Four years ago Molly had tried to kill Jaime Vegas. I’d intervened and left Molly tied up in a swamp. In the underbelly of the supernatural world, that marked the beginning of a working relationship based on mutual respect. A temporary gift of zombies a couple of years ago hadn’t hurt matters. Molly liked me. Can’t say I felt the same about her, but she was useful.

“If there’s a witch living so close to me, then I should know about her,” Molly said. “If I don’t, she’s not just flying under the radar, she’s crawling under it. You said her magic looks old?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to run it past Paige but ...”

Molly snorted. “Like Paige would recognize magic that wasn’t pure as the driven snow.”

Not true, but part of cozying up to Molly meant letting her disparage Paige and Lucas.

“That’s kind of what I thought,” I said. “And Paige hates me getting involved in anything dark ...”

Another snort. “E-mail me those pictures. I’ll find your ritual.”

THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn’t. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.

I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael’s death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn’t handle that.

So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.

“Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast.”

When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.

“Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house.”

I struggled for an excuse. None came.

When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael’s body, I was the lead story.

No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.

I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not “So what happened last night?” but “Are you okay?” and “I’m sorry about Detective Kennedy.” They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn’t right to ask, so I told them.

When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics—local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael’s death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I’d ever said about small-town folks.