Secrets & Spells (Crystal Lake #1)

Chapter 1

Jared

Fired. My boss, who had been a father figure to me since I started working for The London Ledger fresh out of university, was firing me. Sorry, telling me to take a break.

“This could be a good thing, Jared.” Corbin tugs at the cuffs of his signature coal-black suit, the colour a stark contrast to his silver hair and paper-white skin.

Never one to fidget, it’s a sure sign he’s more uncomfortable with this conversation than he’s letting on.

Good. He should feel uncomfortable. He should feel downright awful for forcing me out of my job without cause.

“I’m worried about you and I’m not the only one.

We’ve all noticed a… change since you returned to work. ”

I feel my blonde brows rise towards my hairline. “Of course I’ve changed. Surely it would be more concerning if I hadn’t?”

Corbin shifts awkwardly in his fancy leather office chair before steepling his hands on the ornate mahogany desk before him, his piercing dark-brown eyes locking onto me with renewed determination. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Is this about my last article?” It must be. I was supposed to write a piece about how, after six months of nothing, London was starting to move on from the nightmare of the past three years.

“No. While not what I asked for, your piece on the families and friends of The Raven’s victims and their struggle to move on without justice for their loved ones was excellent, some of your best work even.”

“Then why are you getting rid of me?”

He sighs, weariness sinking into his bones making him look far older than his fifty years.

“I’m not ‘getting rid’ of you Jared. Your job will still be here for you once you’ve taken the proper time to recover from your ordeal.

” And there it is. The reason he can force me out of the job I love, the job I worked damn hard at and sacrificed for.

Because it’s for my mental health, my emotional wellbeing.

What a load of bullshit. How Corbin believes taking away my job, the most important thing in my life, is going to help me recover from my ordeal as he calls it, I have no clue.

After three nights in the hospital, I went home to my one bedroom flat and did everything I was supposed to do.

I rested. I recovered. I went to therapy.

Then, after two months of waiting, I came back to work.

My colleagues did their best not to stare, but I noticed their furtive glances and how the break room would go silent whenever I entered.

If everyone is so concerned, maybe they shouldn’t treat me like some kind of exhibition for their entertainment.

Maybe they’re what’s detrimental to my mental health, not my job.

Being a journalist is all I ever wanted.

“What if I don’t want time off?” I cross my arms defiantly, the bottle-green leather chair creaking with the movement.

While it’s a sturdy piece of furniture, it’s clear it wasn’t designed for someone with my large frame, plus it, along with everything else in this glass fishbowl of an office, looks old as fuck.

“What if I think being here is what’s best for me? ”

“It’s not up for discussion, son. It’s already been decided. You’ll be taking a year-long sabbatical.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back words I know I’d regret later.

I’m not his son. But Corbin is the closest thing I’ve had to a father figure since losing my adoptive parents and, while this betrayal cuts deeply, I know his heart is in the right place.

It’s hard to hate him when he’s only trying to look out for me.

“If you still want to come back to The Ledger once the year is up, your position will be waiting for you.” I hold back a snort.

Of course I’ll want to come back. While most of my colleagues would jump at the chance for paid time off, I can’t think of anything worse than being left alone with my thoughts for an entire year.

Since the incident six months ago, my already pitiful social life has faded into obscurity, and I don’t have any family.

This job is my whole life. I need it. Corbin’s expression softens to one of fatherly concern.

“But if you realise this isn’t the place for you anymore, then there is no pressure for you to return.

I can see you’re unhappy with this decision, and, for that, I’m sorry.

You’ve been through enough. But I hope you’ll use this time to heal and figure out what it is you want from life moving forward. ”

There’s no sense in arguing. I can see the decision etched into every part of him, from the set of his jaw, to the rigid column of his spine, to the determined glint in his dark eyes.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, hating how lost I sound, like a scared little boy.

Corbin stands, walking around to my side of the desk to place a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Do something that makes you happy. Find joy in something outside of work. Take it from an old man who knows what it’s like to look up and realise you’re all alone.

Don’t be like me, Jared. Go out and discover the best version of yourself. ”

Not one of my colleagues can meet my eyes when I head back to my desk to gather my things.

Clearly they all knew I was getting fired, sorry, put on leave, today.

Someone even left a box on my desk for my things.

Probably Debbie. In my seven years working here, I’ve learned she’s nothing if not ruthlessly practical.

Luckily I’m not really one for random clutter on my desk.

It only takes a couple of minutes to erase my presence entirely, and the box isn’t even half full.

Seven years wiped away in under seven minutes.

I look around but my outspoken coworkers are all suspiciously quiet, the rustling of paper, clacking of computer keys, and the distant wail of a siren the only sounds in the open-plan office I usually have to wear noise-cancelling earphones to concentrate in.

Lifting the box I chance one final look at Corbin, but he’s pointedly not looking out of the glass walls of his office. That’s it then.

Shame, embarrassment, and simmering anger at the injustice of it all churn in my gut as I head towards the lift.

My colleagues were quick to encourage me when my first article on The Raven took off, back before he’d reached serial killer status, before the moniker and his reign of terror.

Then, once The Raven rose to infamy, some became jealous when Corbin didn’t hand the coverage off to a more senior reporter.

They chuntered about favouritism and, when the murders continued, speculated about when I’d reach burnout.

Then everything changed. I went from being the reporter to being reported on and now the name Jared Devlin is famous across the country, not because of my bylines, but because I’m the last known victim of The Raven and the only one to survive.