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  My pleading sounded pathetic to my own ears, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I have a warrant,” he said flatly. “She’s wanted for murder. I have to take her in.” His face settled into hard lines, and just like that, he was in full-on cop mode. “Stand aside.”

  He didn’t physically move me, but I felt his fingers tense where they rested on my shoulder. Ready to toss me aside should I prove to be a problem? I jerked away, breaking contact and whirling to face Gran, a feeling of panic sweeping over me. This couldn't be happening.

  “Gran!” I cried and she cupped my face in her hands.

  “It's okay, child, just breathe. And call your parents. I'm going to need a lawyer and your dad has contacts.”

  She kissed the tip of my nose and released me, then addressed Jackson over my shoulder. “Let's go, Detective.”

  I stood frozen to the spot as Jackson stepped around me, and before I could so much as suck in a breath, Gran’s hands were cuffed behind her back, and Jackson was giving the right-to-remain-silent speech.

  “I see you’ve heard I like handcuff play,” Gran observed, giving him a cheeky wink. Jackson actually blushed and I stared—partly in horror, partly in disbelief. Gran was being arrested and here she was, flirting with the sexy-as-hell cop who was intent on locking her away.

  “Gran.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt the weight of Jackson’s gaze but refused to meet his eyes, instead keeping my own glued to Gran. How could he do this? Gran wasn’t a murderer! My respect for him plummeted and I’m not sure what hurt more, Gran’s arrest or the actions of a man I considered a friend.

  The door clicked shut behind them, as soft as a whisper yet as loud as thunder in its finality. A lump knotted in my throat, and I balled my fists at my sides. I rushed to the window and peered outside, watching as Jackson assisted Gran into the back seat of his car. He shut the door gently then turned to look at the house. I quickly dropped the curtain and stepped back from the window, not wanting to be caught spying. Not that it was spying, technically. Watching. Yes, watching was a better word. But it didn’t matter what I called it, I didn’t want Jackson to know I was doing it.

  My stomach churned and I felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. Gathering my wits, I ran down the hallway back to the kitchen. I dug through my handbag for my phone and with trembling fingers, I dialed.

  “Mom?” My voice broke when the call connected.

  “Harper, love, what's wrong?” Her voice was so clear she could have been standing next to me, but I knew she was thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world in Australia.

  “Gran's been arrested!”

  “Oh God, I knew it was only a matter of time.” Mom sighed. “What for? Public nudity? Drunk and disorderly?”

  “Murder.” There was such absolute silence I thought the line had dropped out. “Mom? You still there?”

  There was a rustling, then, “Harper? It's Dad. What's happened?”

  “Gran’s been arrested for murder. She said to call. That you knew a good lawyer.”

  “What happened?” I could picture him in my mind, always calm in a crisis. I realized it had to be the middle of the night there, that I'd woken them. No wonder Mom had almost fainted. Imagine waking from your sleep to be told your mother had been arrested for murder?

  “I don't know the details. Just that Bonnie Emerson was killed this afternoon and the police think Gran did it.”

  “Okay, love, don't panic. I'm going to call a lawyer in East Dondure, a friend of mine. He’ll be in touch. He’s the best, you can trust him. I'll get your mom and I on the next available flight. We'll sort this out, okay?”

  My chin wobbled and a tear trickled down my cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I miss you.” I hadn't realized just how much until hearing their voices. They hadn't made it home for Christmas, the archeological dig in Australia had kept them there. But now, hearing his deep voice in my ear, I longed to feel his strong arms around me, patting me between the shoulder blades like he had when I was a child, assuring me everything would be okay.

  “I miss you too, sugar. We'll see you soon.”

  Chapter Three

  Archie meowed, curling himself around my legs. I scooped him up, burying my face in his fur.

  “I can't believe Gran killed her,” I said. “Not intentionally.” I added, for there was no denying Gran had returned home this afternoon frazzled and dazed after her run-in with Bonnie. Archie meowed again, bumping his nose to my chin and snuggling against me. “What do I do, Archie?” I whispered. “Wait for Mom and Dad? That’ll be hours, possibly days, away.”

  Archie wriggled in my arms and I let him go, watching as he gracefully landed on all fours before he began to groom himself, paying particular attention to a patch of damp fur on his side where I'd buried my face. Damn it, I'd gotten snot all over my cat. Then it hit me. Why was I standing here doing nothing when I should be doing something to clear Gran’s name.

  “Oh my god, you're right!” I said out loud. Snatching up my bag and keys, I hurried for the front door, Archie's paws sliding on the wooden floor as he hurried after me.

  I was pulling away, Archie perched beside me on the passenger seat, when another car pulled up outside. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a man, dressed in a suit, heading up the garden path. Gran's date, I presumed, and I felt sorry for the guy who'd effectively been stood up. I wondered who he was, and was incredibly grateful Gran wasn't dating Jackson. Then my mind replayed this evening’s events and my mood switched to one of anger. How could he believe Gran was capable of murder? My jaw ached from clenching my teeth so tight.

  There was only one thing to do. Prove her innocence myself. Which was why I found myself checking out Bonnie Emmerson’s house. Or, to be more precise, breaking into Bonnie Emmerson’s house. Considering the events that had occurred this evening, I felt justified in my actions. I kept telling myself that when I crept around the side of the whiteboard house to the back door. Police tape crossed the front door, so I’d vetoed it, deciding instead to try the rear of the house. Plus, I had less chance of being seen.

  To my utmost surprise, the back door was unlocked, and I paused as the knob clicked beneath my hand. Probably should have worn gloves, I realized, two seconds too late. Sucking in a breath, I glanced around before easing the door open and sliding inside. The door opened directly into Bonnie’s kitchen. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. A chair was pulled out from the table, loose rope pooled around the legs, and the floor around the chair was littered with cake crumbs. Not so much crumbs. Chunks. She died here. In that chair.

  I’d never asked how she’d died and now I wish I had before blundering into her kitchen. Someone had tied her to the chair, that was the only explanation for the rope. The cake was puzzling though. Maybe it had been dropped in the struggle, for there had to have been a struggle to get her into the chair in the first place. Circling the table, I did my best not to tread on any of the cake. There was no blood—so she hadn’t been stabbed. Strangled maybe? There was a lot of rope. More than necessary, in my opinion. Yards of the stuff. Or suffocated? I couldn’t see anything laying around, like a plastic bag, but of course, the police would have taken it as evidence.

  On the table was a bowl of eggs, complete with feathers and smeared chicken poop. Fresh. Home laid. The bowl was full to brimming. A container with the word “flour” on the label stood next to a mixing bowl, along with a wooden spoon. She had either been baking or getting ready to bake. Which made sense given the Decadent Desserts competition was mere days away.

  Covering everything was fingerprint powder. I was wasting my time, I’d find nothing here that the police hadn’t already found. And if I wanted to know what they’d already found, I’d have to talk to Jackson, and hope to god he’d tell me. That’s if I decided I was even speaking to him.

  Archie wove between my ankles, meowed once, and then headed into the living room. Nothing to see here. Archie must have thought the same because
he explored every room downstairs before heading upstairs, and I decided to follow.

  It wasn’t until I stuck my head into the attic that I found anything of interest. This was where Bonnie practiced magic. Not only could I feel the remnants of it, but I could see her altar, a dark purple cloth draped over a dresser, candles, chalice, and mortar and pestle. Her magic was strong—even though she was no longer on this mortal realm, her magic lived on and it pulled and repulsed me at the same time. Shivers danced over my skin as I took a step inside. The floorboard creaked underfoot, unnerving in its loudness. Hesitantly, I crossed the room to the altar, standing where she would have stood countless times before, and looked up and out the round window directly in front of me.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” I said. No reply. Looking over my shoulder, I’d half-expected to see the ghost of Bonnie Emmerson behind me. But she wasn’t there. Peering into the dim corners of the attic, I waited. She didn’t materialize, but I swear I could feel her.

  “Jesus, Harper,” I muttered to myself. “You’re freaking yourself out.” I looked down at the altar and that’s when I noticed it. She’d burned something in the mortar and pestle. I reached in and pulled out a piece of paper, singed around the edges, but parts still legible.

  “What were you putting behind you, Bonnie?” Burning was symbolic. Letting go, releasing whatever it was into the past and moving forward. Only what was it?

  Holding up the paper, I squinted at it. Neat cursive handwriting, and the paper had been scorched in places, but I made out some words—my darling, your beautiful eyes, love. I had to assume what I was holding was a love letter. The amount of ashes in the pestle indicated more than one letter had been burnt.

  “Who was your boyfriend, Bonnie?” I asked out loud, “and why were you burning his letters?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I let out a shriek and spun to face the door, relaxing a little when I saw it was Jackson.

  “I don’t think I should answer that,” I replied, doing my best to look like I just hadn’t been busted breaking into someone’s house. “What are you doing here?”

  “Investigating a murder.” His eyes narrowed on the piece of paper pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Too bad you didn’t do more investigating before arresting Gran,” I snapped. “Then you might have found this.” I held it out and he stepped forward but instead of taking it from me, he peered at it while reaching into his pocket for an evidence bag.

  “Love letter?” he asked.

  “I’d say so. I didn’t know Bonnie was seeing anyone.” I watched as he sealed the plastic bag and tucked it carefully inside his jacket pocket.

  “Nor did I. No one mentioned anything.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Kristen Lane. Know her?”

  I shrugged. “Sort of. She’s younger than me. And a member of the Crescent Coven. In fact, her grandmother, Delores Lane, is next in line to be head witch.”

  “Is that right?” A dark brow arched over impossibly green eyes and I bit my lip.

  “I’m sure she told you all of that herself.” I huffed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in this small space with him. It was so unfair my hormones went into overdrive around him and it was totally unreciprocated. Not to mention, I was pissed at him for what he’d done.

  He inclined his head. “She did. She dropped by to pick Bonnie up, they were having some sort of Coven…meeting?” He fished for the right word.

  “Probably a ceremony,” I supplied. “We’re having one tomorrow night. To bless the Decadent Desserts entry.”

  His eyebrows shot into his hairline. “For real?”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I shot him a look. “For real. A blessing ceremony.”

  “What’s that entail?” With his head cocked to one side, he looked like a curious puppy. My irritation rose.

  “None of your business, Detective.” Brushing past him, I hurried back down the stairs to the ground floor, stopping when I reached the crime scene in the kitchen. I felt his warmth when he came up behind me.

  “How did she die?” I whispered.

  “I could say it’s none of your business,” he drawled, and I stiffened as he continued, “but I won’t. She choked. Large amounts of cake were shoved into her mouth, blocking her airway.”

  “Oh my god. That’s the cake? On the floor?” I pointed with a shaking hand.

  “And the cake? Was it her angel food cake? Her entry for the Decadent Desserts competition?” Because if it was, that was very symbolic. No wonder he thought Gran did it. Not only was Gran arguing with Bonnie, but she was in direct competition with her for the title of Decadent Dessert winner.

  “We believe so. Waiting on forensics.”

  I nodded while studying the table and its contents, pushing aside the horror of Bonnie’s death and how awful it would have been to die like that.

  “Did you see her? Upstairs?” I asked as I looked over at him, remembering the feeling I’d had in the attic.

  Jackson shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It means that who I saw may or may not have been Bonnie. There was an orb, shapeless, hovering in the attic.”

  “An orb? So…not a ghost?”

  “Sometimes the afterlife leaves behind a lot of their energy and it doesn’t fully dissipate, so it remains as an orb, a sentient—usually—ball of power.”

  “Sentient. So, it doesn’t move? Do anything? Do they go away eventually?” I’d never heard of this phenomenon before and was curious.

  “There are no hard and fast rules,” Jackson explained, “I haven’t seen them move, not in a way that indicates they’re trying to communicate.”

  I was thinking about the orb Jackson had seen in the attic and the feeling that I’d had, that Bonnie’s spirit was there, when I had a realization. “I knew something was missing!” I practically shouted, spinning on my heel and hurrying back up the stairs. I passed Archie on the staircase, his fur rising as I rushed past him.

  “Wait! What?” Jackson called out, his feet thundering on the staircase behind me.

  “Bonnie’s grimoire. It’s not on her altar.” Flinging open the attic door, I hurried to the altar, scanning the surface. All her tools for witchcraft were here, but no grimoire.

  “Grimoire?” Jackson asked, joining me.

  “Spell book,” I explained. “We each have our own book where we write our spells and notes and things. Usually they are something that’s handed down through generations. They are very precious.”

  “Valuable?”

  “Not in the monetary sense. But to the magic world, yes, very valuable. I’d even say that aside from her wand, her grimoire is a witch’s most treasured possession.”

  Jackson rubbed his chin, his fingers dragging across the stubble with a rasping noise, loud in the attic.

  “Maybe she kept it someplace else? Locked away for safe keeping?” he suggested.

  I considered what he’d said. It was possible, I suppose, that Bonnie had hidden her grimoire but that raised the question of why. She lived alone. Who was she hiding it from?

  “Doubtful,” I finally said, “but it wouldn’t hurt to look.”

  “Here.” Jackson tossed me a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll search in here, you take Bonnie’s bedroom.”

  Snapping on the gloves, I left Jackson in the attic, rummaging among boxes stacked at one end, while I headed to Bonnie’s bedroom upstairs. Turning the door knob and pushing the door open, I stood on the threshold for a moment, breathing in her scent, which hit me in the face as soon as I’d opened the door. I crossed to the dresser and picked up the bottle of lavender perfume, bringing it to my nose, breathing it in and closing my eyes. I couldn’t sense her here like I had in the attic, but I had the feeling that Bonnie Emerson wasn’t gone, not completely.

  Putting down the perfume bottle, I got to work. I’d considered using a summoning sp
ell, but I had no connection to Bonnie’s grimoire, it would be drenched in the other woman’s magic and essence, potentially blocking any magic I used to locate it. I made a mental note to ask Gran if it was possible to track the grimoire if we didn’t find it today.

  I was feeling through a pile of sweaters in the dresser when a floorboard creaked in the hallway outside.

  “Finished already?” I said to Jackson.

  “Still playing detective, Ms. Jones?” Officer Lilliana Miles asked. I froze, then peeked over my shoulder. She stood in the doorway, her navy-blue uniform immaculate, hands on hips, face cold.

  “Hi,” I offered, not quite sure what I should say.

  Jackson must have heard us because I heard his boots on the attic steps. Lilliana did too, for she crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Not impatiently, not exactly, but more…resigned. As if she’d known we were here together.

  “Who authorized this?” she demanded once Jackson was within earshot.

  “You know I’m involved in this case,” I said before Jackson could respond. Lilliana shot me a look, one that said I should shut my mouth and not say another word. Considering she was the one in uniform, sporting a gun, I opted to do just that.

  “Just hold on a minute.” Jackson brushed past her and stood between Lilliana and me, as if he expected us to launch into some sort of catfight at any moment. I cocked my head, wondering why he thought that. I had no intentions of brawling with his girlfriend. And just who was he protecting in this scenario? Her? Or me?

  “She’s helping me look for evidence.” Jackson kept his back to me, blocking my view of Lilliana. “Why are you here?”

  “Preliminary autopsy results are in.”

  “You could have called that in.” He seemed irritated, his voice tight. “But since you’re here now, you may as well tell me.”

  “In front of her?”

  He inclined his head. “In front of her.”

  “Cause of death was asphyxia as a result of choking. Upper lip lacerations, hematomas to the head, neck, and chest. Contusions to both arms and wrists.”