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“Hmm ...,” Maeve says. “I think maybe you do know. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
Maeve turns at the same moment I do at the sound of a twig snapping. Three men stand on the hill watching us. Wearing various shades of green fishing vests with poles attached to their khaki backpacks, theylook like they just walked off the pages ofField & Streammagazine. They smell like they walked out of a brewery.
The tallest of the three assesses both of us, and his attention focuses on Maeve. It remains there as a hardness sets into his features. My pulse kicks up.
“I thought you’d be taller,” he says.
“Can I help you boys?” Maeve asks, stepping toward them, seeming to grow taller under their glares.
“We were fishing over there.” He gestures vaguely to the lake. “Got turned around. Found you. Lucky coincidence.”
“Looks like you didn’t catch much.”
“No.” He glares at Maeve. The space between them feels fragile. “Seem to be having some bad luck holding on to things lately.”
Maeve sucks her teeth. “Some things aren’t ours to hold.”
“Some things aren’t any of your business.”
The other two cross their arms over their broad chests, their shirts straining against the flexed muscles.
Maeve tilts her head. “I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. If you’d like to come in, I can get you some water. It’s a steep hike, and the day is pretty warm.”
As if hearing their cue, the last puffs of cloud stretching across the sun slide away, and sunshine floods the space. My temperature spikes.
“We don’t accept water from witches.” He sneers and turns to me. “Or their friends.”
Even with the heat and light now beating down onto us, my teeth start to chatter.
Maeve sighs audibly. “Honestly, is this how you want to spend the rest of your morning? Harassing a single woman working in her garden?” Her hands go to her hips, and she studies the three intruders. “Let me guess. You’re born and raised in Kingsette. Your father is a science teacher at the high school, and your mother runs a day care from her home. Your older brother moved out a few years ago and iswaiting tables in Manhattan. You feel abandoned by him. It makes you feel unworthy.”
A red flush laces up his throat. His fists clench by his sides. “What, did you stalk my social media?”
“How could I have known you were coming?” Maeve touches a finger to her lips. “Hmm, you said yourself, I was a witch.”
The boy stalks toward Maeve, and his two friends follow on his heels.
She stands straighter and lifts her chin, meeting him glare for glare. He’s three inches taller and at least seventy-five pounds heavier. Still, Maeve somehow overshadows him.
“You’re a scam artist. You’re manipulating people, making them act in all kinds of crazy ways.”
“Am I a scam artist or a witch? It would be best if you made up your mind.”
The boy makes a sound like a growl, and recognition sears through me. “You’re Rory Lefner. You’re engaged to Bailey.”
He swivels his head toward me. “Was engaged to Bailey. Until Bailey started coming here and got her head all messed up. And how do you know that?”
The boy flanking Rory’s left startles when our eyes meet. I realize I recognize him too. All of them are familiar.
Maeve sighs. “Have you said what you needed to say? It’s getting quite warm out here, and if you boys won’t come in, then I think we’re done here.”
“What’d you do with the engagement ring? She told me she doesn’t have it anymore, so that must mean you have it.” A muscle flutters in his jaw. “Is that the scam? Is that how you keep this pretty little garden alive? Not on my dime.”
He pivots and stalks into the garden, heavy boots trampling delicate blooms. As he moves, he snatches flowers up from their plots and discards them as if they are nothing. As if they are worthless.
His hand reaches for my rosebush. The moment he tightens his grip, a yelp escapes him, and he wrenches his hand back. A rivulet of blood leaks down his hand. He smears it on his pants and reaches instead for a plant with dull-purple bell-shaped flowers. He yanks as his foot stomps at the roots. I gasp. A shadow crosses Maeve’s features, darkening her eyes, the hollows of her cheeks. Making her look other. In that moment, I believe every menacing rumor whispered in town.
Rory drops his first victimized flower to the ground and crushes another in his fist. The crunch of stem and crinkle of delicate petal grate along my panic. The flowers are blameless, yet they are bearing the brunt of Rory’s cruelty.
