Chapter 14
fourteen
LIZZY
Calista’s hovering. She’s not much of a talker, but I like the company.
Makes me feel less alone down here. And she doesn’t judge me for rocking out to my Wu-Tang playlist and drinking pinot noir through a straw.
Faster delivery method, I always say. Plus, if you aim the straw right, you don’t end up looking like you spent the day going down on Barney the dinosaur. Win-win.
I’m refreshed, refilled, and ready to head back to the basement when Calista pops up from the stairwell, her eyes wide, hands waving like she’s being attacked by bees.
“Calista! What is wrong with you, girl?”
She keeps on waving and zooms down the stairs, trailing her lavender light. I try to catch up without tripping and busting some vital part of me, which is no easy feat considering the amount of wine I’ve already ingested and the amount I’m trying not to spill from my topped-off glass.
“Hold up a sec!” I pause at the bottom for a quick slurp. And before I’ve even swallowed, I sense it.
I’m not alone.
Someone is the basement. A human, corporeal someone. A man—a stranger, at that. I can smell the try-hard, douche-bro cologne. Dr. Sutherland would never.
The air shifts, the shadows rearranging, and suddenly, there he is, stepping out from behind an old artificial Christmas tree with the lights still on it.
He startles when he sees me, then plasters on a smile and comes closer. He’s an older man, late forties if I had to guess, trying to pass for thirties. He’s dressed in an expensive suit and his hair has too much gel.
I could try to turn and run, but he’d easily overpower me. I have no choice but to stand my ground.
“You have three seconds to convince me not to call the cops,” I announce, trying for threatening, though my words are a little wobbly on account of the wine, and my phone is clear across the room on a shelf, waiting for me to un-pause Wu-Tang.
His smile widens. I feel like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Sorry,” he says with a small bow. The cologne is like some kind of nuclear fallout, my god. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”
“Yes, I can see that. Why the fuck are you down here, pal?”
He looks at me as if I’m being rude or something. Like maybe I should be rolling out the red carpet. “I’m Nathan Killroy.”
The name rings a faint bell, a bell first rung many days and many drinks ago that has therefore become a distant memory teetering on the edge of already forgotten. I squint at him, like maybe that will help jog something loose in my mind.
“Attorney?” He prompts. He’s looking a tad annoyed now. Like, why haven’t you dropped to your knees to kiss my fancy Italian shoes, you insolent peasant?
When I still don’t respond, he huffs and adds, “I’m handling your family’s estate.”
Ohhh. It’s all coming back to me now. The mysterious background-check-approved lawyer.
If my guard wasn’t already up, that sure does the trick.
“Care to explain what you were doing down here snooping through my family’s belongings, Nathan Killroy, attorney?”
He forces a placating smile, but not before I catch the glint in his eyes. Rage, pure and simple.
“Miss Bonnivarde. Elizabeth, if I might—”
“You might not.”
His face contorts uncomfortably, as if he’s trying to simultaneously unclench his jaw and his butthole and failing at both. “I’m afraid we’re getting off on the wrong foot.”
“Tends to happen when you break into someone’s house, dipshit.”
“I’m hardly breaking in. Rachel has tasked me with doing a full inventory in advance of the gala, to see if we might find anything of interest for the event.
The auction draws a number of wealthy collectors…
I’m sure she’s mentioned it to you. I’ve asked that the three of you attend as my guests of honor. ”
It’s very possible she did mention it. Again, many bells rung, drinks, days, etcetera. I take a deep breath. Cast my mind back, fish around a bit… right. The auction. Historical preservation friends. Rich people.
I’m not impressed.
“Mr. Killroy, since when is it appropriate to let yourself in and show yourself around someone’s house? How did you get in here?”
He shrugs. “The storm cellar doors were ajar. I thought I’d poke my head in, see if anyone was up and about.”
“Guess your head poked its way in and rolled, cause here you are, all the way over here.”
His smarmy grin is as shellacked as his hair. “Rachel told me to drop by at my convenience. In fact, I was just about to text her. Trust me, I’m no thief.”
“You know that’s something straight out of the thief’s handbook, right?”
He raises his arms. “Search me if you’d like.”
“What I would like is for you to leave. The next time you have an appointment, ring the doorbell like a fucking gentleman.”
His insincere smile sends a chill right through me. And I’m not just saying that because I’m biased against lawyers. I mean, that’s part of it. But seriously. This guy is a serious dickswab.
Need more evidence? I pointedly ask him to poke his head right back out the way he came, and you know what that little prick says next?
“Now, now, Miss Bonnivarde. There’s no need to be rude. I understand the death of a parent can be a difficult time, believe me. There’s a lot of emotion to process, and we may not always be thinking rationally when our emotions take center stage.”
I’m about to ask him how rational he’ll feel after my foot takes center stage with his nuts, but then I remember I’m trying to be a good witch, not a violent one, so I pretend to lose my balance instead and dump half my wine on his shirt. Alcohol abuse, I know. But totally worth it.
“Ohmygod, sorry! I hope that doesn’t leave a mark. It’s just that it’s really hard to, like, exist and think rationally at the same time. Especially when I’m having all these emotions. You were saying, Mr. Killroy?”
Speaking of emotions… wow. You should see this guy’s fucking face right now. He’s all up in his feels: shock, rage, disgust, a little turned on if I’m not mistaken, which, gross. It’s not just his face, either. I can feel it. His hatred toward me is hot and suffocating, rushing over me in waves.
Well, at least I know my innate power sensors are fully operational, even while I’m heavily under the influence. I’ll have to tell Dr. Sutherland so he can make a note in his fancy leather journal—strong emotional response, confirmed!
Dr. Sutherland. Ugh. Now I’ve got a different kind of heatwave situation going on. Good thing my man Killroy is here to spoil the moment.
“Your sister warned me you were a bit… unbalanced.”
Before I even have time to process that little barb, he steps closer, his shark’s grin glinting. “You’d better watch your step, Miss Bonnivarde. Wouldn’t want your poor sisters to have to endure yet another family tragedy.”
“Are you threatening me?” Fuck being the good witch. I’m about one more emotion from breaking the wineglass and ramming it into his jugular.
“Lizzy? You down there?” It’s Rachel, breezing into the kitchen overhead and saving him from the effort of an answer.
Did she actually call me unbalanced?
“Yep!” I call back, never taking my eyes off him. “Mr. Killroy is here, too.”
“Oh, great! Send him up.”
He glares at me, doubling down on the snake-charmer smile. Combined with the crunchy hair and ruined shirt, he’s definitely in the running for Guy Most Likely To Buy Alcohol For Teenagers In Hopes of Getting a Handjob.
Trust me, I know the type.
“You may have my sister fooled,” I seethe, “but she’ll figure you out soon enough. And when she does, you’d better—”
His hand shoots out and grabs my arm, and the wine glass falls to the ground, shattering. His rage is nearly as overpowering as that cologne. “Careful, Miss Bonnivarde. Very easy to lose one’s footing down here, as we’ve established. Mind the glass.”
He holds my gaze a beat longer to hammer home the message, then finally shoves me away, and off he fucks, buttoning up his suit jacket to hide the stain and trotting up the stairs, his pretty-boy Italian shoes tapping on the rickety old wood.
“What a moldy twat,” I say. Maybe louder than necessary. The twat pauses mid-step, clears his throat, then continues on.
A faint flash from the corner of my eye, and I turn, expecting to see Calista.
But it’s her.
My mother.
She doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
She’s glaring in the direction Nathan Killroy went.
And in her trembling hand, she’s holding a knife.