Page 56 of Witch and Tell

“Lalena, you know me. Am I that sort of person?”

She glanced at the carpet, then disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she held a deck of tarot cards. She closed her eyes and pulled one. Whatever she saw on the card relieved her. “The priestess. Either you’re telling the truth or you’re a witch.” She laughed. “Or both.”

“Ha ha,” I said. If she only knew. “I thought you didn’t believe in tarot cards.”

“It was a tiebreaker,” she replied.

“You think we can help,” Ian said. “How?”

I shook my head. “Maybe Tyrone’s—Byron, as you know him—death is related to his, um”—I glanced at Lalena—“work in Baltimore.”

“She knows,” Ian said. “I explained why I had to leave.” Lalena looped an arm around his shoulders. “Go on.”

“He was some kind of criminal kingpin. Surely he had enemies,” I said. “Maybe one of them followed him here. Maybe it’s someone you’d recognize.”

“It’s possible,” Ian said. “Byron was a bad dude. Really twisted. I don’t know anyone, though, who’d be stupid enough to track him down. Once he was out of their life, they’d leave him be. I know I would.”

A car crunched up the gravel drive that formed the spine of the Magnolia Rolling Estates. Lalena got up to look out the window. “It’s the sheriff’s office. They’re going to my house.” She dropped the curtain and swiveled to face me. “I bet they’re looking for you, Josie.”

That was fast. My heart froze in my chest. The noose was tightening. Somewhere, Beata was laughing.

“They’ll stop here next,” Ian said.

Lalena’s eyes widened. “Josie, hide.”

Chapter Thirty

Ian gestured down the hall. “First door on the left.” Ian’s second bedroom was kept as an office. The room held a table and stacks of boxes ready to be taped together and sent full of books to customers.

I slipped open the closet doors and flattened myself against a wall, closing the doors after me. I slowly slid to the floor and drew my knees to my chest. All around me, Ian’s stock of books murmured words of comfort, but my pulse beat faster than Wanda’s flamenco records.

Truth will prevail, one book whispered. Its author had liked clichés. I hoped this one was true.

Live out your life in truth and justice,quoted a work by Marcus Aurelius.

The doorbell rang. A sheriff’s deputy was here.

Outside of the books’ encouragement, I couldn’t hear much. My side touched the trailer’s outer wall, and snatches of conversation reached me. Sounds of sniffing—Sailor—came from just outside the door. He let out a friendly bark.

“Hush, Sailor,” I whispered, eliciting another playful yip. This was not time to play.

“Sailor,” Lalena shouted from the other room, “stop barking at your toy. I’ll get it out in a moment.”

His collar jangled as he left the guest room. I dropped my jaw to breathe more quietly through my mouth, and although my knees ached in my crouched position, I didn’t dare move.

After a few minutes, the front door closed. Then came the sound of a car starting up—presumably the deputy, leaving. Still, no one came to release me. I silently praised Ian’s and Lalena’s prudence.

At last, Lalena slid open the closet door. “All clear, but stay away from the windows.”

“What did they say?” I bent to stretch my achy back and legs, then followed Lalena to the living room, where I sat well away from view.

“It wasn’t Sam—it was some other deputy, looking for you. She didn’t say much. When I suggested you’d be at the library, she said Sam was up there now.”

Soon he’d be searching my apartment. I remembered the underwear and bras hanging to dry in my bathroom. That was the least of my problems.

“In other words, if I’m spotted, I’ll be arrested for murder.”

No one spoke. They didn’t need to.