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It was about fifteen, truth be told, but fiercely sweet, then he was dressed and gone, with his hair still shining and wet. I took my time, relaxing in the spray and the calming scent of the lavender soap.
My cell was ringing when I stepped out. I toweled off hastily, wrapped my hair, and grabbed the phone just before the call flipped over to voice mail. “Hello?” I sounded cross, and I was. I hoped it wasn’t my day job calling, because if it was, I didn’t sound nearly enough out of it.
Instead, I got a male, totally unfamiliar voice. “You were asking questions about a witch who’d made an avatar recently.”
“That’s right.” I felt a quick burn of excitement. “Do you have a name?”
“I do,” the voice s
aid. “But understand, I don’t like doing this.”
“I appreciate that. I won’t ask. All I need is a name, and I won’t tell anyone where I got it. I’m not asking your name, either.”
There was a long hiss of silence, as if the caller was debating hanging up, then the man said, “You know him. I’ve seen you with him.”
I frowned, racking my brain for all of the witches I’d met with in the past few months. There were at least fifteen, about a third of them male …
“It’s the one you brought back,” the voice said. “The one who won’t die. Toland.”
“What are you—” Silence settled cold inside. I was aware of the whisper of traffic outside on the road, of wind in the tree by the window, of the rattle of the air-conditioning kicking in, the warmth of the sunlight on the towel over my legs.
But the world had stopped. Just … stopped. For me.
“You’re wrong,” I said. I didn’t even mean to say it, but the words came bubbling up, out of control. “He didn’t. He’s a resurrection witch, not—”
“He can do both. He’s the only one who can do both. Didn’t you know that?”
And the caller hung up without waiting for an answer.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, numbed and empty. No. No, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
But I remembered. He’d brought home five thousand in hundred-dollar bills. Cash. The way that illicit transactions were done all over the world.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
But he’d thrown himself into this with a furious intensity—been gone all night—interrogated a murdered man for information … was that the action of someone trying to help me, or someone trying to cover his own guilt?
Oh God, God, God …
Deep breaths, Holly. Give him a chance to explain. You can’t believe this, you can’t just think he would do something like this. You know him.
Did I? I’d seen Andy grow more and more frustrated over the past few weeks, feeling useless to contribute toward our money problems. Feeling less of a man for not finding his chosen employment in this vastly changed world. He was used to simpler times, direct actions, clear rules.
I suddenly knew … knew, with a sick wave of despair. He was guilty. Guilty of making the shell of the dead girl, at least. It sickened me, but I could believe that. He hadn’t resurrected her, though. I knew him better than that he’d coldly looked on as she was tortured, mutilated, killed.
Still, there was something bitterly disappointing about this … not just that he’d taken money from a serial killer, but that …
That he hadn’t trusted me enough to confess it.
Oh God.
I dropped the phone on the table, leaped out of the bathroom, and pulled on clothes as fast as I could. I was shaking and panting with panic, because I knew, knew that he’d lied to me. It wasn’t just asking questions, not anymore.
Andy was out there tracking down a killer, and he was probably closer than anybody knew. Close enough to be in real danger.
I dialed his cell phone. It rang, and rang, then finally he picked up and said, “Bad time, Holly.” He was panting, and I could tell he was running
