Page 60 of These Witches Don't Burn
“Sure.” Mom calls for a doctor to get me examined and approved for discharge. I’m told to get plenty of rest. My parents brought fresh clothes with them to the hospital, and I’m beyond grateful to slip into clean yoga pants and an extra-soft T-shirt.
Before we can leave for Gemma’s room, there’s a sharp knock on my door. Mom opens it, and Detective Archer steps through. He’s wearing a slim-fitted black suit today, a far cry from the casual jeans and polo he was wearing last night with Lauren.
I reach for my mom’s hand, pulling her close. “I don’t want to speak with him.”
“Hannah, we talked about this,” she whispers. “It wasn’t the detective.”
“How do you know? He could have an accomplice.”
Mom sighs and looks to Detective Archer. He nods. “Go ahead, Marie. You can tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I step away from my mother. “Why does he know your name?”
“Hannah, Detective Archer is an agent with the Council.” Mom’s words rattle around in my brain like rocks spun in a can. “Your grandmother met with him and his assistant last night.”
“But he’s...” My words wander off, and I piece together every interaction I’ve had with the detective since he arrived at the bonfire in the woods. His interest in signs of witchcraft. His interrogation after the fire at Nolan’s house. Was he searching for proof of an out-of-control Elemental? Was he investigatingme? “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry for the deception, Miss Walsh.” Detective Archer—who’s reallyAgentArcher—takes out the little notebook from his inside pocket. “What can you tell me about the accident last night?”
I shake my head, trying to place Archer’s Clan. He’s not an Elemental. I would have noticed his power right away. The Council always has at least one Blood Witch among their ranks, sometimes two. Could that be him? Did he draw those runes to flush out the Hunters? Does Blood Magic even work that way?
Detective Archer looks up from his notebook. “I’m a Caster.”
“Oh, I wasn’t—”
“You were. Now please, Miss Walsh, last night?” He taps his pen on his notebook.
Annoyance flares inside me, but I force it down. This man is an agent for theCouncil. One wrong step and he could recommend that the Elders take my magic. So I tell my story, making sure to emphasize that Gemma saw nothing. That she’s completely innocent in all this, a victim the same as me. More even, since she was hurt because ofmyaffiliation with the Clans, something she knows nothing about.
What I don’t say, despite it being heavy in my mind, is that this ishisfault.
The Council is supposed to protect us from Witch Hunters. Where was Archer when that SUV ran me off the road? Wherewas he when a Hunter attacked Veronica in her home? Was he too busy making heart eyes at my boss to do his job?
“Can I see Gemma now?” I ask, directing the question at my mom. I’m anxious to see her, to see if she remembers what happened, and my stomach is growling. I don’t know how many meals I’ve missed. Two at least, maybe three.
Detective Archer nods, like the question was meant for him. “Of course. I have to question her anyway.”
“Can I have a few minutes alone with her?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as guilty as I feel. “She’s my best friend.”
He looks to Mom, who nods. “You can have five minutes, but then I will need to question her and see what she remembers about the crash.” Though he doesn’t specify, I know exactly what kind of memory he’s searching for.
I follow the detective through the hospital, trying my best to keep my face neutral. Despite the soreness in my body and the onslaught of worries in my head, I keep pace with the Council’s agent. He stops when we round a corner and gestures down the hall. “She’s in room 408. I’ll wait here. Five minutes, Miss Walsh.”
“Thank you,” I say, my words high and squeaky. Nervous sweat coats my palms as I inch down the hallway. Through the open door, I spot Gemma’s parents, and my fear grows toxic. Mrs. Goodwin looks like she could be Gem’s older sister. They share the same face, if separated by three decades of experience and stress. She sits on the edge of Gemma’s bed, much like my mom did with me. Gemma’s leg is wrapped in a bright-pink cast and suspended above the bed by cloth slings.
My heart lurches in my chest. She’s alive. Mom said she was fine, but seeing her awake and sitting up with her parents sends tears rushing to my eyes.
Mr. Goodwin stands beside the bed. Where Mrs. Goodwin is grace and poise, her husband is solid and earthy. He’s a burly man, clad in flannel and the thick hipster glasses he’s had since forever. Well beforehipsterwas a thing. He runs a hand over his beard, a nervous gesture I’ve seen before. He glances to the hallway.
And spots me.
His gaze goes hard, and I knock on the open doorframe. “Hey.” The rest of my words dry up. How am I going to explain this to her parents? They’ve spent the last year afraid I would turn their daughter into a lesbian. Instead, the witch in me has landed her in the hospital.
“Hannah!” Gemma reaches for me, her eyes spilling over with tears. “You’re okay. No one would tell me anything.”
I step forward to embrace my best friend, but Mrs. Goodwin blocks my path. “I thought I told the nurses we didn’t want any visitors.”
“Mom,” Gemma snaps, but the blow has already landed. I fall back a step, bracing an arm on the door.
