I look down at the glass shards below.

The blood and hair just sort of congealed and lay as a clump there on the white tile. The tile spreading out in little octagons across the floor.

A thought crosses my mind.

Was this a spell? Was this jar some sort of voodoo offering?

And then:

If this was a spell . . .

Is it now broken?

Chapter 18

After cleaning up the random, slightly disgusting shards of glass jar of organic material and scribbles, I decide to take a shower, relax, and google. Whatever that thing was, that lunacy in a jar, I can probably find it on the internet.

I spend an inordinate amount of time going down about five different rabbit holes from ancient rune paintings to spell-casting sites that will actually cast a spell for you. For one hundred dollars. One thirty if it’s a double-cast spell. Which means they cast it twice in one day. Very powerful.

Insert eye roll emoji here.

By dusk, I still haven’t found the exact same combination of items in that glass jar or what they might mean. The closest I have found is a spell called “return my love to me.” While it does involve hair, blood, and a glass jar . . . there is no charcoal or rune markings involved. This may take a little more doing than I expected.

Or giving up. That is, also, a possibility.

Hmm. Give up or try?

The ancient question.

Pros of giving up: don’t have to do anything.

Cons of giving up: won’t know what that thing is.

Also, pro of giving up: won’t be giving that thing more energy . . . possibly might forget it.

Also, con of giving up: maybe it matters? By ignoring it, I will never know.

Okay. So far I am leaning heavily toward giving up.

There is, also, the small matter of my latest conspiracy binge: Flat Earth: The Great Lie. I cannot tell you how happy I am to sit around and watch a bunch of yokels going on about falling off the edge of the world. I mean, call me simple, but it’s the little joys that count.

I resolve to give up.

Down in the yard, the guys have all gone home for the night. So . . . no more pesky interruptions about missing hardware or tools or whatever you call it.

Somewhere in the middle of a screed about conspiracy by a balding man in a beige Members Only jacket, I fly away into dreamland. Up, up, and away.

Tonight I get to dream about things that happened before the bad thing.

On this night, I dream about the first few weeks of biology class with Zander Haaf.

You see, at first, I pretended not to notice Zander. I pretended that I couldn’t care less. That I had no idea he was the be-all and end-all of every girl this side of the Mississippi. Oh, I was cruel! I was better than cruel, I was indifferent. And, somehow, the more indifferent I was . . . the more bent out of shape Zander Haaf became.