Sight unseen, p.7
Sight Unseen, page 7
Avoiding eye contact in the elevator is easy. He steps out to find himself face-to-face with a door marked Federal Crime Division. He lets himself in.
Before he can ring the bell at the secretary’s desk, a woman—presumably Seren Landry, according to the precariously placed golden nameplate on the desk—pops up from behind a mountain of folders. She looks no older than thirty-five, with fair skin, a sleek blond bob, and piercing green eyes. She’s dressed in black tailored pants and a white shirt, a bird amulet brooch pinned to her jacket. Folders seem more capable of withstanding a breeze than she does.
“Hey there, how can I help ya?” Her Southern accent is unexpected this far northwest.
“I’m looking for Investigator Sallant. He left this in my mailbox.” Hiram holds up the card.
“That sounds like Gabriel. He’s awfully dedicated to his cases.”
“Dedicated?” Hiram scoffs. “More like relentless.”
“I doubt the victims or their families think that’s a bad thing.” Seren touches a lone lavender bloom rising from the serrated leaves beside her. “The dead can’t seek justice, but the living can.”
She has a point.
“Who are you and what case are you here about?”
“Hiram Ellis and the Botanist.”
Seren nods slowly. “Ah yes. He and Francisco were working on that one long before I joined the team. Are you giving a statement? I can find a private room for you to wait in.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
An awkward beat follows. “Oh my goodness, I never introduced myself. I’m—” She glances at her nameplate. “Well, you already know. I’ll get Gabriel for ya. Have a seat anywhere.”
Hiram nods and picks a chair, checking his watch. An hour and a half left until he needs to be home for Antaris. He doesn’t wait long, surreptitiously glancing at Seren while she works. Gabriel emerges first, only a few inches taller than the secretary. He’s still wearing a criminal amount of plaid, but Hiram is more interested in why the hell he put the card in his mailbox.
“How can I—”
“I already said questioning my son is off-limits.” Hiram slaps the card onto the secretary’s desk.
“The card wasn’t for him, it was for you.” Gabriel gestures to the door. “Wanna talk in my office?”
“No.”
Gabriel grins and turns to Seren. “Can you bring him a bottle of water?”
“Sure thing, hun.”
Once Seren disappears, Hiram reluctantly follows Gabriel back to a cluttered office shared with Francisco, per the twin nameplates. Francisco’s half is tidy, decorated with framed photos and a bamboo plant. Gabriel’s is chaotic. Childlike drawings plaster one wall, and a rock sits on his desk with the name August painted on it in four different colors. Catching Hiram’s stare, Gabriel shrugs. “Kids, am I right?”
Hiram doesn’t understand what the hell Gabriel is implying. “What do you want?”
“I did some digging to prepare for this conversation. Grace Fowler didn’t list you as next of kin, but since hers didn’t arrive, you were notified and given custody of your son. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have any enemies?”
“No, but she had plenty of friends you should track down and interrogate.” Hiram’s reply is clipped with growing irritation. Light flickers, drawing his attention to the window. It’s cloudy out, the air ripe for rain. Probably lightning.
“This isn’t an interrogation. I wanted to talk more about the trickster pendant. I also want to discuss more of the case, but I can’t divulge too much, since you’re not Grace’s immediate family.”
“My son is.” Hiram isn’t fully settled into fatherhood, but he knows he’ll have difficult conversations with Antaris about his mother’s murder in the future. It’ll be worse if he has to explain why he didn’t help with the investigation into her death. “Is he in any danger?”
“He shouldn’t be, but I don’t know what he’s seen, if anything.”
“I won’t—”
“I understand.”
Hiram shifts uncomfortably. “What should I tell him?”
Gabriel’s shoulders sag in the silence. “That his mother fought. She lured the Botanist away from her house, likely to protect him. Right now, that’s all I know. We’re working hard to give you both the rest of those answers.”
A strange tightness presses in Hiram’s chest.
“One more question,” Gabriel adds. “Are you the sun or the moon?”
Before Hiram can answer, Seren knocks on the glass and brings a bottle of water for Hiram and a message for Gabriel. He reads it and rises. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Seren stays behind, tucking her blond hair behind her ear. Hiram notices the discoloration.
“It’s a birthmark,” she volunteers. “Wherever I go, or however I do my hair, people stare. It’s better to get it out in the open, I think.” She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, someone just walked up to my desk. Excuse me. Gabriel should be back soon.”
Hiram ignores the water and glances around. He shouldn’t snoop, but with Gabriel gone, he has a little time to satisfy his curiosity. The files on Gabriel’s desk are from the Botanist case, though they don’t pertain to Grace’s murder. Perplexingly, the top file details a home invasion six years ago with a sticky note that has keywords like Omnipresent magic, curse detection, and witness to the first Botanist killing two days before. The photos show a violent encounter. The place looks like a bomb went off.
Discrepancies jump out immediately. The assailant’s point of entry is listed as the front door, and their exit is listed as the window, which makes sense, but the splintered wood of the front door doesn’t look right. Pictures of the patio door on the ground-floor apartment show no damage. It doesn’t make sense. Hiram flips the page to the victim’s statement and nearly drops the file when he sees a picture of the victim.
Veda.
He memorizes every angle, bruise, and cut—down to her busted lip—and scours the file for more details. Not about the case but about her. All pertinent information appears to be redacted, including her last name. Hiram shuts the file and leaves before Gabriel returns.
As Hiram approaches the front entrance of Weston Academy from the parking lot, a teenager on a skateboard barrels past, slapping a hand on Hiram’s chest as he flies by. Disoriented, Hiram stumbles back, but when he turns around to yell at the kid, he’s gone.
A coin is stuck to his shirt. Hiram pulls it off and frowns at the Standing Liberty etched in gold. He drops it, and it jumps back into his hand. He hurls it into the grass, and it flies straight back into his palm.
Shit—it’s spelled. Meant for him. Irritated, Hiram walks inside and manages to charm his way into Peter’s office without an appointment, only to find his best friend expecting him.
“You Saw me coming, did you?”
Peter’s smile is maddeningly familiar. “A few weeks ago. I told Simran she didn’t need to pick him up today because I’m taking him to the used book fair after school. He doesn’t have a tutoring session. I’ll bring him home if you grab dinner after your errands. Khadijah has a lot of patients and won’t be home until late. We’ll watch the game.”
Hiram’s brow raises. “Errands?”
“You’re picking out an office desk, right?” Peter hands him a card. “This place is downtown off Main Street. They do great work. I told them you were coming today.”
Hiram frowns at the card. “I wasn’t planning to get a desk yet.”
“It’ll be ready when you need it.”
Hiram squints at his friend. “You’re having multiple visions about me again, aren’t you?”
Peter gives a tight smile. “It’s annoying.”
To Seers, multiple visions mean a shift in the Cosmos, but the shift isn’t always overt. The last time this happened was around Peter’s graduation, and Hiram can’t think of anything major changing now.
Peter’s eyes slide to his hand. “Are you going to tell me about the coin, or . . .”
“I’d give it to you, but it’s liable to take out my eye.”
“The Standing Liberty symbolizes a readiness for battle, and a desire for peace,” Peter rattles off, then mutters, “Of course they’d give it to you when I’m going to be busy that night.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your return to town has been noticed by everyone, especially Seers. That coin gets you into our monthly town hall meeting.”
“Why would they invite me? I’m an Ellis, one of the only self-aware ones who can say that my family members are some of the worst anti-Seers in the country. That hasn’t changed, and it’s not going to. There isn’t a Seer alive who should want me anywhere near them.”
Peter waves. “Excuse you, I’m right here.”
Hiram laughs. “You know what I mean. Everyone gives you shit for being my friend.”
“It is a thankless job.”
“Khadijah ready to forbid you from seeing me?”
“We’ve argued about you four times since you returned, and she’s only called you a danger to me once.”
“A record low,” he says. “Although I agree with her sometimes. You teeter too close to the line. My mother might begrudgingly like you, but—”
“I’m careful.” Peter gets up to make them peppermint tea. “Might need a lawyer down the road, if you’re up to it.”
Hiram doesn’t think twice. “I’ll start the process.”
“Good. As for the coin, my advice is either figure out why you were invited or keep getting accosted with more enchanted coins.”
“Fantastic.” Hiram rolls his eyes.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“No.”
Peter makes a small, throaty noise. “Then you’re accepting the status quo, but doing that only breeds complacency, which is a dangerous mentality given your proximity to your mother.”
Hiram rolls his eyes. “I’m not curious because I don’t have the bandwidth to give a damn about anything else.”
“That, and you’ve always hated the pressure that comes with being challenged. You know what’s right and what’s wrong, and hate expending the energy you need to hold people accountable.”
Peter isn’t wrong, and Hiram can’t stand it. Silence overtakes the room but doesn’t last.
“Do you have any remedies for nightmares? I have back pain from sleeping on Antaris’s floor.”
Peter tilts his head. “There’s a story here.”
“It’s been the only solution to keep his nightmares from spiraling out of control these past few nights.”
“What does his therapist say?”
“I shouldn’t expect improvement this soon.”
This earns Hiram his first sidelong glance from Peter. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure,” Hiram admits.
“You’re the most decisive person I know.”
He isn’t wrong. Sighing, Hiram lets the first thought escape unchecked. “I’d fire Dr. Kidane just to spite my mother for hiring him. Is that the right decision? I’m not sure, but I do know he’s the highest-rated child therapist in the area.”
“But is he the best?” Peter presses. “They don’t allow Seers on those lists. I’ve mentioned Antaris to a few Seer therapists I know in the area. They’re interested in his case, if you change your mind.”
“You already know how my mother would react. I’m keeping the peace.”
“How peaceful is it, really, if your decision is at your son’s expense?”
Hiram winces. “Are you going to lecture me or tell me how he’s doing in school?”
“He’s struggling, but not academically.” Peter’s expression shifts. “You know, I’ve been meaning to apologize for how he ended up with a tutor.”
“Don’t worry about it. I trust you.”
“I can vouch for her. She—”
“Oh, I’ve heard,” Hiram says dismissively. “I’m giving my mother three strikes, and she’s already used one by overstepping with this tutor. I left her once, I can do it again.”
“Is that why your house looks like a staged listing?” Peter gives him a knowing look. “I don’t think I’ve asked how you are in all of this.”
No one has, but his feelings don’t matter. “My focus is on Antaris.”
“Grace meant something to you, too.”
“A long time ago.”
After meeting through mutual friends, Hiram can count on one hand how many conversations they had before sleeping together. Sporadically at first, then more often. After two years of casually dating long distance, he moved to New York City, hoping to build something lasting.
Obviously, it didn’t.
A world without Grace is nothing new; she’s been gone from his life longer than she was in it. Still, her death was a shock. There was no guide to help him navigate how he felt in the aftermath. Over the last few months, he’s wondered if she would have ever told him about Antaris. But her stone message answered that. She’d planned to take his existence to her grave.
It hurt like hell to learn he hadn’t earned the trust he’d given her so easily. But Hiram isn’t angry. Just determined to prove her wrong.
“I’m fine. I’d rather hear your ideas about keeping my mother at bay.”
Peter snorts. “No, you wouldn’t. Because I’ll tell you that keeping the peace is easier than preparing for war, yet sometimes, war is necessary to find peace.”
“Smart-ass.” Hiram lets the sage comment marinate.
“Come on, let’s see if I can find anything to help with nightmares.” Peter leads the way into the storage room full of potions, ingredients, and student creations organized on three and a half walls of floor-to-ceiling shelving, complete with a rolling ladder.
While Peter searches, Hiram whistles low, spotting a dark jar labeled luminescent moss. “Let me guess, you’ve arranged everything alphabetically, by state of matter, and purpose.”
Peter’s scowl tells Hiram everything he needs to know. He chuckles and returns the jar to its place.
“Surely you came to do more than vent and ask for a tonic you could have bought from an apothecary,” Peter says, holding out a vial. “This was made by our brewing instructor. One drop a night works wonders on Mages.”
In places like Proventia, there’s always one person who knows more than most. Peter has made it his business to fill that role, even among upper-class Mages who dismiss Seers. Hiram decides to try his luck.
“What ever happened to your friend from college? What was her name again?” He snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Veda, right? I saw her at your grad party and asked her name to look her up. You said she was dating someone . . .” Hiram trails off, rolling his hand as if trying to prompt Peter’s memory.
One blond brow rises. “Veda? Well, yeah. I still talk to her, obviously. You know she’s—”
“This FCD investigators asked me some questions about Grace’s case. Apparently, Grace was a victim of a serial killer called—”
“The Botanist,” Peter finishes. “Did Grace ever come to Proventia?”
“Not that I know of. Why? What does this have to do with Veda?”
“Tell me what happened at the FCD.”
Hiram frowns. “Investigator Sallant keeps the Botanist files on his desk,” he explains. “When he stepped out of the room, I happened to see one of them. I thought it would be Grace’s file, since she’s the latest victim, but it was a report from a home invasion six years ago. Veda’s. Did you know about that?”
Peter blinks as if Hiram has done something horrible. “I did, but let’s circle back to happened to see. You were breaking the law by looking at confidential investigation files on a serial killer that’s been on the loose for six years.”
“Details.” Hiram waves him off. “Did you know that two days after she witnessed the first Botanist killing, the killer broke into her apartment and she fought them off?”
“It’s more complicated than that, but that’s her story, not mine.” He pats Hiram’s shoulder. “Soon enough, you’ll know everything . . .”
It doesn’t take Hiram long to choose the shape and finish of his desk. On the way back to his car, he’s too preoccupied with deciding what to order for dinner to pay much attention. Head down, he walks without looking. The first two times he hears approaching footsteps, he glances up. The third, he doesn’t. Disoriented, he stumbles.
A bike helmet hits the pavement. Apologies tumble out as he stoops to pick it up. “Pardon me, I wasn’t paying—”
“Sorry.”
Hiram blinks, needing a second to confirm what he instantly knows. Of course it’s Veda.
Much like at Nénuphar, she looks strikingly different, but this time he’s close enough to see her properly. Dark jeans, a plain red shirt, black leather jacket, and riding gloves. Unremarkable for the season, yet there’s a coldness to her, a fierceness like grazing steel. He spies her necklace; the amulet’s eye catches the light with a brief glint before fading. It’s strange seeing it outside of ink, but his artist did it justice. Most amulets are made with diamonds or rubies, the hardest gemstones by magical standards, but hers is a sapphire. Seeing the imperfections up close makes it clear her amulet was crafted specifically for her.
Hiram knows he should walk away, but the urge to speak overrides common sense. “Do we know each other?”
He expects Veda to play along, as people do, but she surprises him. “I don’t know, do we?”
No recognition. Understandable. Peter’s party was years ago, and they were never introduced. What’s more puzzling is that she doesn’t seem to recognize him from the cave—at least, not his face. Veda takes her helmet from his hand, her cautious annoyance disarming. Equally dismaying is the stark contrast between who she once was and who she appears to be now.
Honesty is the best policy. “I was the man swimming in Nénuphar.”
Veda tilts her head. “The one with my amulet tattooed on him.”
