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I looked at him, his eyes dark, his voice harsh with determination. God, I loved him. I could insist I was okay with just being friends, that I'd find someone else and get ove
r him, but I was fooling myself. There was no getting past this. I loved him, and fifty years from now we could be married to other people, never having exchanged so much as a kiss, and I'd still look into his eyes and know he was the one. He'd always be the one.
He leaned across the seat, pulling me into a fierce hug. "It'll be okay. I promise."
One last squeeze, then he released me and put the Jeep into gear. "Let's get back to the motel before the manager calls a tow truck to remove the motorcycle parked inside one of his rooms."
"Hey, I wasn't leaving it outside at a place like that. Can we hold off on the motel, though? There's one more stop we need to make."
three
The stop was the cookie cult--a commune outside town that sold gourmet cookies online. Hey, if you're going to have a house filled with young women, you might as well get them baking.
The de facto leader, Alastair Koppel, was Ginny's father. He'd taken off before Ginny was born, only learning he'd had a daughter--and granddaughter--when he came home to set up his commune.
The real force behind the place was Megan, a former Wall Street drone who'd seen a much better entrepreneurial future with Alastair, running the cookie business while he played therapist and commune leader.
It was neither Alastair nor Megan who brought me back now. My witch-hunter had become a commune girl to get access to the community and kill Cody's wife, Tiffany. Then she'd discovered there was a second witch in town in need of killing. Namely me.
I'd come by yesterday to confront the girl--Amy--but she'd already moved out. While I was certain Amy was a fake name, there's often some truth in a false identity. It makes the lies easier to pull off. So I wanted to see Amy's application. Yet I knew better than to waltz up to the door and ask. Yesterday, Alastair had run me off. Megan could be a little more reasonable, if it was in her best interests, but I wasn't taking the chance.
Considering it was ten in the morning, a breakin required finesse. Or a distraction. I used Adam again. If you want to distract a household of young women, nothing quite does the trick like a hot guy.
"Forgetting something?" He handed me a set of lock picks as I climbed out along the roadside. "You're going to need these."
"Right."
"Do you remember how to use them?"
He got a pfttt and an eye roll for that.
"In other words, no, you don't. You weren't paying attention when Lucas taught you, because you have your unlock spell." He turned off the engine. "Let's switch. You can distract the girls while I--"
"I'm the one who's had the grand tour, including Alastair's office. And I might be out of practice, but I do remember how to pick a lock."
Adam hesitated. He'd hate to suggest that I was less than competent without my spells. So I set out for the house before he could stop me.
I honestly thought I remembered how to use the picks. But Adam knows me well. As with the self-defense lessons, I'd barely listened to Lucas's tutorials because I figured I didn't need them. After five minutes of fussing with the side door lock, I jangled the handle in frustration . . . and discovered it had been left open.
"You lost your spells, Savannah," I muttered to myself. "Not your brains."
I slipped inside. I was at the far end of the house, away from the kitchen and front rooms, where I could hear girls giggling as Adam held court. I crept to the closed office door, then stopped and listened. Inside, it was silent.
My kingdom for a sensing spell.
Scratch that. From now on, I needed to be really careful what I wished for and what I offered in return.
I wondered how someone without a sensing spell ensured a room was empty. I had no idea. I'd never foreseen a time when I'd need to do it any other way.
I rapped at the office door, strained to hear any sound, ready to sprint if I did. Yes, I felt ridiculous, like a five-year-old playing Nicky Nine Doors--knocking on a door and running away. It worked, though. When no one answered I turned the knob only to discover that I did need the picks here. Damn.
Luckily, it was just your standard home door lock, easily thwarted by anyone with a paper clip. Once inside, I locked the door behind me.
My goal was in plain sight. The filing cabinet. Now, I just had to hope they kept paper copies of their admission forms.
They didn't. Or so it seemed as I leafed through sparse files of packaging mock-ups and media pieces. Then I spotted a second, smaller filing cabinet. One with an electronic lock.
Admission forms hardly seemed to require such security. But Alastair was also a therapist and a place like this attracted girls with problems. Whatever Alastair's faults, he seemed to take that aspect of his role seriously, so I wouldn't be surprised if application forms were locked away, along with counseling notes.
