“Excuse me, Mr. Delaney?”
My mind answered before my mouth did.Yes, Spells?I cleared my throat, the rough sound loud in the waiting silence.
“What is it, Ms. Spellman?”
“I’ve selected my cold case. I’ll be reachable by cell if you—” She hesitated, fiddling with the belt cinching her waist. Then she tightened her fingers into a fist and pressed her lips together. “Well. You won’t need me, of course. So—”
“Just leave the file on my desk. I’ll sign off.”
I tore my gaze away, fixing on my phone. The words on the screen blurred, none of them sticking. A dull ache settled behind my ribs, that familiar pull unshakeable. Every part of me wanted to look up again, and that was exactly why I didn't.
Her heels clicked sharply against the tile like tiny explosions of fury. I glanced up, seized by the hintof old fire flashing in her ivy-green eyes. The file landed on my desk with a satisfying slap. It was like a carol to my ears.
“Merry Christmas,” she growled, before turning on her heel and storming out of my office.
I almost grinned like a mustache-twirling villain. Because making her angry meant she still cared—about my untimely death, probably—but I wasn't picky. Progress was progress.
That was when I knew I’d hit rock bottom.
Actually, wait.
Valerie had dropped something else on my desk. The silver envelope sat on top of the case file. A Christmas card? I snatched it up, tearing the flap open like a kid raiding their stocking on Christmas morning. My gaze flicked to the doorway to make sure no one was watching.
I pulled out the card, already bracing for reindeer in hula skirts or snowmen trying to get suntans.
“Crap,” I muttered, shoulders sinking as I took an emotional wallop to the solar plexus.
Happy Anniversary!
To the one who showed me whatlove(disinterest) looks like.
Besides crossing outloveand replacing it with her own choice word, Valerie had left a note:
They don’t make accidental anniversary cards. Clearly, it’s an untapped market. One year down. One to go.
—Your wife(Ms.Spellman)
And that was rock bottom.
I tossed the card onto my desk and raked a hand over my face. The ache behind my ribs felt like a dagger dipped in acid. Was I supposed to get her a card?
The cheerful imaginary elf on my right shoulder shouted, “Yes—you idiot!”while the grumpy one on my left flipped her retreating back a rude gesture and grumbled something about not being a mind reader.
Neither was helpful.
The traditional first-anniversary gift was paper, so I supposed the card was fitting. I was lucky she hadn’t cursed me with a thousand papercuts.
But that was the thing. She couldn't curse me if she tried.
I knew her secret.
She’d lost her magic. Or, at the very least, it wasn’t working as it should.
I’d stumbled onto that fact by accident during a lunch break last month. She’d appeared a block ahead of me, glancing over her shoulder like she was being followed. In the end, she kind of was—by me.
She’d slipped inside a magic shop, and I’d lingered by the window, watching the shopkeeper package a pair of heartstone crystals. Witches usually only bought heartstones when they were sick. My grandmother once bought one when she had the flu. She’d called it the supernatural version of chicken soup. But sometimes, it was simply because their magic was fluctuating.
It all made sense then: the way her spell had fizzled at the luau, her hunt for the wishing waterfall, and the drive that never seemed to stop.
