“Okay, we’re here,” Embry announced quietly, wrapping her hands around her middle. “What are we looking for, Shaggy?”
A little smile quirked at Rye’s lips. Embry appreciated that he wasn’t going to fight her on the moniker as she needed any crumb of levity available.
“Invisible footsteps,” Rye answered. Then he spun in a slow circle, as if orienting himself, despite knowing his surroundings very well. “Oakley wasn’t killed here, but she was displayed here, for some reason. Why do we think that was?”
“Well,” she replied, “if we want to believe I’m being set up, which it appears I am, the killer chose to put her here because even without the video, it will point to the events that occurred here the night before. Oakley’s crowning, my disappointment, and the fight that you, Balthazar, Skye, and apparently others witnessed.”
“I believe you’re right. I also believe whoever did this knew she’d be found quickly.”
“She was found by Alistair,” Embry told him. Her throat squeezed on her friend’s name. “He divined that I’d done something to her and came right here the moment he was awake.”
Embry’s heart ached just saying this part aloud. She really wished she could pull aside her longtime friend and politely ask him how in the Goddess’s good name could he have gotten it so wrong and told everyone possible except for her? If she’d had a similar vision about Alistair, she surely would’ve gone to his room and asked him about it before sounding the alarm. Wouldn’t she?
Embry rubbed at her breastbone, willing the pain to settle andstop crawling up her throat in such a way that made her want to sob again. She blinked over at Rye only to see him nod. Alistair’s betrayal was not new information, apparently. She’d told Daddy; he’d told Rye.
“Yes, but divination is a fickle magic—even if it’s used in a court of law for its accuracy, there’s no guarantee that a nearby diviner would’ve seen a thing or implicated you.”
Embry could’ve kissed him right there for that deduction alone. But she wouldn’t. Because this was Rye. Also, because she suddenly had a good idea.
“But you know what is a guarantee? Football practice.” Embry nodded toward the fancy athletics building in the near distance—the one she’d escorted Oakley to that very first day. “Even on weeks when they have games, the football team lifts weights every Saturday morning. So if Alistair hadn’t had a vision and alerted the authorities, the football players would have. Or, well, anyone who jogs on the track on a schedule.”
Someone like her—who often hit the track for Saturday sprint work after running at Daddy’s measured pace all week.
“So, they put her here in such a dramatic manner because they wanted her to be found as soon as possible.” Rye turned to her with a grin that was, well, wry. “To point the blame as firmly and quickly at you as possible. Which means we need to trace this person’s steps to the other place we know they went sometime between the close of the school day and the moment Oakley was found—”
“The drama department.” Embry’s wide eyes met Rye’s widening smile.
“Precisely,” he said. “This killer could’ve murdered her and put her on display in the dress she was wearing on Friday night but instead went to the trouble of clothing her in your very memorable and very hideous costume forInto the Woodsas an extra jab in your direction.”
A jab that would’ve been immediately recognizable to the football players who did double duty as actors and techies in their advanced stage performance class.Absolutely diabolical.
“So,” she agreed, “we can deduce the killer went to the costume closet before or after they murdered Oakley. If we’re lucky, they were sloppy about it.”
It was a brisk walk to Marlow Theatre from the stadium—only five minutes or so, even with their careful route through the shadows. Rye led Embry to the backstage door and frowned.
“No sign of forced entry,” he said with all the confidence of a real detective, not just one who had once played Hercule Poirot with a magic-enhanced mustache.
Embry squinted at him. “How do you know that? You’re not a professional.”
“I’m not,” Rye conceded, “but I have seen quite a few heist movies and episodes of the numerous iterations ofCSI, and can tell you we’d spot scratches, a busted latch, or broken glass. Do you see any of those things?”
“What if this person used magic to open the door?” Embry gestured between them, and very much tried to ignore that they were standing close enough together that Rye’s shoulder grazed hers as they bent over the lock. “I mean, we’re going to have to use magic to open it.”
There weren’t many spells that manipulated metal in a way that wasn’t messy, but Embry had a few in her back pocket. They weren’t exactly made for picking locks—witches weren’t ever common thieves—but in a pinch, they should work.
“Ah, but we’re not.” Rye fished a key on a lanyard out of his pants pocket. When Embry narrowed her eyes in question, he just shrugged. “Being assistant director has its privileges.”
Embry frowned as Rye effortlessly unlocked the door and held it open for her. “How many copies of that key are there?”
“As far as I know, Jonesy and I have the only copies.”
“What about the janitorial staff? Or the grounds crew? Maintenance?” Embry bit her lip—she honestly wasn’t sure if that was technically the same group of people under a different name. “All possible keys to ‘borrow’ on a Friday night, correct?”
“Correct. Perhaps even Headmaster Martinelli herself.” Oh, yes, indeed. “Let’s see what we find in here and come back to that if the manner in which they entered seems important.”
Rye closed the back door as quietly as possible and latched the lock from the inside. Even on a Monday, it was still too early for Jonesy to come to work, so Embry took this action not as protection against the drama teacher’s notice, but instead to anyone who might have seen them enter—including the killer.
The inside of the theater was dark. Windows were nonexistent in the back of house, which meant their friend the moon was nowhere to be seen. Embry snapped her fingers, and a small tendril of flame welled in her palm. Rye did the same.
