Page 12 of Tragic Ink
Chapter 5
Two days passed quietly.I worked and ate and slept—all the while waiting for Rhys or Ada or even the police to come sniffing around. But none of them did. I felt like I was being watched, but every time I turned to look or tried peeking out my windows, there was nothing there. Ethan remained uneasy, so I knew it wasn’t all in my head, but I also had no idea what to do about it. Grief set in, causing me to tear up every time something small and stupid reminded me of my mother. I kept the tears at bay with a small tattoo I inked onto on my right hip. A box of tissues that, when directed properly, did the trick to keep my emotions at bay while Iworked.
It was the first magical tattoo I’d given myself in years. Ada’s claims about the mountain lion had spooked me, but after no visits from the police or any more news, I forced the issue from my mind. Besides, Aelwyn would have loved that I’d used my gift, and that made it okaysomehow.
By the third day, I was starting to grow impatient with the police. They said they’d reach out when the investigation would allow me to pick up Aelwyn’s body, and I needed to make arrangements for herburial.
I woke to my alarm and dressed quickly, intent on a cup of coffee before making my way to the police station that sat around the corner next to CityHall.
As I walked, the back of my neck prickled with a strange sort of awareness. Someone was watching me. No, scratch that. Everyone was watching me. Or maybe not watching but seeing. Three different people stopped to say hello and ask how I was doing as I passed them on my walk to Broastful Brew. That neverhappened.
In fact, ever since my Awakening a few years ago, when I’d come into my fae powers, most residents of Havenwood Falls had made it a point to avoid me completely. It was as if I wasn’t even there. Unless they came looking for a tattoo. But that was anothermatter.
Today, something was different. The way Mabel, the coffee shop’s owner, smiled at me as she said “good morning” was wrong somehow. It felt like too big a gesture. Or maybe I was just grumpy pre-coffee.
“Hot damn, where did you get those boots? They’reawesome.”
I turned slowly at the voice. “Are you talking to me?” I asked, shocked to find the girl behind me blinkingexpectantly.
She smiled. “Yeah, those boots are rad. I love the vintage vibe. Did you get them atCallie’s?”
“Uh. No.Amazon.”
She laughed. “That was my second guess.” Before I could respond, she leaned in and whispered, “We’ll let this be our secret, though. Wouldn’t want to make Callie think she was losing heredge.”
I nodded in agreement. Callie’s Consignments was the local spot for anything vintage. She did get some cool pieces from time to time, but buying something would have required I interact with actual people. Something I tried to avoid at all costs. And usually it wasn’t difficult—untilnow.
Did I know this girl? Maybe we’d met and I’dforgotten?
“I recognize you from your shop, Tragic Ink. You know, if you’re looking for somehelp—”
“Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I have some place tobe.”
“Sure, yeah, no problem.” She waved me off with a bright smile. “Nice to meetyou.”
“You, too,” I managed before slipping out the door and into the sunshine, coffee in hand. A twinge of guilt twisted in my gut at how rude I’d been to the girl. She seemed nice, actually, in that overly friendly way that could sometimes be annoying. It would have been great with the customers. But I’d had an intern once, last summer, and while Cole was talented, it hadn’t gone well, despite the convenience of having someone else do my coffee runs. I wasn’t ready to take onanother.
I let the cardboard cup warm my fingers as I walked, using my free hand to pull my hat low over my forehead. Head down, I blazed a trail across the street and inside the police station, determined to get there without another “friendly”encounter.
What was wrong with peopletoday?
* * *
The receptionistat the front desk took my name and information and disappeared through a door behind her glass window. When she didn’t return right away, I wandered into the waiting area and took aseat.
Several minutespassed.
And then severalmore.
I tapped my fingers against my thigh and drank my coffee. When it was gone, I got up, tossed the cup, and began pacing. Finally, I satagain.
By the time the door opened, my mood had turned dark and my patience was wearingthin.
Deputy Conall stood in the open doorway that separated the seating area from the receptionist’s desk. His eyes were distant and his smile forced. Overly polite. “Miss Facharro. What can I do foryou?”
I stood up. “I’d like a status update on my foster mother’s case. I was supposed to hear back when it was clear for me to have her picked up. I need to make arrangements with the funeral home and a transport to take herto—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Facharro,” he cut me off, frowning now. The smile—and the politeness—were gone. “Your foster mother’s remains have already beenreleased.”
