Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
The Bellwether Municipal Justice Center was one of those low-slung buildings that tried its best to look like a mild-mannered office and failed. The inside smelled of stale coffee and despair. The fluorescent lights hummed a weary, buzzing dirge.
Detective Oseki looked as if she had been carved out of clarity itself.
When she met Goldie in the lobby, not a strand of her immaculate, black hair was out of place, and her slate-gray slacks fell in perfect, deliberate lines.
Even her blouse looked pressed by divine intervention.
Her gaze was razor-clear, like a divination mirror that had already seen the outcome and was just waiting for the world to catch up.
Goldie immediately felt underdressed in the dusty hoodie and leggings she’d thrown on to wrangle the stacks. The fact that she hadn’t even thought to duck home to change said plenty about how off-kilter she’d been lately.
A uniformed officer strode past, broad shoulders squared and jaw set like he was auditioning for a recruitment poster. Goldie’s head tracked him before she could stop herself. Heat flared in her body, traitorous and immediate. She winced and dragged her gaze front again.
Detective Oseki’s lips curved, just barely. “Ms. Flynn. Thanks for coming.” Her voice was smooth as glass. “Let’s head back.”
She guided Goldie down a short hallway into a small, windowless room. Just a bland square box, neutral gray walls, a rectangular table with two straight-backed chairs. But the hum of the overhead light and the discreet eye of a camera in the corner, made the air feel thinner.
“Would you like a beverage?” Oseki asked.
“Coffee, with three creams,” Goldie blurted, too quickly, setting her purse down. “Please.”
“Excellent.” A nod, precise as a blade. Oseki stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Goldie sat. And sat. The chair seemed to calcify under her, harder by the second. Her phone was a lump in her pocket. Was she allowed to take it out? Would it get her arrested for improper use of electronics in a police facility?
Finally, she caved and dug it out. No signal. No one barging in with handcuffs, either, so she considered that a win.
She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Checked her phone again. Twirled a strand of hair until it threatened to knot. Stared at the tabletop, where someone had gouged a scatter of tiny scratches into the laminate.
The handle rattled at last. Goldie sat up straighter so fast her chair squeaked, plastering on a too-bright smile as Oseki swept back in with two paper cups.
“Coffee, as requested.” Oseki slid one across the table and took the other for herself before settling into the chair opposite. Her movements were unhurried and practiced, like a woman who always had more time than you did.
“Thanks,” Goldie exclaimed, wrapping her hands around the cup as though warmth could anchor her.
For a few moments, it was small talk. How long had she worked at the Bellwether library? Was Beltane planning always this chaotic? Had she ever worked with the city archives directly? Oseki’s questions were easy, conversational, but they had a way of circling back, like ripples around a drain.
Goldie answered carefully, leaning on her sparkle, trying not to think about Splice’s note folded in her pocket.
The door opened again and another detective stepped in. “Detective McCutchen,” he announced without preamble.
He was catalog-model good-looking, with a sharp jawline, neatly trimmed auburn hair, and gray eyes that missed nothing as they swept the clearing. But whatever throb of attraction stirred in Goldie wilted the moment she clocked the laptop under his arm and the manila file in his hand.
He gave Oseki a brief nod before setting the laptop on the table. “We need to show you something.”
Goldie’s stomach dropped.
“Perimeter camera. Grove Core. Two nights ago.” Oseki’s tone was flat, clinical.
The footage was grainy, twitchy: hedges rustling, branches swaying. Nothing. Then the frames shifted.
A figure slipped between the trees. Blurred, but human. The robe hem skimmed the ground, the gait familiar: hips cocked, shoulders loose, like a woman gliding toward a party instead of a crime scene.
Goldie’s throat closed.
McCutchen tapped the space bar. The figure turned just enough for light to catch copper curls and cheekbones. Her face.
“Oh, shit,” Goldie whispered.
Oseki’s gaze stayed razor-sharp. “Help us understand, Ms. Flynn. Why were you there?”
Goldie’s stomach flipped. “That’s not me,” she said automatically. The words hit her tongue like ash. Because it was her.
Oseki didn’t answer, only watched her with that calm, measured expression. “Have you been sleepwalking, Ms. Flynn? Any memory gaps? Nightmares?”
Onscreen, the figure—the her-that-wasn’t-her—moved with an unnatural grace. Bare feet pressed patterns into the soil, toes curling as if reading braille written by the land itself. She didn’t walk so much as drift, drawn forward like a marionette pulled by roots instead of strings.
“That’s not me,” Goldie said again, but this time her voice shook.
McCutchen leaned forward, his gray eyes sharp. “We pulled ambient ward readings from the Grove Core perimeter. Residual charm signatures match your magical profile within a ninety-four percent margin.”
“What does that mean? That I glow in the dark?”
The detectives didn’t laugh.
“How do you know Marlow Truckenham?” McCutchen asked, his voice flat.
Goldie’s skin went cold. Her pulse spiked, blooming panic hot beneath the chill. Her robe. Her face. Her magic. It all added up, even though it made no sense. And they were both looking at her like she wasn’t just a witness anymore.
Her hands clenched in her lap. “I want to speak to someone,” she said, her voice wobbling at first, then catching. “If this is an interrogation, I want someone with me.”
“And who would that be?” Oseki’s tone stayed smooth, unreadable. “Do you have legal counsel?”
Goldie’s mouth opened. Then shut. Her mind frantically flipped through its mental Rolodex and came up with exactly two attorneys: Ezra, who specialized in estate planning; and Hollis, Jem’s husband, who did something vaguely administrative and municipal-adjacent. Both very much not criminal law.
Before she could form a coherent sentence, the door to the side office creaked open. A uniformed officer poked her head in, her eyes wide.
“Uh, detectives? Ms. Flynn’s lawyer is here.”
Goldie blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
The officer didn’t answer. She just stepped aside.
Impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit and a silver cravat, Mr. Lyle swept into the room, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in charge. He surveyed the room with the quiet disdain of a god visiting a poorly-maintained temple.
“Ms. Flynn,” he said. He gave a slight nod. “You look well. That is encouraging.”
Goldie’s jaw worked, a thin squeak escaping before she found her voice. “Mr. Lyle?”
He raised a single, gloved hand. “We will talk later, Ms. Flynn. For now, let us tidy this up.”
Detective McCutchen narrowed his eyes. “You’re her attorney?”
Mr. Lyle turned to face him. “I am. Registered in the county of Bellwether and four adjoining jurisdictions, including one that technically no longer exists. Would you like to see my documentation?”
McCutchen sputtered.
With the liquid grace of a magician unveiling a dove, Mr. Lyle withdrew a sleek, black leather folio. He flipped it open with a sound like a snapping twig and presented a series of cards, seals, and one shifting sigil.
Oseki, ever composed, simply raised a single, perfect eyebrow. “Are you on retainer, Mr. Lyle?”
“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “All tenants of Greymarket Towers are provided with legal representation under our Community Continuance and Tenant Preservation Charter. It’s covered in the monthly fees, just after refuse collection and before the line item labeled manifest hazard insurance.”
Oseki hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “There’s no line item for that in the municipal rental code.”
“There would not be,” Mr. Lyle said pleasantly. “We predate it.”
Goldie, still reeling, opened her mouth to ask one of the thousand questions suddenly screaming in her head. Mr. Lyle held up a finger, silencing her.
“Let us clarify the situation. Is my client being charged with a crime?”
Oseki exhaled slowly. “No. We are still reviewing the footage and assessing her involvement.”
“Then she is not under arrest?”
“Not at this time.”
“In that case,” Mr. Lyle said crisply, adjusting his lapels in a gesture of finality, “we shall be leaving.”
McCutchen looked like he wanted to object but couldn’t find a legal handhold. Oseki just nodded slowly, her thoughtful gaze fixed on Lyle.
Mr. Lyle turned to Goldie, the corner of his mouth lifting in the barest suggestion of a smile. “Shall we?”
Goldie stood. Her knees were wobbly, her brain more so, but her relief was tidal. She followed Mr. Lyle out of the room, barely resisting the urge to curtsy.
Outside, the air smelled of old rain and overgrown hedges. Goldie shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as they stepped down the concrete stairs.
Mr. Lyle adjusted his gloves and turned toward the parking lot. “My car is this way. I will drive you home.”
Goldie followed, half-floating. “You have a car?”
“Occasionally. It is less a car and more a summoning with wheels. But it gets the job done.”
They reached an unmarked black sedan that looked like it had been detailed by a mortician. The doors unlocked with a quiet, satisfying click. Inside, the air smelled of expensive leather, dried lavender, and secrets.
Mr. Lyle started the engine and pulled smoothly out of the parking spot. Goldie buckled herself in with fingers that trembled a little more than she liked. “How did you know?” she asked quietly. “That I needed… lawyering?”
Mr. Lyle didn’t look away from the road. “Your Maeve appeared in my office, chewed the nib of my best fountain pen, and began knocking items off my credenza until I paid attention. Which, as you know, is her preferred method of crisis escalation.”
Goldie let out a weak laugh that was half-sob. “She has a real gift for theatrics.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Lyle said. “And when a cat inconveniences itself on behalf of a human, I find it is best to pay attention. I left immediately.”
They drove in silence for a moment, the city blurring past the window. The tension in Goldie’s shoulders started to uncoil, just slightly, under the quiet certainty of being ferried safely home.
She glanced sideways at Mr. Lyle as they idled at a red light.
He looked, as he always did, like he’d been pressed and folded into existence by a particularly stylish god.
The sharp profile, the perfect collar, the salt-and-pepper hair swept back with a precision that made her think of pocket watches and veiled threats.
She had always found him handsome, in an antique sort of way. Like a portrait that might wink if you stared too long. But right now, for the first time in days, she felt nothing. No flutter. No flush. No inconvenient heat blooming in her core.
Which was good. If she’d started getting flustered over her ancient, possibly immortal landlord-slash-attorney, she might’ve thrown herself directly into oncoming traffic.
Still. She eyed him again, just to be sure.
Nope. Nothing.
Mr. Lyle eased the car to a stop at the curb next to Greymarket Towers. The building loomed above them, all lit windows and listening shadows.
“Thank you,” Goldie said, fumbling for her bag.
“Of course.” Mr. Lyle turned toward her, his expression unreadable in the dashboard glow. “But be careful, Ms. Flynn. The murder of a councilmember calls for swift resolution, and with the police in possession of that video, they may decide a convenient villain is already within reach.”
A chill threaded down her spine. “You think they’re looking at me?”
His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “You found the body. You were seen there. You carry the stain of proximity. That is often enough.”
Goldie’s fingers tightened around the strap of her purse. “Then what am I supposed to do? Wait until someone decides the story looks better with me in it?”
For a moment, he studied her. Then, his gaze slid to the looming bulk of Greymarket, its windows glinting like half-lidded eyes.
“The city will write its version,” he said at last. “But Greymarket writes its own. And it watches you for a reason.” His voice dropped lower, almost conversational. “If you wish to understand what it knows… you should ask it.”
Goldie’s breath caught. Before she could demand what that meant, Mr. Lyle’s door clicked open. He stepped out onto the curb with the same unhurried precision he brought to everything.
She scrambled after him, her own door shutting with a thud that felt too final. The weight of his words followed her onto the pavement as they crossed toward the building’s entrance.