Chapter Three

Showered with Suspicion

LORCAN

In the bright light of his basement gym, Lorcan studied the cop witch, who was scowling at him with an air of open hostility. The morose expression did nothing to lessen her striking beauty—the shimmering bob of black-blue hair, the warm depths of her brown eyes, and the flawless golden hue of her skin. He shifted his feet on the padded floor mats.

Since the witch hadn’t spoken yet, Lorcan put it on himself to break the ice.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Salem MPD?” he asked with a crooked smile, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat running down his torso.

But the cop trailed the movement with her stunner gun, prompting him to stop mid-motion and lift his hands in surrender instead. He was keeping his perspiration, it seemed.

The witch’s full lips flattened into a thin line. “Mr. Black, you are a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.” Her tone was frosty, guarded.

Lorcan’s brows knitted together. Him, a person of interest? In what, exactly? A hundred unanswered questions swirled in his mind. Before he could voice any of them, the witch spoke again, seeming to anticipate his queries.

“You need to come with us to the station for questioning.”

Hex, that couldn’t be good. But at least, after studying him for another interminable moment, the magical law enforcer sheathed her gun back into its holster at her belt. Phew, he wasn’t about to be shot. For now . The witch might have put the gun away but her glare hadn’t softened at all.

“Am I under arrest?” Lorcan asked, his pulse speeding up.

“Not currently. But we have a search warrant.” With a snap of her fingers, a roll of parchment materialized in her hand. She thrust it at him brusquely.

The thick vellum crackled as Lorcan unrolled it. The elaborate calligraphy of the document shimmered, the jet-black ink still glistening with remnants of the conjuring spell. It was legit, stamped with the official seal of the Department of Magical Justice.

“Gargoyles,” Lorcan muttered under his breath.

He listened in the quiet and, sure enough, muffled footsteps were audible upstairs. This was really happening. Armed witches turning his house inside out looking for… what?

As if on cue, the radio clipped to the witch’s stunner-proof jacket crackled to life, a disembodied male voice reporting in. “Ramirez here. We’ve completed the search of the ground floor. No sign of the suspect.”

“Same for the second and third floors,” a female agent confirmed. “All clear.”

Lorcan held up a hand, his head spinning. “Hold on. Suspect? What in the name of Merlin’s saggy left—”

“Mr. Black,” the cop witch interjected sharply. “I suggest we continue this conversation downtown before you say something you might regret.” Next, the witch pressed a button on her radio. “This is Agent Callidora. I have the suspect in custody. Proceed with a thorough search of the residence for anything suspicious.”

At the mention of her last name, Lorcan’s eyes widened in recognition. A Callidora. The pieces fell into place, explaining the barely concealed animosity radiating off of her. She met his gaze defiantly as if expecting a snide remark about her coven.

But Lorcan merely shrugged, unfazed. Century-old grudges held little interest for him. He had deliberately distanced himself from the drama and politics of the wizarding world, opting for the uncomplicated life of a human job.

But the tension in the air was palpable, the weight of their families’ tumultuous history bearing down on them. Lorcan, to lessen the mood, quirked an eyebrow. “So, Agent Callidora , I don’t suppose a quick shower is on the table before we head to the station?”

She narrowed her eyes, then made a show of sniffing the air, wrinkling her nose in apparent disgust at his post-workout musk. Without warning, she snapped her fingers again. A miniature whirlwind engulfed Lorcan, stripping away the sweat and grime. By the time the mini-cyclone dispersed, he smelled of roses and his hair stood on end as if he’d stuck his fingers into a light socket.

“Much obliged,” Lorcan drawled, the polite words dripping with sarcasm. He ran a hand through his disheveled, but admittedly clean, hair. “Can I at least put some clothes on before we go?”

Agent Callidora’s gaze dipped briefly to his bare chest, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Was that a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks? Interesting reaction .

Clearing her throat, she fixed him with a steely glare. “Make it quick. And don’t try anything clever, or I’ll have to restrain you with iron shackles. Or worse, stun you.”

Lorcan flipped his hand in a mock salute. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

She shot him one last inscrutable look before spinning on her heel and marching out of the basement, leaving him to trail behind. Lorcan quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and pulled a hoodie over his bare upper body. He had no T-shirts hanging around and suspected the witch wouldn’t let him raid his closet for more appropriate clothes. As he climbed the stairs, Lorcan wondered if he should call his lawyer, but discarded the idea. He’d put his trust in the system.

***

Two hours later, after sitting in a gray interrogation room alone with no water, no food, and a steadily mounting frustration, Lorcan was rethinking his decision to trust the system. The metal chair was unforgiving—it bit into his back whenever he shifted, the table in front of him scratched and scuffed, and the flickering fluorescent light overhead was giving him a headache. He’d been left to stew, no doubt a classic interrogation tactic to soften him up before the real questioning began.

Especially effective tonight, since he was still parched from all the fluids lost during his workout and would sell his soul for a glass of water, let alone his secrets.

Just as Lorcan was contemplating whether to start pounding on the door and demanding his phone call, it swung open, revealing Agent Callidora. She strode in, a thick folder clutched in her hand, the heels of her boots clicking sharply against the concrete floor.

“Nice of you to show up,” he grunted.

The detective smiled coolly, sliding into the chair across from him and ignoring his remark.

Lorcan leaned back, the metal backrest digging uncomfortably just under his shoulder blades. “Can I have a glass of water?”

Ignoring his question, the witch flipped open the folder, spreading out several glossy photographs. “Do you recognize this man?”

He pointedly refused to stare at the pictures. “No refreshments, then? Not even a stale donut?”

Agent Callidora didn’t look like she was in the mood for jokes. So, with a huff of defeat, Lorcan leaned forward, squinting at the images. His heart seized in his chest as he recognized the lifeless face staring back at him. The man’s glassy eyes were frozen in surprise, his mouth slack. A trickle of dried blood snaked from the corner of his lips. It was Elijah, Lorcan’s business partner and best friend.

Lorcan’s heart lurched back to life, suddenly beating at double its normal speed. Elijah was dead? Murdered, if the blood and interrogation room were an inkling.

Lorcan swallowed around his dry tongue, almost expecting to burst into tears. But for now, the shock seemed to overwhelm the pain that would surely come to bite him later.

He stared at the detective, speechless, aghast.

She studied him back, assessing his reaction.

After a long moment, she spoke again, her voice measured. “Elijah Preston was found dead earlier tonight in his office at Cornerstone Constructions. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death to be a lethal stab wound at the base of the neck, likely inflicted sometime between nine and ten P.M.”

Lorcan’s mind reeled. A stabbing? Who would want to murder Elijah and why? His friend had his flaws, sure, but nothing that would warrant such a grisly end.

“Where were you tonight, Mr. Black?”

“I…” Lorcan swallowed hard again, trying to find his voice. “I was at home.”

“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“No.” The thumping in his chest worsened. “I was alone.”

Agent Callidora shuffled another picture forward. This time he had no hesitations in looking. It was a photo of a familiar golden dagger with intricate carvings and a bejeweled pommel. “Do you recognize this?”

“Yes, that’s my dagger. A family heirloom.”

“Where do you keep this blade?”

“In my office.”

The detective pouted at that, and if the circumstances had been any different, Lorcan might’ve been fascinated by the curve of that pout. He might’ve even wanted to kiss it right off her lips. But the gravity of the situation quickly squashed away any flirtatious notions.

Agent Callidora tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the photograph. “A strange place to keep such a precious weapon, don’t you think?”

“The blade is magical.”

She raised an eyebrow at that as if to say, no shit .

He hastened to explain. “It tells the beholder whenever someone is lying.”

“How?”

“By growing hot, the bigger the lie, the harsher the heat.”

“So, you kept it in your office as a makeshift polygraph to…” she trailed off.

Lorcan worked his jaw. “Construction is a delicate business. I prefer to know when I’m being deceived,” Lorcan finished, meeting her gaze steadily. “Especially when dealing with potential new contractors.”

Her expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something—doubt, perhaps—flashed in her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “When was the last time you used the blade, Mr. Black?”

Lorcan scratched his temple. “Earlier today. We had a meeting this afternoon.”

“Do you keep it under locks when you’re not using it?”

“No. I just leave it on my desk. It doubles as a paper-knife.” He was aware he was sounding more idiotic with every new answer he gave.

“So that’s where you left it earlier?”

Lorcan frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure. The meeting was in Elijah’s office. I remember taking it in, but not out.” Sweat trickled down his spine. “I honestly can’t tell. I could have left it on his desk.” —for someone to murder him with, Lorcan finished in his head.

“The blade was found buried to the hilt into Mr. Preston’s skull,” the detective confirmed his worst fear.

Lorcan blanched, the blood draining from his face. “I certainly didn’t put it there.”

“Your prints are all over it.”

“Obviously.” He ground his teeth. “It’s my dagger.”

Agent Callidora opened her pretty mouth, undoubtedly to ask him another senseless question, but was stopped before she could talk by a knock on the door.

A junior officer entered the room. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear. Her scowl deepened as she listened, and then she gave a curt nod.

“Thank you, Smith.”

The detective stood up, her face inscrutable as she turned back to Lorcan. “Stay put,” she said, before leaving the room.

And where the hex would he go?