• • •

I woke the next morning to the sound of the loft’s windowpanes rattling. I peeked outside at the wind whipping leaves from the trees. The sky was a fast-moving mishmash of dark clouds and patches of blue sky. My grandmother would have called it a topsy-turvy sort of day. I could still hear her telling me, Brynn, sometimes the sun lifts you up, sometimes the clouds bring you down, but if you’re a smart witch, you’ll ignore all that and ride the wind.

I dressed quickly. I was going into town. Again.

I had gone to town more times this week than I had in the previous year. I had to admit my aunts were right, not about the magic, but about having a purpose. Despite how truly awful the circumstances were, I was doing something, and that felt good.

I hurried down the steps of the garage, wrapping my scarf around my neck. It was definitely a cold one. I was about to turn to take the long way into town when I heard, “Brynn! Brynn Warren!”

I circled in the direction of the voice, but for a second I couldn’t see anyone. All I could see were the gates of the graveyard.

I closed my eyes. Get ahold of yourself, Brynn.

When I opened them again, I spotted the woman who had called out to me.

It was hard to be sure. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Not since I worked at the bookstore. But if I wasn’t mistaken, that was Mary Coleman. Constance’s sister.

I froze.

I had been meaning to speak with her. Even if she had no part in her sister’s murder, there were few people better positioned to give insight into Constance’s life. Still, there were several things holding me back.

First, I could no longer use the pretense of offering my condolences. Not that the condolences themselves were a pretense. I did want to express to Constance’s family how terrible I felt about what had happened. But in the days that had passed since her death, a lot had changed. My family was being investigated, a fact Mary had to be aware of by now. And if Williams was right, her daughter was spearheading the effort behind tomorrow’s town hall meeting, which seemed centered on our family.

I wasn’t prepared to talk to Mary now.

She, apparently, wanted to speak to me though. In fact, she had hurried her step in my direction, and I could tell by her expression she was upset.

When she was a few feet away, she called out again, struggling to be heard in the wind. “Please. Please don’t leave. I need to talk to you.” Her eyes looked desperate. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for months now.”

Chapter 18

Mary Graves had been wanting to talk to me for months? That didn’t make any sense. It hadn’t even been a week since Constance passed.

“You probably don’t remember me,” she went on, twisting a handkerchief in her hands, “but we’ve met before. At the bookstore.”