Chapter 4

4

DECLAN

“ W ell?” My partner, Sebastian Blackwell, intones when I get back in the car.

His body language is relaxed as he lounges in the passenger seat, but I can tell from the bright red skin around his nails that he’s been picking at them in my absence. It’s his nervous tell.

My eyes flick over his shoulder to the shop’s window, and part of me expected that she’d still be there watching me.

“Definitely a witch,” I deadpan, leaning my head back against the driver’s seat.

Bas’s dark brows raise in surprise, and he goes slightly pale. “Seriously?”

I have to force my eyes not to roll in incredulity, but I shake my head in exasperation. “Obviously not.”

I loathed small towns and their gossip. Towns like this one, where everyone knew each other, did not have a heavy workload, but the cases were personal. It’s why they brought me in.

Carolina hadn’t been wrong when she’d called this investigation a witch hunt. The police captain wanted the Castillo sisters in a cell with multiple life sentences, and he wanted the case to be airtight. They were looking for anything to pin on them and needed someone to make it stick. The best way for them to do that was to bring in an unbiased outsider.

I was meant to be a fresh set of eyes for the investigation, but it was hard to get a straightforward story out of anyone here, even Bas—who refused to enter the shop because he “wasn’t interested in a plague upon his house.”

Carolina hadn’t been what I expected, at least not initially. She had been described to me as the “scarier” of the sisters, but it wasn’t until she found out why I was there that her disposition shifted into something harsher.

It was like a switch flipped in her eyes. That sharp gaze that could slice through steel had landed on me, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d stepped into something far more dangerous than I realized.

“Were they both in there?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the shop and then abruptly turning back around.

“Just Carolina.”

He grimaced. Would he have done the same if it was Camila? “Well, what’d she say?” Bas asks, running a hand through his product-laden dark hair.

I wondered if the police captain assigned him to this case or if he volunteered. It was 50/50. On the one hand, he seemed just as wary of the sisters as everyone else and might want to see them behind bars. On the other hand, Bas didn’t seem to want to touch this case with a 10-foot pole.

“Nothing useful. She won’t talk without a lawyer anyway, so it’s not worth bringing her in unless we’ve got something concrete.”

I had no reason to trust her or anyone in this town, but I had a feeling in my gut that she wasn’t involved in this. Her sister could be another story, but–

Bas clicks his tongue. “See, that’s suspicious.”

I frown and raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Is it? A cop shows up at your work and asks you about people disappearing, knowing the town has a ridiculous vendetta against you and you…what? Stick out your wrists, Bas? You’d roll over just like that?”

Bas stares at me for a beat, probably because he didn’t expect me to defend her. I didn’t expect to defend her either because even though my intuition told me she wasn’t the answer to this case, my intuition also told me not to trust her entirely.

It was a strange balance—feeling like someone was innocent but knowing they were still dangerous. Carolina wasn’t directly responsible for the disappearances, but she knew something. Of that, I was sure.

“That family is up to something, O’Reilly. The whole town knows it, and you’ll realize it too.”

Shaking my head again, I turn the key in the ignition but immediately flip it back into its starting position.

“One second,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Where are you–”

I slam the door on Bas’s question and jog over to the shop door, pulling it open so quickly that the bell’s chime is sharper than before. From behind the counter, Carolina’s brows over her deep brown eyes raise in surprise at my sudden entrance. I’ve noticeably caught her off guard.

“Detective,” she says, her lips pulling into a thin line. “Forget something?”

The sight of her is just as captivating the second time, but I try to shake it off. “Just had a question about the menu.”

Her eyebrows move impossibly higher as she glances back at the blackboard frames above her head. “The menu?”

“Everything on this board is written in white—your coffees, your teas, your pastries. But this section,” I walk closer, pointing at the bottom of the sign. “This section right here is written in different chalk. It’s a lavender color.” I sound crazy , I think to myself, but I know there’s something there, so I continue my tirade. “They sound like drinks, but they’re not, are they?”

I watch Carolina’s mouth tug up on one side as if my observation amuses her. “Camila just likes lilac, Detective. They’re drinks.” Her eyes light up, a spark that hadn’t been there before, as she says, “What else would they be?”

It’s distracting. The twinkle in her eyes, that is. She’s distracting, but I don’t know why. It’s making it hard to remember why I was interrogating her about this. Why I’d come into the shop again.

Trying hard to clear my head and remind myself why I’d stormed back in here, I shift my gaze back to the menu to look anywhere but at her. “But they’re not coffees.”

“No,” she replies easily. I can feel the forcefulness and speed with which my brow raises at her response.

“And they’re not teas.” I glance back at her briefly, but it’s still too long.

The smile she gives me before answering feels condescending, and her posture—leaning against the work counter along the back wall, arms folded across her chest—solidifies that she’s indifferent to this conversation.

“Teas are created by infusing herbs and plants with hot water, Detective. By definition, they are teas.” She says it in a way that tells me she could have this discussion all day, and her answer wouldn’t change.

My eyes rove over the purple items called “Medicine Ball” and “Pick Me Up.”

“You’re not thinking these are… potions , Detective, are you?” Her voice is sickly sweet, and I can almost hear her laugh in my head. I could practically feel the sound roll around on the backs of my eyes, but she hadn’t made a noise .

Did I think they were potions? No, but–

I blink rapidly but keep my eyes on the board, willing to find some other explanation for what they could be. “Now, why would I think they’re potions, Miss Castillo? You run a coffee shop.”

“Why, indeed.” She’s toying with me like a cat with a mouse. She knows why I’m asking these questions and wants to see if I’ll say it. If I’ll accuse her of something impossible…something the town has been saying to me since I arrived.

I make the mistake of looking at her again. Why do I keep doing that? I swallow deeply under her gaze that seems to have direct control of a tightness that’s begun percolating in my chest.

Clearing my throat, I try to get my bearings on my senses. It works momentarily, just enough that I finally form a question. “Miss Castillo, are you selling these to the town under the ruse that these drinks have magical abilities?”

She smiles widely, and a laugh as mellifluous as I had imagined in my head moments ago bubbles to the surface.

“No, Detective. I can assure you we are not.”

My jaw ticks because I sense the half-truth. Some of her response is a lie, but I’m unsure which.

There’s a pull in my core to stay here and try to decipher the enigma that is Carolina Castillo and her coffee shop with the strange paintings and teas. Still, I have no real reason to think that they and the disappearances are related—at least not at this moment. If she wanted to sell teas that the townspeople believed were imbued with magical healing powers or whatever else they thought, that was not my concern.

The tightness in my chest flickers again; this time, it’s almost unbearable. It’s unclear whether leaving or staying will alleviate the feeling, but Carolina’s tenacity suggests nothing of use will come from the latter .

“Alright, Miss Castillo. Sorry for taking up more of your time.” She nods at me once, and I turn to leave.

“Detective,” Carolina says, pulling me to look over my shoulder in her direction, but I refuse to make eye contact. “I do so look forward to doing this again.”

Her voice is a purr. It’s as if she’d touched me when my skin prickles with goosebumps under my jacket and shirt.

I don’t respond as I exit the shop. I breathe deeply once out the door, and the outside air hits me. My head clears, like the first morning after a cold, and you regain use of all your senses.

She might not be a witch, but she’s definitely hiding something.