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But he was gone, and his killer was still on the loose. Maybe the things Nigel said hurt me so badly because I had thought them all myself as well. I’d wondered if I could have helped Micah more if I had powers. I wondered if I was truly the best partner for him. And maybe instead of forcing an answer to those questions, it was easier to be angry with Nigel for asking them.
It was too bad that the guy was such a douche, because he was undeniably gorgeous. Nigel was a head shorter than I was, and had pale skin, beautiful hazel eyes, and dark blond hair, which also framed his strong jaw. He was exactly the type of man I would be interested in…if he didn’t make my blood boil.
I snuck a peek at Nigel, who sat up straighter and beamed brightly, looking like a puppy whose owner finally gave it a little attention. I snapped my eyes back to the road and pursed my lips together to stop a smile of my own. Nigel looked even better with a grin than a scowl. The prick.
“Here we are,” I announced when we finally reached our destination, a small business that on most days would be overlooked, given that it was surrounded by buildings three and four times its size. But this business was charming; a small converted house with white siding and a wrought iron fence around its tiny yard. There was a sign hanging outside that read “The Mystic Madame Margot”.
But my announcement was unnecessary, as it was obvious this was our intended stop; the area was cordoned off with yellow police tape, and several cruisers and emergency vehicles were parked along the street. I groaned when I saw there were also many media vans gathered around, along with crowds of reporters and camera people.
“Look at these vultures,” Nigel grumbled from beside me.
“Do you deal with this back home?”
“Not to this extreme,” he answered with a head shake. “This is sick.” I had to agree; informing the public of danger was one thing, but the news outlets sometimes took things to the extreme, even seeming excited about tragedy. Horrible stories drew many viewers, which only fueled the media’s hunger.
I would know; after Micah’s murder, I couldn’t escape their scrutiny. My phone constantly rang with reporters wanting to ask me questions, and there was always someone waiting on my doorstep with a microphone.
They wouldn’t allow me to grieve. I was tailed by news vans as I planned my brother’s funeral. They recorded the service and blasted it across every channel. I couldn’t escape; the details surrounded me at every turn. The gruesomeness of his murder made them ignore my privacy.
“Are you okay?” Nigel asked, pulling me from my bleak thoughts.
I nodded, hoping I looked more confident than I felt. “Let’s just get this over with.”
As soon as we stepped out of our vehicle, Nigel and I were swarmed by reporters, who were apparently undeterred by the rain, and who hurled questions at us so quickly and loudly that I couldn’t make out any of their words.
That is, until a woman with curly red hair shoved a microphone in my face and shouted louder than everyone else, “What can you tell us about this attack?”
“No comment,” I replied as I tried to make my way towards the building. I literally had no comment; I knew nothing about what we were walking into, except that there was a dead female body of the business owner that we needed to inspect. I was unsure how the media received any information before we did; my best guess was that they followed the vehicles of emergency services.
The curly haired woman’s cameraman whispered something in her ear, and she gasped before shouting again, “You’re the brother of the killed officer! Was this attack committed by the same person who killed your brother? Are we looking at a serial killer?”
With those questions, the crowd went crazy. Their words grew louder, and their questions came more quickly. They closed in on us until people actually had their hands on me. But I was frozen, transported back to the time right after I lost Micah. It was too similar to ignore. Words escaped me, and my feet and hands were numb and immobile.
I flinched when a loud pop sounded from beside me. I looked over to find Nigel lifting his wand in the air; he’d released a noisy yet harmless flare that quieted the crowd. He shoved the wand back into his jacket and yelled at the reporters, “The next one who speaks gets hauled into the station, and the next person who touches my partner will get a flare right up their arse!”
The press technically had the right to ask as many questions as they wanted, but Nigel’s threat was enough to settle them down. The group also backed away from me, making sure not to touch me, even by accident.
