Page 20 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Sad, but true.

The thought makes my stomach churn, and I set my toast down. "That's bleak."

"That's reality." He takes another bite of eggs, chewing mechanically.

"I could do a locator spell," I offer. “Maybe we can track the killer down that way?”

Jasper's fork clatters against his plate. "A locator spell?" His eyebrows lift in that condescending way that makes my teeth grind. "With what, exactly? You need something belonging to the killer, and they were thorough. While you were upstairs sleeping, I examined every inch of the scene. No scent trail. No blood spatter. Not even a stray hair." He exhales through his nose. "They might as well have been a ghost."

Heat crawls up my neck and into my face, the embarrassment prickling beneath my skin. The most basic rule of locator magic, something I've known since I was mixing potions in my mother's kitchen, and it completely slipped my mind. Some powerful witch I am, forgetting Spellcasting 101.”

I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth, hoping to cover my flush with a show of chewing, “Never mind.” I mumble.

Whiskers watches me over his plate, eyes bright with barely contained amusement.

I glare at him.

He only grins wider, little fangs flashing. "Perhaps, we can begin with interviewing the last people to see the victims alive and go from there?”

I raise an eyebrow. "That's…surprisingly practical."

"One of us has to be," the ferret says, shaking a piece of loose cheese from his whiskers, "But before that, maybe we should visit the sheriff’s office first before they officially announce Jasper dead."

The corner of Jasper's mouth lifts slightly into that ghost of a smile I once knew so well, and something in my chest constricts. "I hate to admit it," he says, "but the rodent might be onto something."

"Ferret," Whiskers and I correct in unison.

For a moment, the kitchen feels almost normal. Just the three of us planning together as we've done countless times before. Then Jasper stands, gathering the papers into a neat stack, and the distance returns to his eyes.

Right.

Jasper's brow furrows. “What about the festival? The crowd will start any minute now. What are we going to do about that?”

“Oh,” Whiskers and I share a look that screams "busted" before I clear my throat. "About that. I may have called Mayor Bishop yesterday and suggested she announce our farm is closed for renovations until two weeks before Halloween. You know, just a little seasonal refresh."

"Smart thinking, I guess. Well, we should head into town soon," he says, his voice empty of the affection that once colored every word to me. "Time's wasting."

I polish off the rest of the food on my plate, brush the toast crumbs from my mouth, and dump my plate in the sink.

I’ll wash the dishes later.

As Jasper carries his plate to the sink, our fingers brush when I reach for it—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through me. Static electricity, I tell myself, though we both pause at the sensation. His eyes meet mine, searching, and for just a moment, I glimpse confusion there, as if some part of him recognizes something's missing but can't quite identify what. Then the moment passes, and he turns away, leaving me with a dirty plate and the hollow realization that bringing him back isn’t going to be the hardest part. The real challenge lies in facing what came back in his place.

***

The road winds through Pennington Falls like a ribbon of dark velvet, taking us past storefronts I've known my entire life. Fall decorations hang from every lamppost—not the plastic ghosts and cardboard witches the tourists expect, but ancient protection symbols woven into harvest wreaths, genuine blessed objects that the supernatural residents recognize with subtle nods. I grip the steering wheel tightly as Jasper reaches for the radio dial for the fifth time in as many minutes, his fingers turning the knob with unnecessary force.

"This music is unbearable," he mutters, skipping past a peppy pop song. "When did everything start sounding like synthesized garbage?"

“Since you died, old man. Now quit your bitching,” I say, flicking off the radio entirely.

I sense Whiskers vibrating with suppressed laughter from his spot in the cupholder, where he’s curled himself into a fluffy comma and pretends not to be eavesdropping.

Jasper doesn't respond, just glares at me before staring out the window with that flat expression that's become his default.

Grump ass.

His reflection in the glass unsettles me. All the parts that made him beautiful are still there—that sharp jaw that could cut glass, that shock of white hair falling just so—but something vital has vanished from behind his eyes, like someone reached inside and scooped out the light.