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Huh. Very symbolic, I’m sure.
Another photo is hidden below this one and I lift it out of the drawer. It’s much more recent, very recent, I’d say, the photo of a girl about my age. She’s pretty with dark hair and big gray eyes.
Is she the victim? A chill goes through me. Was she his girlfriend? An idea strikes me. Did it have to do with the motorbike accident? Maybe she was killed then?
I’m going to try my best to find excuses for him, aren’t I? I stare at the photo and the girl stares back at me with wide, gray eyes, her mouth fixed in an uncertain smile—
“Give me that,” a voice says, making me gasp and a hand grabs the photo from mine. “How did you get this?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,” I mutter.
“Didn’t you? How did you open that drawer? It was locked. Fuck, you used magic, didn’t you?”
“No, I…” Did I? I take a deep breath. “Who is she? Is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Why? Is she dead?”
“Dead?” His eyes narrow. “Where’s that coming from?”
I shrug. “Just curious. Like, is there a story there? Why would you keep the photo of a girl who’s not your girlfriend, who’s not dead, either, in a locked drawer? I mean—”
“She’s my sister.”
“Oh.” No wonder those eyes had looked familiar. “Why do you have a photo of your sister in a locked drawer, then?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business.”
“I saved your ass. You said so yourself. I’m only curious.”
He shoots me an outraged look. “Really? Is this how you want to play it? I thought you were different.”
My heart aches, but I make myself shrug again. “It was only a question, Ash. Don’t get like that.”
There’s a sadness in his eyes and I hate myself for putting it there. I open my mouth to tell him to forget it, that I’m sorry I opened the drawer and insisted he tell me about the photo, when he says:
“You’re right. I’ve glamoured the photos.”
“… what? You used aspellon them? Why?”
“I’m not sure I can unglamour them now, with my demonblood so weak but…” He bites into his thumb, touches the edges of the two photos with it, whispers something under his breath. “Ah. Still works.”
The images on them change. The family photo fades to reveal a modern, colorful picture of a family, and this time I’m sure I recognize a younger Ashton, and his sister, too. A small boy is standing in front of him—Tobias, I assume, the one who got hurt—and his parents.
And the other photo changes, too, to reveal another girl, very different from the previous one, blond hair braided around her head, soft dark eyes, a sweet smile.
I make a grab for it. “What about this one? Who is she? Another sister of yours?”
“No. No relative of mine.”
“So why—?”
“I said you were right,” he says. “Her name was Angelica. She’s dead.”
“What? I…” I can’t formulate a question. All I can think of is that Melissa was right. Has to be. “How…?”
“You have asked enough. I think it’s time for you to go. Just…” His hand closes on my shoulder and he jerks me toward him. “What the hell?”
