Chapter 9

9

I switch our investigations to the Redridge family and their mysterious 'was-he-or-wasn't-he' council member, and we spend the early afternoon in the library.

"The Redridges were a minor witch family," says Rowan. "Wealthy but not influential. Few Redridge witches exist now because their family line and magic was watered down through marrying humans."

"Well, past experience tells me that ‘minor’ means the opposite is true," I say. "Are any Redridges members of the Circle?"

The Circle. Influential witches with more money than they need and a coven with a tendency to look after their own—whatever they've done wrong.

"Nope. You'll need to ask Dorian because I can only find things on public record."

"On witch public record," I say. "I'll mention this to Dorian and ask him to check records too. For now, what's public about the Redridge settlers?"

"There were Redridges in town in the early days, but there aren't any living witches registered locally who are descended from the family. Census records show that the oldest recorded Redridge—Arthur—was a local doctor, but there's nothing connecting him to the founders' council."

"The taxidermist? Hmm. Were there many deaths around that time?" I ask blithely. "Murder disguised as inferior medical treatment? That may explain the whitewash."

"A lot of people died from poor medical treatment back then, Violet. That's how life was for humans. The town library is filled with all that information if you want to check."

"No thanks. I'll stick to your online expertise, Rowan. Besides, the hidden information is what we need. Mr. Argyle slammed his mind closed after the slip up, which confirms to me there's a link. Why would the town's history hide a Redridge witch's involvement?"

"Was this Redridge definitely a witch?" asks Grayson, and Rowan nods. "Did the humans know?"

"Maybe not at first, but I reckon they discovered something was off about Arthur and kicked him off the council," suggests Rowan. "Back then, humans never knew who was or who wasn't a witch unless someone told them—and supes weren't public. Arthur might've used magic that caused problems."

"We've no idea what his connection to the council was," I say. "Hence, we need access to the ledgers, and all historical records. It is now imperative that we locate this mole for our curator friend. The museum contains original ledgers and town settlement documents. If a Redridge was involved, he'd be mentioned at least once. Even photographed, if we're lucky."

"Any Redridges at the academy today?" asks Grayson.

"No. And no past Thornwood academy students either. Maybe the old Nightworld academy, but the fire claimed all the student records."

I run over the plans in my mind. Find mole. Return to curator. Get information from his books. Discover the connection.

"Look up the surnames of all Redridge descendants," I tell Rowan.

"There're dozens! Family trees are big, Violet."

"And?"

He sighs. "I have found a photo of a watch that's likely to be the Redridge one. The exhibit wasn't important enough to feature in the museum's overpriced guide book, but I've found a newspaper report from the time the Redridges donated items a couple of years ago."

I turn the laptop around. Several items are laid out on red velvet—the box, one of the diamond necklaces from the same cabinet, and a gold pocket watch attached to a gold chain with large links.

"No inscription on the front of the watch. There're a couple of indents at the top and bottom. Damage maybe? Or could be a bad photo?" Rowan clicks on another. "The watch open—again, nothing special. Ordinary numbers and no magical inscriptions on the clock face or casing."

"Any pictures of the back?" I ask.

He nods and shows us. "One. No markings."

"Not much to go on. If we focus on the mole and look more closely at the Redridges, perhaps the connection will become apparent. Any luck with the photos depicting the mole's activities?" I ask Rowan.

His eyes brighten, and he shoves a hand into his hair, as he always does when about to announce something useful. Good.

"I ran a few through photo enhancing software," he says, "And Holly took a look at the backgrounds in case she recognized someone's house. Like I said, the thieves were careful, but I've found a picture that sort-of has somebody in."

"Sort of?" I purse my lips. "A visible body part?"

Rowan shakes his head. "Here's Marvin in the café by the mall." He zooms in on an image where Marvin sits at a table in the window enjoying chocolate cake.

"The cafe? Then several people must've seen who took the photo. The place is popular."

"Look at the window. It's dark outside and the café shuts at six. Marvin visited when the cafe was closed."

"Broke in?" asks Grayson.

"Maybe. But there's another possibility—one of the mole-knappers works at the cafe and photographed Marvin after work," suggests Rowan. "Therefore, someone he or she knows must work there."

"Oh." My eyes widen. "Which of Kai's friends does the cafe employ?"

"No clue, but we can ask Holly?" suggests Rowan.

"Good plan." I stand. "What next? More research into Redridge?"

"I haven't finished what I wanted to say, Violet," says Rowan, and Leif arches a brow at his irritated tone. "When I said there's 'sort-of' someone in the picture, I meant this."

I sit beside him, our arms touching as he shows me the zoomed-in image. "The thieves were careful not to reflect themselves in the window as they took the picture, but right in the corner, someone is standing to one side and is just visible."

Leif twists the laptop towards himself and peers. "We can't see much. A guy. Tall. Can't even see what he's wearing."

"A blazer," Rowan says. "Plain not striped—local school, not Thornwood."

"How can you see that?" Leif asks.

He clicks a few buttons, then shows a duplicate of the image with more detail—not much, but enough to show the guy's clothes and that he has short hair.

"This confirms the theory that the kids from the high school took the mole." I tap the table. "Who visited that day?"

“All of the Sixth Form kids took part in the excursion."

"Including Kai and his idiot friends?" I ask.

"Totally something he'd do," remarks Grayson. "Whoever's in charge of the mole and his adventures needs total trust in those helping him—Kai has a lot of influence."

"On my suspect list from the start." I take my phone from a pocket. "I'll meet with Holly and see if she knows anything about local student employment at the cafe."

"And we talk to Kai?" suggests Grayson.

"And warn him that we know?" I ask. "No. That will need to wait until my meeting with the curator."

"What meeting? When?" asks Rowan sharply.

"I told Leif I intended to speak to him."

" Speak to. When did you arrange the meet up? We're returning the box today."

I look between my three guys, resting my gaze on Rowan last. "I'm not telling you all to come."

Grayson glances at Rowan, whose energy became decidedly frosty. "No plans without discussing first, Violet."

"I've had no response from the man," I say crossly. "If I did, I'd bring up the situation for discussion."

"Discussion or instructions?" asks Rowan tersely.

"Both."

A silence follows, and none of the guys speak, which I take advantage of. "Thank you for your work on the photos. I'm glad we have somewhere to look and someone to look into ."

"No going anywhere alone, Violet," warns Grayson.

"As if," I retort. "Leif?" He looks up from where he's studying—and I swear laughing—at the mole's Instagram pictures. "Talk to Pippa and ask to see her research on the town founders. We can compare to whatever the curator tells us."

"Why me?"

I tuck my phone away. "Because she's one of several girls who have an apparent fascination with your person, and she avoids me. In fact, I've seen her change direction when walking towards me."

"She's not the only one who does that, Violet," says Rowan, and I slice him a look.

"But I barely speak to Pippa usually," says Leif. "She avoids me too."

"Pippa has a crush on you," says Grayson. "And knows you're with Violet, which is why she avoids talking to you."

"Good point," I say, looking between Rowan and an open-mouthed Leif. "Rowan, you speak to them. None of the girls in her group have any attraction to you, therefore they won't worry about repercussions from a jealous girlfriend."

"I'm just not hot enough, huh?" asks Rowan.

"Most of those particular girls prefer to date individuals who're physically superior over those intellectually talented," I reply. "You're intelligent."

"Wow," he mutters. "Good thing you like physically inferior guys, Violet."

Leif clears his throat and gives me a stern look. Oh, good grief. Rowan always takes comments like this the wrong way. "You're not inferior, merely average compared to some."

Grayson chokes a laugh.

"Right." Rowan stands and closes his laptop. "Glad we cleared that up."

"Violet," whispers Leif and inclines his head at Rowan who's now focused on bagging his laptop. "Choose better words."

I catch his hand as he zips the bag. "Rowan. I apologize. I was unaware that your position on the scale of physical desirability amongst your vapid peers bothers you that much. I'm merely pointing out a comparison between male teens in general, not expressing a preference. I'm perfectly satisfied with all your attributes. Those are partially what endear me to you and also the reason I share your bed on occasion."

Silence descends, and Rowan's lips remain thin. "Your explanations never quite make up for the insults," he says eventually.

Grayson claps Rowan on the shoulder and chuckles. "Mate, aren't you listening? Violet says you satisfy her."

"That's not quite what I—" But I stop myself. I'm slowly learning why people get tetchy with my plain speaking, and I dislike it when this upsets any of the guys. If Grayson twisting my words helps, so be it.

Relationships.

They're a mystery I'm unlikely to untangle, understand, or solve soon.

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