Page 26 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 9

Jasper

We catch Millie Rogers slipping out of the sheriff's office, her shoulders hunched like she's bracing against invisible rain. She scurries to her black Buick parked at the closest meter, fumbling with her keys and refusing to look up even when our shadows cross her path. Within seconds, she's sealed herself inside the car, engine already turning over.

I follow Delia through the threshold as the twin glass doors wheeze shut behind us. Sheriff Dunmire's weathered face looks up from his desk, the dark circles under his eyes suggesting he's had about as much sleep as we have.

"Nightshades," he acknowledges with a tired nod. “What brings the two of you back in so soon?”

Deputy Margo glances up from her computer, her smile stiff as dried glue. Her eyes dart to my face, then away, then back again, like the universal reaction of someone trying not to stare at a car crash.

Valid reaction.

Delia launches into action before I can speak. "Sheriff," she says, leaning forward with a burst of intensity that once charmed me but now makes my chest ache with hollow fatigue. Her eyes gleam with that familiar determination as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mabel mentioned you have the key card logs from the Moonlit Inn the night Dan was killed. We'd like to take a look, if possible."

Sheriff Dunmire pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Do you know how many attorneys would have my ass if I handed out confidential investigation records to civilians?” he mutters, but he tells Margo to print them anyways.

The printer whirs and clicks, churning out page after page. Margo gathers them with practiced efficiency, tucks them into a manila folder, and delivers it to Dunmire's waiting hand.

The sheriff stands and extends the folder toward Delia with a weary expression. "Just so you know, we've been through these logs already," he says, resignation heavy in his voice. "Found exactly nothing out of the ordinary."

"That can't be right," Delia says, reaching for the folder.

"See for yourself," Dunmire says, leaning back in his chair until it creaks under his weight. "We checked both the electronic logs and had one of our magical consultants run a trace spell over the whole system. No tampering, no unauthorized entries. According to the records, nobody entered Dan's room between his check-in and when the housekeeper found him the next morning."

Delia rifles through the stack of papers, her gaze darting across each line. I position myself at her back, near enough to see the records but maintaining a deliberate gap between us. The logs confirm Dunmire's assessment. It shows hotel staff coming and going, guests accessing their rooms, yet a complete absence of activity for the Mauder suite following Dan's entry at 4:43 PM.

"What about magical entry?" I ask, looking over to the sheriff, "Teleportation? Phasing?"

"Checked for that too," Deputy Margo chimes in, fidgeting with a pen. "We had Linda from Occult Cybercrime test for spatial disturbances. Nothing. Not even a shimmer in the barriers."

"What about surveillance footage?" Delia asks, voice tight with frustration. “Mabel said a few of the guests reported seeing something outside their windows that night.”

Dunmire shakes his head. "System went down that night. Maintenance issue, according to the logs. Checked that angle too and the company swears it was a scheduled update that ran longer than expected."

"Convenient," I mutter.

"Very," Dunmire agrees, surprising me. "But we've interviewed the tech company staff. All human, all with alibis."

Delia deflates before my eyes, her spine curving like a wilting flower. I resist the urge to place my hand on her back, to offer some reassurance. The impulse is there, but the instinct to comfort her feels foreign now, like remembering how to play an instrument I no longer own.

Whiskers' head pops out of Delia's purse, whiskers twitching. "Congratulations on accomplishing absolutely nothing," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Deputy Margo's lips quirk in a sympathetic smile. "We're still working all angles," she offers, though her tone lacks conviction. "We'll contact you if we discover anything relevant."

"Thanks," Delia says, but the word falls flat.

"Look," the sheriff says, leaning forward, elbows on his cluttered desk. "I know this is personal for you both. More than personal." His eyes flick to me. "But we've got the whole department on this. Sometimes these things take time."

Time.

The word hangs in the air between us. Time is something I should have run out of already. Each day I'm walking around in this borrowed existence is a reminder of what Delia risked bringing me back, and of what she might still lose if the Council discovers what she's done.

"We don't have time," I say, each word clipped and precise. "Every minute we spend chasing dead ends is another minute the killer has to plan their next move. The next victim could already be marked."

"We're aware of the stakes, Nightshade," Dunmire responds, an edge of defensiveness in his voice.

I turn toward the door, already calculating our next move. "Come on," I tell Delia, not looking to see if she follows. "We’ll look through the records from the farm’s Harvest Fest opening day. Every visitor, every staff member, anything that overlaps with the last day I was alive."