Chapter 8 Delia #2
Back in the car, my hands are trembling, a jittery blend of caffeine and dread.
"So, our killer somehow subdues powerful supernatural beings without leaving a trace, removes their hearts with surgical precision, and disappears without witnesses," Jasper summarizes, with a dry laugh. "Well, that narrows it down a lot.”
Whiskers wiggles his way out of the security of my purse where he’s been riding all day and stretches, back arching like a cat in sunlight. “That narrows it to about eighty percent of the town’s population.”
I sink lower in the driver’s seat, blowing a stray copper curl off my forehead. We have our work cut out for us, but I don’t see today as a total bust. We still got more information than the police.
***
Dusk is settling over our farmhouse like a worn quilt, by time we coast back up the driveway.
The porch light flickers on automatically, the result of a simple enchantment I cast a couple years ago when Jasper complained about fumbling with his keys in the dark.
Inside the house, I set my keys in their ceramic dish and toe off my boots.
"I'll make tea," I announce to Jasper's back as he heads straight for the kitchen table.
He grunts in response, then empties his pockets of the notes we've collected, organizing them in front of him.
Whiskers leaps from my shoulder onto the counter, his toe beans padding along the granite. "Four victims, four missing hearts, zero leads," he summarizes, watching me prepare the cups. "Not our most productive day."
I place a mug of tea near Jasper's hand—chamomile with a dash of honey, the way he's always taken it. He doesn't acknowledge it, but his fingers curl around the warmth automatically.
Some habits run deeper than consciousness.
"We need to visualize this," Jasper says, unrolling a map of Pennington Falls across the table.
I spread our interview notes beside the map while Jasper pins the locations of each murder with pushpins from the drawer. Red for the first victim, blue for the second, yellow for the third. A black pin marks the spot in our pumpkin patch where I found him.
"The locations don't form any pattern I can recognize," I say, leaning closer to study the map.
Our shoulders brush and I jolt away, my skin burning where his touched mine.
The room suddenly feels too warm, too small.
I focus on steadying my breath, but my pulse hammers traitorously in my throat.
A week ago, his fingers had absently traced patterns on my thigh as we read in bed—the last time we'd touched before everything changed.
Now we orbit each other like celestial bodies, close enough to witness each other's gravity but unable to collide.
"The timing doesn't align with any significant magical dates," Jasper notes, "Except for the werewolf killed during the full moon."
"Maybe that's coincidental," I suggest, shuffling through Mrs. Holloway's statement. "The victims don't seem connected beyond being supernatural. Different species, different ages, different social circles."
Whiskers perches at the edge of the table, his red eyes scanning our work. "What about their homes?” The vampire lived in the historic district, the selkie by the lake, the werewolf was staying at the inn, and Jasper—"
"And I live here," Jasper finishes, his finger tapping the black pin. "Miles from town, isolated."
"The killer must have transportation," I say. "They couldn't just walk out here unnoticed."
"Or they can teleport," Whiskers suggests.
Jasper shakes his head. "That would leave magical traces. The sheriff said they found nothing."
Well, there goes that theory.
"Then what are we missing?" I mutter, swirling the tea in my mug.
Jasper doesn't answer right away, just studies the pins as if they might rearrange themselves into a solution.
Whiskers' tail twitches as he paces along the edge of the counter. "There has to be a thread connecting these victims that we're not seeing," he says, his red eyes narrowing at the pins. "Something hiding in plain sight."
I tap my fingernail against my mug, the soft clink punctuating my thoughts. "Maybe we're looking for the wrong pattern. What if it's not what connects the victims, but who? Someone they'd all welcome without suspicion."
“You might be onto something there, witch.” Jasper rubs his eyes, fatigue evident in the gesture. "But I vote we should continue tomorrow. Fresh eyes might see what we're missing."
I nod, my back protesting from a day of tension and awkward car rides. "Sleep would be wise. My brain's starting to feel like one of Mrs. Holloway's overworked sourdough starters."
Jasper transfers the map over to the large wall in the back on the kitchen before gathering our notes into a neat pile, his feet shuffling loudly in his slippers.
"I'll take these with me," he says. "Review them before bed."
The words hang between us, so different from the nights when his fingers would intertwine with mine, tugging me gently toward our bedroom.
He stands, careful not to touch me again, and retreats down the hallway toward the guest room, maintaining the invisible barrier between us that seems more solid than any wall in our home.
"Goodnight, Delia," he says formally over his shoulder. The words aren't warm, but they're the closest thing to kindness I've felt from him since his return.
I'll take it.
"Goodnight, Jasper," I reply, watching him disappear into the shadows.
Whiskers climbs into my lap when I sink onto the couch, his small body warm against my thigh. "He's in there somewhere," the ferret says quietly. "The real him."
My fingers drift to the empty space beside me on the couch, where Jasper used to sit every evening.
The cushion still holds the slight impression of his weight, though it's been days since he occupied it.
I trace the depression lightly, remembering how we used to curl up together here with bowls of popcorn during horror movies, where his arm would drape casually around my shoulders as we planned next season's crops, where sometimes we'd just sit, not speaking, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles.
"I know," I whisper, not entirely convinced. "At least, I hope."
Whiskers presses his warm body against my ankle, a tiny anchor in this sea of silence. The pumpkin patch outside glows silver under the moon's gaze, each gourd a sentinel watching over secrets I can't decipher.
I feel like a failure.
While I sit here, someone in Pennington Falls walks freely, a collection of stolen hearts growing with each victim, and I know that with every hour, the odds only skew worse.
I sip my tea and watch the steam coil above the mug, my eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. Morning will bring another day of searching, another chance to find the thread that ties these murders together. Another sunrise where I'll wake hoping to catch a glimpse of recognition in Jasper's eyes.
For now, I sit in the growing darkness, a witch with a checklist of dead friends, a half-empty mug, and nobody left to warm the other side of the couch.