The footage was grainy, twitchy: hedges rustling, branches swaying. Nothing. Then the frames shifted.
A figure slipped between the trees. Blurred, but human. The robe hem skimmed the ground, the gait familiar: hips cocked, shoulders loose, like a woman gliding toward a party instead of a crime scene.
Goldie’s throat closed.
McCutchen tapped the space bar. The figure turned just enough for light to catch copper curls and cheekbones. Her face.
“Oh, shit,” Goldie whispered.
Oseki’s gaze stayed razor-sharp. “Help us understand, Ms. Flynn. Why were you there?”
Goldie’s stomach flipped. “That’s not me,” she said automatically. The words hit her tongue like ash. Because itwasher.
Oseki didn’t answer, only watched her with that calm, measured expression. “Have you been sleepwalking, Ms. Flynn? Any memory gaps? Nightmares?”
Onscreen, the figure—the her-that-wasn’t-her—moved with an unnatural grace. Bare feet pressed patterns into the soil, toes curling as if reading braille written by the land itself. She didn’t walk so much asdrift, drawn forward like a marionette pulled by roots instead of strings.
“That’s not me,” Goldie said again, but this time her voice shook.
McCutchen leaned forward, his gray eyes sharp. “We pulled ambient ward readings from the Grove Core perimeter. Residual charm signatures match your magical profile within a ninety-four percent margin.”
“What does that mean? That I glow in the dark?”
The detectives didn’t laugh.
“How do you know Marlow Truckenham?” McCutchen asked, his voice flat.
Goldie’s skin went cold. Her pulse spiked, blooming panic hot beneath the chill. Her robe. Her face. Her magic. It all added up, even though it made no sense. And they were both looking at her like she wasn’t just a witness anymore.
Her hands clenched in her lap. “I want to speak to someone,” she said, her voice wobbling at first, then catching. “If this is an interrogation, I want someone with me.”
“And who would that be?” Oseki’s tone stayed smooth, unreadable. “Do you have legal counsel?”
Goldie’s mouth opened. Then shut. Her mind frantically flipped through its mental Rolodex and came up with exactly two attorneys: Ezra, who specialized in estate planning;and Hollis, Jem’s husband, who did something vaguely administrative and municipal-adjacent. Both very muchnotcriminal law.
Before she could form a coherent sentence, the door to the side office creaked open. A uniformed officer poked her head in, her eyes wide.
“Uh, detectives? Ms. Flynn’s lawyer is here.”
Goldie blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
The officer didn’t answer. She just stepped aside.
Impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit and a silver cravat, Mr. Lyle swept into the room, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in charge. He surveyed the room with the quiet disdain of a god visiting a poorly-maintained temple.
“Ms. Flynn,” he said. He gave a slight nod. “You look well. That is encouraging.”
Goldie’s jaw worked, a thin squeak escaping before she found her voice. “Mr. Lyle?”
He raised a single, gloved hand. “We will talk later, Ms. Flynn. For now, let us tidy this up.”
Detective McCutchen narrowed his eyes. “You’re her attorney?”
Mr. Lyle turned to face him. “I am. Registered in the county of Bellwether and four adjoining jurisdictions, including one that technically no longer exists. Would you like to see my documentation?”
McCutchen sputtered.
With the liquid grace of a magician unveiling a dove, Mr. Lyle withdrew a sleek, black leather folio. He flipped it open with a sound like a snapping twig and presented a series of cards, seals, and one shifting sigil.
