Chapter 11
Tessa smoothed her dress as if she could iron out the tremor in her hands. “I know we need to talk about this, and probably make an official report, but I need a few minutes.” But her voice cracked on the last syllable, and she made her escape with none of her usual predatory swagger.
Bryant watched her go, then turned back to Grace. “Did you see who did it?”
Grace shook her head, wishing she had. “There wasn’t anyone there. Not really. It was… a shadow. A pressure. Like someone pushed her, but from inside the air.”
Bryant’s face darkened, but he kept his voice low, almost gentle. “You think it’s the same as before? The stage?”
She nodded, grateful he didn’t bother pretending it was a coincidence. “The feeling was the same. It’s not an accident, Bryant. Someone’s doing this on purpose.”
He processed that for a moment, then exhaled hard.
“Who would want to kill Tessa Monroe?” he mused, half to himself.
Then, louder: “Actually, scratch that. Who wouldn’t?
She’s made a career out of ruining people’s lives.
She called the mayor’s wife an embezzler once, and she didn’t even have the facts straight.
Just ran the story and let the town eat her alive. ”
“Wow,” she said. She got the sense that Tessa wasn’t the greatest, but hearing how mindlessly cruel she was shook something inside Grace.
Bryant’s gaze drifted down to the dance floor, where Tessa had disappeared. “It doesn’t feel like normal revenge,” he said, quietly. “This is… showy. Risky. Like whoever’s doing it wants everyone to see.”
Grace replayed the vision in her mind, the static charge, the almost physical force of the push. “It wasn’t human, Bryant. Not just a person, I mean. This was… magic. Or something close to it.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look surprised.
“Yeah, I figured,” he said. “Whoever did this had to get the spell, or whatever it was, from somewhere. Most of the witches in the Hollow keep tabs on their wares. Even if you’re talking about some black-market stuff, which we probably are, there’s a trail. ”
“Unless it’s one of the witches,” Grace said.
Bryant’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This town’s got too many of those.”
Grace let that hang in the air. It was too big to process all at once.
He squeezed her shoulder, less forceful this time. “We should find Tessa. Keep her close. If they’re really after her, she’ll be safer with us.”
Grace hesitated, but nodded. “She won’t like it. I barely know her, and I know that.”
“Let me handle her,” Bryant said. “You find your friends, make sure everyone else is accounted for. I’ll catch up once I’ve wrangled the world’s worst reporter.”
He offered a crooked smile, and she managed a weak one in return.
The main hall of the Parker Estate was even more packed than before, the music louder, the conversations louder still.
Grace scanned the crowd, looking for the flash of Anna’s green dress or the glare of Caroline’s sequined jumpsuit.
She spotted them near the dessert buffet, plates loaded with cake and what looked like homemade peppermint bark.
Grace navigated the crowd, past a trio of high schoolers taking selfies under the mistletoe and a clutch of tourists arguing about whether the mayor’s hair was real or a particularly festive toupee.
At the buffet, Anna and Caroline were locked in debate over which flavor of truffle was best, while Olivia Brooks surveyed the spread with the precise, appraising look of someone plotting a heist.
Anna saw Grace first and waved her over. “You missed the drama. Caroline tried to seduce the pastry chef for a secret cake recipe, but he turned out to be gay.”
Caroline scowled, but it was mostly for show. “If you want a town full of secrets, try getting a baker to share his buttercream ratios. Those people are cultish.”
Olivia nodded in agreement, selecting a delicate meringue and popping it into her mouth. “Everything good up there?” she asked, her tone unreadable.
Grace shook her head. “Not exactly. There was an… incident. With Tessa Monroe.”
Anna’s smile faded. “Like, a vision?”
“No. Real life. Someone tried to push her over the balcony. We stopped it, but—” She shrugged, not sure how to finish. “It was magic. I know it sounds—”
Caroline put a hand on her forearm, uncharacteristically serious. “Honey, if anyone in this room believes you, it’s us. Did you see who did it?”
Grace shook her head. “Just a shadow. A feeling. Bryant thinks we need to keep an eye on Tessa, at least until we figure out who’s behind it.”
Olivia sipped her wine, her eyes narrowing. “You want us to help?”
“Please,” Grace said, surprising herself with the urgency in her voice.
Caroline straightened, rolling her shoulders. “I’ll make a pass around the ballroom. If anyone’s acting weird, I’ll know it.”
Anna looked at Grace, then to Olivia. “We’ll cover the bar and the garden. If she’s hiding, that’s where she’ll be.”
The three dispersed, fanning out into the crush of bodies and sound. Grace lingered for a moment, watching the chandelier light refract off Caroline’s hair, the green of Anna’s dress a beacon even as she vanished through a side door. Olivia, ever the shadow, disappeared entirely.
Grace turned her attention to the problem at hand. If she were Tessa, wounded pride and all, where would she go? Not back to the main floor, where everyone would see her shaken. Not to the bathrooms—too exposed. Probably somewhere she could regroup, nurse her wounds, and plan a counterattack.
She started down the corridor toward the catering wing, a hunch guiding her more than anything else.
The air here was cooler, the noise dropping away with every step.
She passed a series of coat closets, then a set of double doors labeled “Staff Only.” Through the glass she could see a flurry of white aprons and chef’s hats, the kitchen staff in full triage mode.
She hesitated, then pushed through.
Inside, the kitchen was a fever dream of motion.
Cooks barked orders, platters came and went, the air thick with the smell of butter and scorched sugar.
At the far end, Grace spotted a flash of white.
Mayor Whitaker, sleeves rolled up, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, browbeating a pastry chef with the fervor of a man who believed his place in the food chain was directly above “everyone else.”
He was in mid-diatribe when Grace arrived. “If you can’t manage a simple slice, then maybe next year we let the animal shelter cater the event. I’ve seen a Labrador cut a cake more evenly—”
The chef, red-faced and sweating, tried to explain. “Sir—”
Whitaker grabbed a knife from the counter, brandishing it with a flourish. “What is the knife too dull? Is there some union rule against sharp edges?”
He pressed the blade down onto the quiche with exaggerated force, intent on making a point. Instead, the blade slipped, and he gashed the pad of his thumb. A spurt of blood arced across the counter, dotting the pastry and the mayor’s lapel in a single, perfect line.
For a second, no one moved. Then Whitaker let out a spectacular string of expletives and clamped the wound with his napkin.
Grace felt the vision wash over her. A flash from the file Bryant had given her, the blood, the party, the sharp sting of something gone wrong. Only this time, it wasn’t fatal. Just messy.
The kitchen staff sprang into action. Someone produced a first-aid kit, someone else fetched ice, a third called for a Band-Aid in a tone of voice usually reserved for four-alarm fires.
Whitaker accepted the care, blustering all the while, but Grace could see the humiliation etched deep in his features.
She slipped out before anyone noticed her, ducking back into the corridor. The taste of iron lingered at the back of her throat, a phantom echo of the vision.
She tried the next logical place, the side garden, where earlier she’d glimpsed strings of lights and a few desperate smokers escaping the heat of the party. The French doors opened onto a terrace, the cold biting at her bare shoulders.
She hugged herself, stepping out into the darkness.
The garden was empty, save for a row of topiaries and a pair of wine glasses abandoned on the stone ledge. The music from inside was muffled, but the quiet out here was almost total. The night was clear, stars blazing above the snow-blanketed lawn.
Grace shivered, more from nerves than cold. She felt watched, the hairs on her arms standing up. She scanned the garden, searching for Tessa’s silhouette, but there was nothing.
She took a few steps forward, shoes crunching on the packed snow. Then, stopped, feeling uneasy. Something was out here. But was it Tessa? Or something more sinister?