Page 58 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

Impulsively, I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve got her diaries. You’ll have time to find out.” Assuming I could keep the crossroads from forcing me to kill him before he had the chance.

How much of that pain would I be able to take before it broke me? It was a question I had never wanted the answer to. I still didn’t … but I was afraid I was going to get it before all this was over.

We closed the bookcase and descended the stairs to the first floor together, James a few steps ahead of me. While I hadn’t dared say as much to him, it was so if my legs gave out and dumped me on my ass, he’d be there to catch me.

Skating back to the house was going to be a lot of fun, I could see that already.

“If you have snacks you want during the study party that’s about to get underway, I’d suggest picking them up now,” I said, moving to retrieve my unworn shoes from the rack next to the back door.

James opened his mouth to answer, and froze as the sound of a car’s engine rumbling to a stop washed through the room. He paled. That alone was enough to tell me this wasn’t the day the cleaning service came, and this wasn’t the kind of house where door-to-door solicitors dropped casually by.

There was no way we were getting out of here without being seen. I dropped my shoes back on the rack. James lunged for the fridge. Neither of us said a word, but we both knew this drill. I’d learned it trying to steal a little privacy from two older siblings. James had learned it in a much harder setting, and was thus faster and more efficient in his motions. By the time my ass hit one of the chairs at the kitchen table, there were two glasses of milk and a plate of Chips Ahoy waiting, creating the impression of a wholesome, bucolic afternoon.

I took a big gulp of my milk, only wiping half of the ensuing mustache away as James took his own seat. He blinked.

“Authenticity,” I said, by way of explanation. There wasn’t time to say anything else. We both heard the key turn in the front door, and the door itself swinging open, followed by a heavy boot tread on the floor.

“I saw your bike, boy,” called a man’s voice, almost disdainfully. “Where are you?”

James sat up a little taller, shoulders squaring, chin coming up, like he was preparing to be judged. Which might not have been so far from the truth, all things considered. “I’m in the kitchen, sir.”

I reached out like I was going to take a cookie, waiting until the footsteps grew closer before pulling my hand back. My timing was good: James’ father appeared in the doorway in time to catch the movement, and his eyes flicked to me, drawn like all good predators to the impression of something trying to run away.

“Jimmy?” he said. “Who’s this?”

“This is Annie,” he said, and gave me a besotted smile that spoke well of his future with the local theater group. “She and her friends are renting Cousin Norbert’s house for the fall.”

“Hello, sir,” I said, standing and smoothing the hem of my shirt like I was suddenly anxious about its appropriateness. “You have a lovely home.”

James’ father said nothing as he looked me up and down.

The wedding pictures had been enough to prepare me for the ways in which he was like and unlike his son, and I was grateful to have seen them. What they hadn’t prepared me for was the sheer weight of his presence. He filled the room like a thundercloud, dangerous and fascinating at the same time. He was still in uniform, dressed to protect and serve.

Finally, he asked, “Where are you from, Annie?”

“Vancouver,” I said. West coast accents are fairly interchangeable to the east coast ear, and being Canadian seemed like a good way to cover for any mistakes I made. I hadn’t been born in a barn: I had just been born in another country.

“Huh,” he said. His gaze flicked to the milk and cookies on the table, and then back to me. “You’ve got a little something on your lip.”

“Oh!” I raised my hand to cover it, like I was ashamed, and reached for a napkin. James was already in the process of handing me one. Our fingers brushed. Quick as I could, I pictured Sam naked in my bed, then pictured my grandmother walking into the room. That did it. Heat rose in my cheeks as I jerked my hand away. To the nonpsychic observer, it would look like the mere act of touching hands had been enough to make me blush.

James’ father was not, thankfully, psychic. He lifted his eyebrows, then looked to James. “A word?”

“Yes, sir.” James stood. “Annie, I’ll be right back to escort you home.” So please don’t move.

“All right,” I said. “It was nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise, young lady.” That seemed to be enough to serve as a good-bye: James’ father turned and walked out of the room, and James hurried after.

Moving seemed like a bad idea, especially when the chief of police was interrogating his own son on his intentions toward the tourist girl in the next room over. I took a cookie instead. The fact that Chief Smith had somehow failed to notice that James and I were apparently having the kind of date more appropriate for sixth graders was almost irrelevant. He didn’t know his son. I wasn’t sure he’d ever taken the time to try.

The cookie was store-bought but tasty. I ate another one, and drank about half my milk. It felt good enough on my scraped-up throat that I finished the glass before looking thoughtfully at James’. He hadn’t touched it. I was on the verge of making the swap when James himself came storming back into the kitchen, head down and shoulders hunched.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.” I stood immediately, grabbing the backpack from where it rested next to my chair. “I just need to get my skates on and we can go.”

“Good.” James made for the back door without another word, not even pausing to clean up our “snack.” He grabbed his shoes on the way out. I did the same, although I stuffed mine into the bag before sitting down and starting to lace up my skates.