain the flutter of excitement in my chest. ‘That would give her a motive for murder, wouldn’t it?’

Yanni pursed her lips. ‘It’s pure speculation, Beatrix. That’s all it is.’

But I wasn’t so sure. I finally had something to go on that suggested Mrs D wasn’t to blame for Warren’s murder. And I was going to prove it.

One way or another, Angelica was about to realise that secrets don’t stay buried forever – and neither do guilty consciences.