Chapter 33
She woke several times during the night, each time feeling strangely adrift. The candles continued to burn down within the circle she had neglected to close. She had lost herself in the spell, dreaming of many things.
Of Edie and Rill, of Scoot and Cas. Of Miles, showing her the hidden compartment under the stage at the Lucas Theatre. There was something in it. Not a flask, but one of Rill’s pirate artifacts.
When she finally woke for the last time, she was in her underwear, Edie’s nightgown lying beside her in a wadded ball. She felt light, giddy—like she’d been carrying a huge boulder, and the previous night, she’d finally been able to put it down.
She scrambled up and peered inside the Cotillion gift box, now a mess of black wax, glass, and salt. Scoot’s face in the photograph resembled some kind of swamp creature—half human, half blob.
She stretched, yawned, suddenly craving coffee.
She pulled the nightgown over her head and mounted the stairs to the first floor which was, appropriately for how she felt this morning, flooded with morning light.
In the kitchen, she was greeted with the sight of Miles standing at the coffee maker, mug in hand.
He gave her a wink and filled her a mug. “Some night last night, huh?”
She sipped the coffee. Black. Delicious. Just what she needed. She closed her eyes, inhaling the aroma, willing it to fortify her.
“It was interesting, I’ll say that much.”
“Feeling optimistic?” He looked haggard, almost as exhausted as she did.
“Very.” She leaned over and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and he brightened. “Everything’s going to be okay, Miles, I promise.”
She took her coffee upstairs and fell into bed, sleeping for four more luxurious hours until ten. Still an hour before she had to open the shop for the pedestrian traffic. Around her, the house was silent and pleasingly dim.
She could hear the sounds of summer outside her window. Revelers, drunken partiers, families taking tours, all braving the thick August heat. She showered, washed her hair, and pulled on a pair of denim cutoffs and gray T-shirt, knowing Edie would have tsked her disapproval that it wasn’t a dress.
“Not today,” she said stubbornly to the air. “It’s too damn hot.”
Downstairs, she found the house in order and the kitchen tidied.
Since they’d had their talk, Miles had kept up impressively with the housework.
She really appreciated it, which she should mention.
She should always remember to mention the positive things to him so he would know how important he was to her.
So he would leave her alone about Cas Loeffler.
In case Cas Loeffler ever happened to talk to her again.
She opened the fridge, but the smell of spoiled food made her wrinkle her nose.
She gathered it up and dumped it all in the garbage, putting the plastic containers in the dishwasher.
What she really wanted was a slice of hot pizza.
Olive and tomato and basil, extra cheese, with tons of hot pepper.
And a Coke. And maybe some ice cream afterward.
She would go out and enjoy the sights of the city. Celebrate her spell and making up with Miles. In the front hall, she slid on her battered Converse, Miles’s Braves cap, and a pair of outrageously expensive sunglasses that Sailor had bought her. Grabbing her fanny pack, she headed out.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting at a picnic table in Starland Yard, contentedly munching her way through a piping hot slice. She watched a group of kids at the next table over try to ride their golden retriever while their parents ignored them and drank beer.
Her headache was gone, but even after the initial high of the spell had worn off, she was still feeling strange.
Like she’d taken cold medicine or napped too long.
After she finished the second slice she went and got herself a Modelo.
She sat back down to drink it, staring off into the distance, not seeing a thing. Still foggy and now pleasantly buzzed.
She checked her phone. Nothing from Sailor. Nothing from her sinner. Just two missed calls from Miles.
She called him back. “What’s up?” She tipped back the beer, reveling in the slide of cool tartness down her throat.
“Did you hear?” Miles asked.
“Hear what?”
“About Sailor Loeffler’s mother,” he said slowly.
Ingrid bolted upright, feeling her heart kick into a dissonant, uneven tattoo. Her arms and legs felt weak. She pushed the Modelo away.
“What happened?” She tried to keep her voice modulated.
“She was driving—”
“Last night?” she cut in sharply. It sounded like a cry.
“Yes.”
“She was drunk last night,” she said slowly. “Very drunk. When I was at the house with Sailor.” But Sailor had texted that she went out after that.
Where had she gone?
“Ingrid, I know all that. I’m trying to tell you what Boney told me.”
The children beside her were screaming now, pulling at the dog to get him to stand still for their pony ride. She was shaking.
“Then tell me,” she said brusquely.
“Apparently Scoot was driving, drunk. Out to Tybee, they think.”
“Driving herself to Tybee? She never drives herself. Or goes to Tybee.”
“Regardless, she hit a guy on the sidewalk, Ingrid. A homeless guy. Then she left him and drove into one of the side streets and ran the car off into a ditch.”
Ingrid covered her mouth with her hand. Oh God—oh Goddess, oh Edie—what had she done?
What had she done?
“Ingrid?”
“I’m here.”
“The guy was hurt pretty bad, and the Tybee police arrested Scoot, but the Loefflers’ lawyer set up some kind of deal with the judge. Judge Norwood—”
Judge Norwood. She’d met someone at Sailor’s engagement party by that name. Patti Jo Norwood. She’d had sleek cinnamon hair cut in an angled bob. Lots of hammered silver jewelry.
“Wait, Boney told you all this? How does he know?”
“Sasha told him. She was working a charity breakfast thing at the Norwoods’ house this morning when the judge got the call. One of the caterers overhead him on the phone.”
This was how this town worked. Not only did gossip spread like wildfire through the elite families, it was shot with flame-throwers through other channels as well.
And Ingrid had found the network of servers, Uber drivers, housecleaners, and every kind of underpaid support staff to be uncannily accurate when it came to getting their stories right.
Miles was still talking. “Boney said Sasha said that she heard Rill was going to check Scoot into a hospital.”
Ingrid could barely breathe. In her line of vision, the children were now pulling on the dog, flinging themselves onto its back and falling off again. The poor dog looked miserable.
“Hospital?” she repeated dully.
“A rehab facility,” Miles said. “Like one of those places you go to, so you won’t be charged with anything. In Charleston.”
Her heart was still racing, skittering away in her chest. And now her fingers tingled. She was having a panic attack. She hadn’t had one of those in a long time. Not since the day she’d met Sailor …
“You there?” Miles asked.
“I’m here.” She didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t want to end the call. Along with the jittery, suffocating panic, something else had settled on her. A sudden, deep, devouring terror.
“Ingrid, it’s not your fau—”
“It is my fault,” she cried. “I cast a spell last night—”
“A karma spell,” Miles said.
“She hurt someone. She hit a man with her car,” Ingrid said, her voice desperate.
Her eyes burned, but no tears came out. Her brain began spiraling down new corridors of thought.
It wheeled and switched back, folding on itself.
She was so hot. Dehydrated. Her heart was slamming against her chest now.
The children shrieked. The parents ignored them.
Their own kids. They didn’t even look over in their direction.
A thought surfaced. “How is he? The person she hit?”
He hesitated.
“Miles!”
“He’s, ah … well, he’s in the hospital. Boney said he might be dead; he doesn’t know.”
“Oh no. Oh no. My God, no!” This was a wail. The parents from the next table over sent her annoyed looks. Their kids still pulled at the dog, but now the dog twisted around and yelped sharply.
Something inside her snapped. Ingrid leapt up and in one bounding step was at the group of children, grabbing two of their arms, yanking them away from the dog. “Leave him alone!” Ingrid shouted.
“Hey!” one of the moms said. The man sitting beside her rose up, disentangling his legs from the attached picnic bench.
“Hold up,” he said in a gruff voice to Ingrid. He was still holding his beer can. He glowered menacingly like she’d slapped one of the children instead of pulled them off an innocent dog.
Ingrid’s rage surged, and she released the two children. “Little shits were torturing your dog. Not that you noticed.” She turned and stalked off.
“Hey, bitch,” the man called behind her.
She kept walking, then looked once over her shoulder. He was following her. She rounded on him with a glare. Sent the sign of the horns at him so hard she was surprised lightning bolts didn’t shoot out from her forked fingers.
He pulled up, an incredulous look on his face. “What the fuck?”
She burst into tears, turned, and ran.