Chapter 3
A stout officer with dark, slicked-back hair and a no-nonsense navy aura was the first to arrive on the scene. He looked like a decent guy, steady and grounded, but Wickham grumbled.
“I can’t believe it… Officer Herrera. Rotten luck.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering just how many times Wickham had been in trouble with the law. “Did he bust you for throwing wild parties and trashing hotel rooms?”
“Funny. No. But he had it out for me a while ago. There was an incident at Pemberley. So, I don’t understand why Officer Herrera is here. It’s at least a two-hour drive.”
Officer Herrera got out of his squad car, and the faint shimmer of his aura pulsed around him. He marched toward us, boots crunching over the icy pavement. “Well, of all the people I didn’t expect to see again. George Wickham, what are you doing in Austen Heights?”
Wickham unrolled his window the rest of the way, and chuckled softly, playing it cool. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Officer Herrera. I thought you worked southeast of here. No?”
“The city near Pemberley has an excellent children’s hospital.
So, I took up a post there while our son had surgery for a heart condition.
I was born and raised in Austen Heights.
” It was true—I’d seen Officer Herrera at town events.
The woman and adorable toddler occasionally with him must have been his wife and son.
“Sorry to hear about the heart condition. I hope he’s okay.” Wickham’s expression softened, his own green aura dimming slightly in sympathy.
“He’s fine now.” But Officer Herrera didn’t warm up to us. In fact, he stiffened as he scribbled in his notepad, the edges of his aura tensing like a tight string. "You said there’s a body in the amphitheater? Who is it?”
“Alex Adler. He’s the band manager for my group, the Grey Doors.” Wickham gestured toward the amphitheater. We got out of the Jeep and started in that direction.
“We just got back from our date and found him like this,” I tried to explain as we reentered the backstage area. “It was terrifying.”
“And who are you?” Officer Herrera acknowledged me for the first time. A ripple of curiosity flickered through his aura when I spoke my name.
“Oh, I’m Lydia Bennet.” I attempted to present my most innocent face, even though I’d done nothing wrong.
“Bennet? Any relation to the Cupid’s Confections owners?” His eyes narrowed.
“My parents own it.” I shrugged, remembering Mom’s recent legal issues and wishing I’d stayed quiet.
“Hm.” Officer Herrera huffed. “They make good butter croissants. Your mother, though…”
I stayed silent. Defending her character while standing near a dead body felt counterintuitive.
Once inside, Wickham flipped on the lights, and we found Alex exactly as we had left him. A faint shiver of residual negative energy clung to the room like a whisper.
“Poor guy’s gone all right,” Officer Herrera said, his upper lip curling. “Smells bad, doesn’t it? This doesn’t look good for you, Wickham.”
Wickham looked at me as if to say I told you so. “We suspect it was accidental.”
“Really?” Officer Herrera rolled his eyes.
“Come on, that’s not accidental. I don’t need forensics to confirm that.
” He circled the scene, the faint blue shimmer of his aura brushing against Alex’s lifeless form.
“People don’t accidentally pour a bucket of water on the floor, take off their shoes, and step into the puddle with a live wire. Someone murdered him.”
“Our being here is coincidental, but somehow everything that happens gets pinned on me.” Wickham’s fists tightened, and a low pulse of his green aura throbbed with tension.
A pit formed in my stomach. This didn’t look good for either of us.
As Mrs. Bennet’s daughter—since she was recently questioned in a murder investigation—I wasn’t exactly a credible witness.
Within minutes, several more officers arrived. Wickham and I waited as faint swirls of energy passed over the floorboards, stirred by the officers’ presence, before Officer Herrera finally debriefed us.
“Okay, Wickham, you’re coming to the station with me for questioning. Ms. Bennet, Officer Franklin is going to drive you home.”
I gulped and threw my arms around Wickham, whispering in his ear, “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be all right. I promise.”
He stepped back, delicately brushing a lock of hair from my face. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” His aura dimmed slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of my fear.