Chapter 11. Annette
Annette
Blake kept his composure until he was in my car with the door closed. “Do you think Sage knows?”
I heard the unspoken questions. Are Ava and Morgan in danger? What if Sage tells people what we are? Will we need to leave Salem before word spreads?
I wished I had words to reassure him. I started the engine and pulled away. “Let’s stick with facts. We know Sage took something, but we don’t know what it was or what exactly he did or didn’t see.”
“You can’t even guess what he might have taken? How many magical drugs can there be?”
“Seriously? Humans will snort, swallow, or shoot up with anything that promises a quick hit of magic. One day it’s powdered unicorn hooves.
The next it’s an IV injection of chupacabra blood.
Most of it’s garbage with no more power than crystals or pyramids or Scientology.
” I stopped at an intersection. “Which way?”
“Left, toward the east side of town.” His worry was palpable. “You said most of it was garbage. What about the rest? Like your blood pills?”
My fists tightened on the wheel. “I didn’t realize you knew about those.”
“I found them when I was eleven.”
Damn. “Those are the equivalent of a magical antiviral for an infection I picked up before you were born. They’re made by an experienced pharmacist and carefully regulated.”
“An infection?” He stared at me. “Like a magic STD?”
“Why do you think I was so insistent on teaching you proper precautions?” I desperately tried to steer the conversation back on track.
“My enchanted antivirals wouldn’t have the effects Ava described.
But a pill that makes you stronger and lets you see other worlds?
That shows you this world ‘as it really is’? That’s nothing I’ve encountered.”
“Ava said he was talking about shadows spying on him, too.” He pointed. “Turn left at the stop sign.”
“That kind of paranoia could be a side effect.”
Blake fiddled with his wristwatch. “It sounded like Sage saw the demon blood in us.”
“Even if he did see something unusual about you and the kids, he doesn’t have the first clue what it meant. Neither does Ava.” I tried to keep my tone free of any accusation, but I still felt the tension increase.
After four blocks of silence, I switched topics. “Sage is human, right? No shifter blood, no magical birthmarks or long-lost fairy ancestors on his great-uncle’s side or anything like that?”
“His family seemed normal every time I’ve spoken with them, but how would I know?” he snapped.
I let the “normal” remark slide.
“Are you going to tell me what happened to you?” He waved a hand at my face and neck.
I started to repeat the double-boiler lie, but stopped myself. How could I expect him to be honest with his daughter if I couldn’t show him the same respect? “I was attacked.”
He inhaled sharply. “When was this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Last night, and because I’m fine and I didn’t want anyone to worry.”
“That doesn’t look like a typical mugging.”
“It wasn’t. They used holy water. They knew what I was.”
“Dammit, Mom.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Who were they?”
“Teenagers. Three of them. I’d never seen them before.” Teenagers who could see what I was. Who were stronger than they should have been.
Shit. I needed to learn exactly what Sage had taken and where he’d gotten it.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Tell me the truth.”
“Jenny got me patched up and gave me a doggie bag of different painkillers. I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I glanced over to see his fists clenched in his lap. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”
“I always worried about you,” he snapped. “You think I didn’t notice the mornings you left bloody bandages in the bathroom trash can? Or when you threw out your favorite jacket because it had bullet holes?” He pointed right. “Sage’s place is halfway down the road.”
I’d tried to shield him from those things. Just like I’d tried to hide my medications. I wanted to explain, but I didn’t know where to begin. Blake’s shoulders were tense as steel, meaning he wasn’t in a listening mood. “I’m sorry.”
Sage and his family lived in a townhouse near the South River. It was part of a dingy, blocky row of matching homes with dirty gray siding and red trim around the windows. Boxy AC units jutted from several windows.
The couple who met us at the door looked like they were in their early forties. The man was about five foot nine, White, and pushing two hundred pounds. The woman was Black, an inch taller and a tad lighter weight, with her hair in a loose, medium-length afro.
“These are Sage’s parents, Zack and Liz Parker,” said Blake. “This is my mother, Annette Thorne.”
“Blake texted us about you.” Liz shook my hand. “He said you used to help the police find missing people back in Chicago.”
“From time to time, yes. I’m a licensed private investigator in the state of Massachusetts. I can show you a copy of my identification and license number if you’d like.”
“That’s all right,” said Zack. “We trust Blake. If he thinks you can help . . .”
“I do,” said Blake. “This is what she’s good at.”
It warmed me to hear him say that, despite the nearly undetectable edge he put on the word this, like he needed me to know it wasn’t a blanket endorsement.
I let it go and focused on Sage’s parents.
They both showed the expected signs of stress and worry: shadows under red-veined eyes, tense muscles, and the twitchiness that came from spending too much time on high alert with adrenaline pumping through your body like the Seine flooding the streets of Paris.
Their front door had no signs of forced entry. Black smears on the knob and around the frame showed where the police had dusted for fingerprints. I didn’t see a doorbell cam or any other cameras.
“My son tells me you’ve spoken with the police,” I said. “I assume they explained that most missing children reports are runaways, and around half of those leave home after a conflict with parents. Have you and Sage argued lately?”
“No more than usual with a twelve-year-old,” said Liz.
Zack looked up and down the street. For a moment, he appeared to forget we were there. Then he shook himself and took his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry. I keep hoping I’ll see him . . . Please, come in.”
Once inside, I started with the normal questions, likely the same ones the police had asked.
Had they noticed any changes in Sage’s behavior?
Had he developed any new relationships recently?
Had any neighbors or other adults been paying undue attention to Sage?
I recorded our conversation on my phone to review later.
Neither of them had the defensive tells of a liar.
Nor did I see the oily charm I’d observed in many abusers over the years.
Mostly, they appeared exhausted and afraid.
Zack fidgeted with his phone like he could force it to produce a message from his son.
Liz was turning the last of her yellow-polished nails into a chewed, chipped mess.
“He left his phone,” said Liz. “What kid willingly leaves their phone behind?”
Someone who doesn’t want his parents or the police to use it to track him. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night at bedtime,” said Zack.
When we finished the initial questions, I had them take me through Sage’s social media history—the history they knew about and could access on Liz’s laptop, at least.
“We looked at all of this with Detective Maple, too,” said Liz. “He didn’t find any suspicious messages, but he said there are ways to hide your chats and history. He took the phone back to see what their specialists could find.”
Damn. I’d hoped to get my hands on that phone so Duke could go through it. They did let me take a photo of the detective’s business card so I could follow up with him, but I doubted Detective Maple would hand Sage’s phone to a retired PI who wanted to let an elemental mage poke around its contents.
“Do you mind if I look in Sage’s room?” I asked.
Zack took me upstairs. He stopped at a door decorated with a LEGO Batman poster. “It’s a mess. Even more than usual.”
Mess was an understatement. Laundry was piled beneath a small loft-style bed and in front of the closet.
The bedcovers were on the floor. LEGO creations covered every available surface, and individual pieces were scattered about like caltrops, ready to destroy unprotected feet.
Blood-stained tissues overflowed from the trash can. “What happened—”
“Oh, the tissues. The detective asked about that, too. Sage had a bad nosebleed Saturday morning.”
“Did that happen often?”
“Not like this. He’d get little nosebleeds when he was younger, but they ended when he finally stopped picking it.” Zack grimaced. “Sorry. You know how kids are.”
The lone window had been dusted for prints, too. “That window was shut and latched when you found it?”
“That’s right.”
I walked carefully through the plastic minefield. “The police should have asked you for a list of Sage’s friends and teachers and anyone else he interacts with. Could I get a copy of that list?”
“Yes, of course. Liz can email it to you.”
I was only half-listening. I pulled up the blinds and peered outside. There was nothing but a small fenced-in backyard and a narrow road. Beyond that was another row of townhouses.
I saw nobody, but I felt someone watching, felt their focus and attention on me like an unwanted massage.
It wasn’t Zack Parker. He was just standing there, staring at his son’s things. He wouldn’t have noticed if I stripped naked and gave him a lap dance.
The attention wasn’t sexual. A cat, maybe? From time to time, I’d encountered animals who took great offense to the scent of demon. “Do you have a pet?”
“What?” Zack blinked. “No, I’m allergic to cats and dogs. Why do you ask?”
Goosebumps tightened my skin, which was hell on the healing burns. Shadows spying on him. “Mr. Parker, would you be all right with me looking around alone? It’s harder to focus with you hovering there.”