Page 17 of Charlotte's Story
“Excuse me.” I walked over to him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors. I thought I’d locked the front doors.” He turned to face me, his red-rimmed eyes glowing with a faint golden hue. Maybe he was a shifter. Very few of us were Unmarked in Austen Heights, and those who came through to visit the town, especially during the tourist season, forgot about the magic once they left town.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said, “but I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Are they about a museum tour? Because they won’t start up again for a few days at least.” He waved back the way we came, revealing the faint smell of cranberries, like the driedumeboshimy grandmother used to send in care packages. “You’re welcome to read about the regrets on your way out if you’d like, though.”
I shook my head. “Actually, do you know who the museum owner is? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Wewere hoping to speak with him,” William piped in.
The man’s eyes widened as if he’d just noticed William behind me. “Pastor Collins? What are you doing here?”
William rubbed the back of his neck—something he seemed to do when he was nervous or embarrassed. “It’s probably weird seeing me outside of the church, right? Many people become uncomfortable when I see them in town.”
“I’m just surprised to see you because of what happened yesterday.”
William cocked his head to the side. “You heard about that?”
“Of course I did. The police came to talk to me earlier this morning to let me know what happened to Dahlia.”
“You’re Mr. Ashford?” I asked.
“I am.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. But overall, considering the loss he’d just experienced, he looked remarkably composed, like the weight of his grief hadn’t fully had time to settle over him yet.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” William handed Mr. Ashford the book. “But do not fear loss, for it is written in the scriptures that sorrow might sleep with us for a night, but joy will rise with us in the morning.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Ashford pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his nose. Then, as if he didn’t want us to acknowledge his grief, he turned and adjusted a pillow on an armchair, which seemed to sigh with the movement.
“Did the police tell you anything else?” I asked, wincing at my bluntness that was probably a result of all these years in America. ChiyoObasanand my family in Japan would’ve never been so direct with something this delicate.
“Apparently, they found a small card in her pocket that looked to be signed with an elaborate C.” His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, and I was able to confirm that the ornament they found was hers.”
A C? That seemed to point to Collins again, but what reason would he have had to hurt her? No, we had to be missing something.
Mr. Ashford’s frown deepened. “I also heard they finished their magic analysis from the scene.”
“Did they find anything?” I leaned closer. We needed any clues we could get at this point because I was grasping at straws.
Mr. Ashford’s expression tightened. “I guess there was a third magic in the mix.”
“That makes sense since they said the fibers found on Dahlia didn’t match my jacket,” Firth said. “They were also dark, but the material wasn’t the same.”
“A third magic?” I glanced between them. “What does that mean? Like Dahlia and William’s magic mixed and created something new?”
William frowned. “Not likely. I don’t believe magic does that.”
“So you mean there was a third person there that night?” Someone who got in and out without being noticed—or if they had been noticed, William now had no memory of them.
Mr. Ashford turned to William, his mouth pressed together in a firm line but his eyes wary. “You should be careful. We don’t need anything to happen to anyone else.”
A chill raced over me at his words.
“Why should I be careful?” William’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand the threat.”
He gave William a solemn look. “Because I’m guessing whoever it was last night was really trying to killyou, Pastor Collins.”
Chapter 5
