Chapter Twelve #2
He asked for their names, just a matter of protocol, he assured them, nothing to worry about.
The girls had a wordless exchange that made it clear they were uncomfortable—Do we want the police to have information about us?
Isn’t that how witch-hunters begin? But in the end, they allowed him to write down their names in his notebook.
He was most interested in the girl with the sharp teeth and the extra finger on her hand, the pale blond who looked like a fairy sprite.
He would have bet she would bite you if you did her wrong.
She had written her name in small black letters.
Lauren Bell. His heart clattered against his chest, for Bell was a name he knew.
He’d heard it in an alleyway, perhaps a year earlier, during a raid on a dark night when he found himself derailed from the pretense of the life he’d created.
Don’t disappear, the man had called, but Billy had done exactly that, and ever since he’d been trying not to think about that encounter.
He’d done his best to try to forget that wild kiss on the mouth, for a shiver went through him whenever he remembered.
What he felt for this beautiful man couldn’t be denied, nor could he deny that it was a crime.
He was meant to go after criminals, but according to the laws of Massachusetts, he was one himself.
There were men serving time in jail because they’d danced with another man, men whose friends abandoned them when the truth of who they loved had come out.
“If there’s anything you remember that you think I should know about, contact me.” He seemed to be speaking directly to Lauren.
“Yeah. Sure,” she said, as if she ever would. She had been one of the dissenters when it was decided that the police should be notified. Never let the authorities in, never speak to them, never let them know who you are and what you are capable of.
When the detective offered Lauren his card, she wasn’t interested, but the red-haired young woman beside her took it, surprised when she saw his last name. “You must know Maureen Healy. She’s a good friend of mine.”
“Is she? She’s my sister, and you clearly have good taste in friends.”
“I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” Lauren said grimly. Billy wasn’t quite certain if this girl was insulting Ava or his sister, but she definitely didn’t hold back on her scorn.
“Oh, it’s true,” Billy said. “My sister is the best.”
“Actually my brother, Lionel, is the best,” Lauren responded. “But you’d know that if you knew him.”
“I’m sure he is,” Billy said. “So let’s just say we’re both lucky.”
When the detective left, Ava slipped out to follow him. She wanted to tell him anything that might help them to find Ashton. “I’ve heard that she was in love with the wrong person,” she confided to Billy as they approached his car. “It’s just a rumor, but I thought I should tell you.”
“We’ll find whoever did this,” he assured her. “My advice is to keep the windows and doors locked, and tell your friends not to go out at night alone.”
Ava could always tell when someone was in love, and this detective clearly was suffering from some sort of lovesickness. He was pale and looked as if he might be ill. “You’re looking for someone else as well,” she said.
“Am I?” Billy felt nervous in this red-haired woman’s presence, so he forced a laugh. His sister had told him that some of the women at Lilith House had the gift of sight. It might be the past or the present or the future; she might be seeing the outline of the rest of his life.
“You’ll find him,” Ava said, sure of herself. She thought of all the simple finder’s spells she’d learned.
Billy nodded and thanked her, because whatever she had seen, whatever she knew, he could tell she wished him luck.
It felt as if a witch-hunter had been set loose among them.
The women from Lilith House looked at strangers differently now.
During the Sunday night meeting in the library, a page of new rules was handed out, prompted by the fear that accompanied Ashton’s disappearance.
No walking in the dark. No inviting strangers into the house.
No revealing who you are. If you have the eleventh finger intact, wear gloves.
Don’t open your mouth wide enough for anyone to see your sharp teeth.
Be careful who you speak to. Memorize spells that give you strength, practice divination so you can know your enemy, inside your clothes wear amulets for protection, tiny cloth packets, sewn with black thread, that contain carnelian beads, cloves, rosemary, and rue.
The word amulet is derived from the Latin amuletum, a means of defense.
There is a malignant force in the world, and those who come after you may cast the evil eye upon you; they can dull your senses and tie you up in ropes.
Make certain to knock on wood when you pass a hazel tree.
Stand under the moon and let its light fall upon you. No matter what, always have courage.
Even though it was after midnight, and despite the rules, Lauren went for a walk by herself. She never intended to go to Central Square, but she found herself there before she knew it. Carrick was on the cement stoop outside his apartment, having a cigarette.
“That’s bad for your lungs,” Lauren said as she sat beside him. She didn’t give a damn about him, so why was she giving him medical advice?
“So I’ve been told.” Carrick was glad he hadn’t burned the candle she’d given him. Some people believed in forgetting things, but he wasn’t one of them.
“I saw the letter L that I didn’t ask for,” Lauren said. “You knew I’d come back here to find out what it stood for. That wasn’t very fair.”
Carrick shrugged. “What’s fair in this world?”
Lauren took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out. “What was the worst thing you ever did?” she asked, daring to be brazen with someone who was little more than a stranger.
“Is that why you’re here? You don’t know anyone else who’s bad? It won’t make you feel any better about yourself.”
“Tell me what you’ve done,” she urged.
“When I went to jail there was no one to look after my brother, Frankie, and he got himself killed.”
“But you weren’t even there, so you couldn’t have been responsible,” Lauren said, hearing the self-blame in his voice. She knew what it felt like to blame yourself, she did it on a daily basis.
“I might as well have killed him. He was riding on top of a bus. It was just a game to him. He thought it would be fun, and it never would have happened if I’d been there. If I hadn’t sold that stupid Harvard kid some pot, Frankie would still be here.”
Lauren gave Carrick a sidelong look. “What kid?”
“That fuck Mather. His father had him followed, and the private detective sicced the cops on me.”
“I know him,” Lauren said. “I can’t stand him.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Entitled son of a bitch.”
“I’m just as entitled,” Lauren admitted. “I grew up on Brattle Street and went to private schools.”
Carrick grinned. “Yeah, but you’re miserable.”
When Lauren laughed out loud, her sharp white teeth showed. He was disgusted by how much he wanted her. He thought he’d trained himself better. Want nothing, and you’ll never be disappointed.
“Jamie’s miserable, too,” Lauren informed Carrick. “If that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.”
“He should be more miserable,” Lauren said thoughtfully.
“If you want him to pay for that, I could see to it.” Carrick shrugged. “Nothing too terrible.”
“See, I told you,” Lauren mocked. “You’re not bad. Not one bit.” She wished that he were, then he would be what she was looking for, someone who would make her suffer. He was too good for her, that was the problem. He was something she didn’t deserve.
“Yes, I am,” Carrick vowed. He stood up, looming over her, wearing old jeans and boots and a T-shirt spattered with ink and blood. A couple passing by on the way to their parked car gave him a startled look, and when he glared back at them, they walked faster, looking over their shoulders.
Lauren smiled faintly. She stood on tiptoe so she might kiss him.
“Not bad enough,” she said sadly. She was certain of it.
She had the sight, she knew that he suffered from regret, as she did.
There were those who said he was a monster, but in fact he was too kindhearted; he went out of his way for people, checking in on the older people who lived in the apartment across the lane to make certain they had groceries, once a month visiting his brother’s grave at the Cambridge Public Cemetery, where he stood and cursed himself and wished he could roll back time and change what had happened.
Lauren had lost faith in people when she was young, and she was certain it would be impossible for her to ever care about Carrick.
“I can be worse,” Carrick told her. “Ask anyone. If that’s what you want.”
“You can’t be,” Lauren said sadly.
Goliath, someone from the neighborhood called out from the street just to taunt him, but the jeering fell flat, as insults do when no one replies.
Even though Carrick was still trying to convince Lauren that he was a truly cruel and ruthless man, he didn’t yell back at the name-caller.
“I can be terrible,” he still swore, but neither of them believed it, and Lauren was already walking away.
“See you,” she said, making sure the words sounded more like a goodbye than a promise.
After all, she was the one who was terrible.