The Source

“Yes, you do,” I said. “So if you are ‘unsettled’ after a little taste, are you sure you want to heap a full serving onto your plate?”



“Yes, if it means I can get to the bottom of these murders. Prevent another from happening.”



I laughed, but it was not my usual laugh. The cackle I heard shocked my own ears. “Adam, you could know every single detail of our lives, and it still would not help you to prevent any crime that a witch has her heart set on committing.”



“So,” he said, his color returning to him, “you are telling me that the rest of us . . . the real humans—”



“Witches are real humans,” Oliver said as flatly as if he were playing a taped response.



“You know what I mean: regular folk. Non-witches. You are telling me that we regular folk are pretty much in control of nothing, if one of you decides to meddle.”



“Yes,” I said, a calm filling my voice, “that’s exactly what I am saying. How does hearing that make you feel? Powerless? Hopeless? Do you want to dig any deeper, or should we stop here?”



He ran his hands over his head. His elbows went to the table, and then he held his head between his hands. He remained still and silent for a few moments. “I have to know,” he said. “I need to know.”



“Why?” Oliver cried out. He slapped his palms down on the table and leaned in toward Adam.



“Because, everything else aside, I want to build a life with you. We can’t do that if you always have to keep me in the dark.”



“We can,” Oliver protested, but then he smiled. “I don’t ever want to see you looking at me like you looked at Mercy when she slammed your sorry ass in that chair. Leave it, please.”



“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I can’t.”



Oliver nodded and bit his lower lip. “All right then.” He looked at me. “I don’t think y’all really need me for this, do you?”



“No, I don’t think so,” I said. Oliver stood and patted my shoulder before exiting. I watched Adam’s face, the way his eyes followed Oliver as he left. There was a confused mixture of tenderness and annoyance in them. That’s when I knew for sure that he felt real love for my uncle, and bringing Adam into the know was the right thing to do.



When the door clicked closed, I held my hand up before Adam’s face, making my best effort to copy a sideshow magician’s fancy feat of prestidigitation. Before his sharpening eyes, I produced one of Ellen’s charmed rose quartzes. Better safe than sorry in case anyone decided to listen in with magic.



“What’s that?” he asked. He squared his shoulders, and relaxed in his chair, trying to appear casual, unimpressed.



“This is a little something to make sure what we say here stays here. You have to understand, Adam. Even though I am sharing with you, you can’t share any of what I tell you with anyone else. Outside this room, you can’t even discuss it with Oliver, not unless he tells you the coast is clear. Got it?” It felt odd but exhilarating for me to be the magic expert. I’d do my best not to talk down to him the way other witches had always talked down to me before my powers manifested.



“Got it,” he said and nodded his head. “Where do we start?”



I stopped and considered this. There was still so much I was only now learning myself, so much I didn’t understand. “Well, I think the best place to start is with Ginny. You see, Connor didn’t kill Ginny.” His eyes narrowed; he had been oh so certain of Connor’s guilt from day one. With only a few words, I had completely wiped away his smug sense of self-validation. “It was a demon, a boo hag, if you will, who did the killing. You knew this demon as Jackson.”



TWENTY-EIGHT



Some might have considered it a misuse of county equipment, but I didn’t object when Adam offered to have a uniformed officer drop me off downtown, and the officer did not object to fulfilling a childhood fantasy when I asked him to put on the sirens and lights. Cars pulled over and pedestrians stopped to wait for us as we flew down Waters to Wheaton to Randolph, finally arriving on Broughton. The officer stopped beneath the SCAD Theater marquee and turned off the siren and lights. He put the patrol car in park and got out and came around to open my door.



“Thanks for the ride,” I said.



“Sure thing, Miss Taylor,” he replied before shutting the door.



“Can I treat you to something?” I asked, nodding toward the ice cream shop.



“No, thanks, ma’am,” he said, patting his stomach and returning to the car. He pulled out into traffic.



The siren had caused a number of people to gather outside Leopold’s, and I jostled my way through them. A group of children in the shop’s party room still had their faces pressed against the window, trying to spot the cause of all the excitement. Behind them, the party’s hired entertainment, a man wearing the odd combination of a pirate outfit and a white clown’s face looked a little less than happy to get second billing.



“Everything okay, Mercy?” asked Josh, a student at SCAD and part-time scoop jockey, as I came through the door.



The worry melted from his face when I replied, “Emergency ice cream craving.”



“Craving, huh?” he asked as he rolled up a sleeve and exposed a tattoo, one undoubtedly of his own design. I repressed a shudder—his innocent tattoo brought to mind the markings on Ryder’s arm. I acknowledged his underlying question with a smile and nod. “Well, congratulations,” he said, seeming truly happy for me. “Might I recommend our newly created mother-to-be tasting menu?”



The squeals and laughter from the birthday party made me smile. I’d had more than a few of my own celebrations in the side room, and hoped to have many more here with my son. “Oh, yes, that sounds perfect. Newly created?”



“Yep. About seven seconds ago. Grab a seat.” He nodded at a table near the window. “Not doing your tour anymore?” he called out as I took my seat.



“No, I think I’ve told enough lies about this poor old town,” I said and smiled at him.



He had arranged a dozen or so small paper cups on a tray and was digging away in the cooler. “Mind if I take up the mantle, then? It would be a shame for a good idea like that to go to waste.”



“Not at all,” I said, feeling only a twinge of sentimentality. I’d been doing the Liar’s Tour since I was twelve. Giving it up to someone else would mean closing a door on a big chunk of my past. Deep down though, I knew that the door had already closed. “Come by the house sometime, and I will give you the leftover souvenirs.” I had about five hundred Liar’s Club to-go cups, or “walkers,” as we called them around here, stashed in my closet. A few T-shirts too.



“Sweet. Thanks. Here, on the house,” he said as he walked over and placed the tray in front of me with a flourish, then returned to the counter to help another patron. As I ate my ice cream, I was flooded with memories of the days I’d spent leading groups around the squares and coming up with the most audacious lies I could think of. A couple laughed as they walked down Broughton, and the sound pulled me back to the present. I gazed out the window, my eyes settling on the library across the street, an unremarkable building that had once been a department store. Special to Savannah in that there was nothing visually interesting about it. Architectural white noise, wallpaper.