The baby’s cry is piercing, angry tears running down red cheeks. The mother isn’t too far from the same, to be honest. Olive Templeton holds her crying daughter close to her chest making soothing sounds that don’t seem to be making an effect.
They’re in the living room of Olive’s two-bedroom apartment. Sunshine streaming in through the window hits a vase in the corner and sends prisms skittering about the room, alighting on the worn, blue couch and the checkered rug that covers the laminate flooring.
“We understand that this is a difficult time,” Quinn begins, sitting down on the couch.
“Difficult?” Olive’s eyes bounce between the Bureau agents standing solemnly in her living room. “She’s the only family I have…had.” The baby lets out a loud shriek and Olive’s attention zooms in on the child in her arms. “The only family we had,” she corrects herself. She’s the eldest of the Templeton sisters, though based on the photograph next to the couch, Quinn would have guessed that they were much closer in age than the nine years that separate them. Almost without thinking, he decides that, if Harvest was here, she would tell him that Olive’s aura is the twin of Aila’s complicated purple.
But Harvest isn’t here.
Instead, there’s a pain in his chest, her words like a stake through his rib cage. I’m afraid of you. It isn’t true, not entirely anyway; he could hear her heartbeat, see the slightly widened look of surprise as the words left her mouth followed swiftly by the spark of regret deep in her caramel eyes.
She is, after all, a terrible liar.
“May I?” asks Wild motioning toward the baby.
Olive looks like she’s about to say no. Her eyes turn defensive, and she holds the baby closer to her. But then another cry pierces the air and Quinn can see Olive’s resolve break under the weight of her grief, as if she can’t hold both—the pain of her sister’s death and her daughter. She shifts, depositing the baby into Wild’s arms.
Wild runs a gentle thumb across her cheek, mumbling something under his breath, and the cries fade away as the baby’s large blue eyes take her new circumstances. She reaches out and grabs the necklace hanging around Wild’s neck. His wings disappear and the baby gurgles in delight.
Olive sighs deeply at the silence that follows and crumples into the couch, arms wrapped around herself. “Do you know what happened yet?”
“We’re still conducting our investigation, but when we know more, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’d like to ask you just a few questions.”
She squeezes her eyes shut as she nods and takes a deep shaky breath. “Of course.”
“When was the last time you saw your sister?”
Olive opens her eyes and her gaze drifts to a vague spot just above the television set against the wall. “Thursday night. She came over to help with dinner. We put Georgie to bed and then watched a movie.”
“And how did she seem? Was she upset about anything?”
Olive shrugs. “She was mad at Craig but what else is new?”
“They argue a lot?”
She pales. “Yes, but I mean, I don’t think he would hurt her.”
“I wasn’t implying he would.”
“Oh.” She seems relieved. “So you have a suspect?”
“As I said, the investigation is on-going. Why was Aila upset with her husband?”
“Something about him accusing her of an affair. She wasn’t. Having an affair. She was hurt that he didn’t believe her.” She almost laughs before she remembers herself and who she’s talking to. “If anyone was having an affair it’d be him. He was barely around and when he was there, he expected her to do everything for him. He’s a clueless child half the time.”
“Did she say why her husband thought that of her?”
“There was a rumor, maybe?”
“Did your sister have any connection with the Grim Botanical Gardens?”
“Is that where they found her?” When Quinn doesn’t answer, she shakes her head. “No, not that I know of. We’ve been there before, of course. A handful of times while growing up.”
“Are you sure? Maybe she’d been there recently or she knew someone who worked there?”
“She didn’t have many friends,” admits Olive. “She worked a lot. She spent more time with other teachers, I suppose. And with me and Georgie.”
“Do you know if there was anyone who wanted to harm her? Any enemies, a neighbor or colleague she had a feud with?”
Olive scoffs. “My sister wasn’t a superhero. She didn’t have enemies. She wasn’t a villain, either. She was a person. Just a normal person.” Her lips begin to shake and she holds herself tight again. “She was the only reason I felt like I could do this whole single-parent thing. And now that she…” She suddenly sits up straight, wiping her face. “There was something,” she says breathily, a memory bright in her eyes. “She got a text on her phone that upset her. She said she had to go after that. That’s why she left early.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“What time was this?”
“Maybe half past eight?”
“Did she say who the text was from, or what it was about?”
She shakes her head. “I assumed it was from Craig, apologizing. She seemed…annoyed, but not angry or anything.”
“Do you know who would spread a rumor like that?”
“Maybe a student? She was known for being a little harsh with her grading. Wasn’t always popular. She would say, ‘Everyone thinks water is a simple, gentle element, but they always forget that it can drown you just as much as fire can burn you.’”
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The afternoon lull has set in and the SCD offices are quiet, though certainly not empty. Wild sits at his desk attempting to call the security guard again. Harvest is nowhere to be seen, though Quinn knows she was here not too long ago: he can just smell a hint of her jasmine and orange blossom scent.
Quinn sits on the edge of his desk and eyes the white board that Angel is working on. “Walk me through it.”
“Our victim, Professor Aila Jones,” Angel says, pointing to a picture affixed to the board. It’s a professional headshot taken from the college’s website, Aila’s demure smile set stiffly against a heart-shaped face and blue eyes. Her light hair is cut into a severe bob and rests just above her shoulders. “Identified by her auratic profile and then later confirmed by pathology—Hudson sent me that much at least—was found in Grim Gardens by Victor Haskins in the early hours of Friday morning. Both Magi-Tech and Hudson seem to think the victim was killed elsewhere and then disposed of at the Gardens, using the Asheim Rose to cover up evidence.” Angel points to the photo of the rose, a tight rolling ball of flame surrounded by waxy green leaves with a spindly stem. “We have not found a connection between our victim and the Gardens yet, however, we are still hoping to speak with the overnight security guard, Emily Iverson. Harvest ran the name through the database and there were no hits, so Emily does not appear to have a criminal record. We’ll do a deeper dive into her background, just in case.”
“We’re constructing a timeline, too,” interjects Wild, who has hung up the phone after leaving, yet again, a voicemail message for Emily. “Professor Jones left her sister’s house at half past eight.”
“And her TA at the school showed us an email sent from Professor Jones just after nine, stating that she won’t be coming in for her Friday class. Harvest took the laptop to Magi-Tech to see if there is anything else of note.” Angel pauses for a beat, before saying, cautiously, “We do have a suspect. Adam told us he overheard a conversation between Professor Jones and a colleague. He heard the colleague say, and I quote, ‘this needs to stop.’”
“Did he have any idea what the argument was about?” asks Quinn with a frown.
Angel shakes their head. “But if there’s any truth to the affair rumor, maybe he was ending their relationship?”
“Who’s the colleague?”
“Professor Ezra Evans.”
“Ah.” To be honest, he should have considered that sooner. Ezra is no longer a friend, and he knows him well enough to acknowledge his lack of scruples when it comes to women.
“If he was the one ending things, that’s not really a motive though, is it?” asks Wild.
“No,” admits Angel. “But if Aila didn’t want the affair to end, there could have been an altercation.”
“Craig would be a suspect, too,” says Wild. “Since he knew about the affair.”
“Which hasn’t been confirmed,” says Quinn, arms folded across his chest. “Regardless of motive, why would Craig dispose of the body at the Gardens?”
“To send a message?” suggests Wild. “Ezra is an expert in fire.”
“Why not just leave the body somewhere and set it on fire?” asks Angel. “Like on Ezra’s front doorstep.”
Quinn huffs lightly. “Does Ezra have an alibi?”
“He was on a date.” Angel glances over their shoulder at him before adding, “Harvest verified the alibi.”
Quinn twists his ring as he casually asks, “How is she?”
“Fine. Why?”
He shrugs. “Just curious.”
Angel narrows their eyes at him but doesn’t comment before turning back to the whiteboard. “We’re still missing her car and her phone, but since Professor Jones received a text message before she left her sister’s house, and Ezra claimed that she was texting someone throughout the staff meeting, we’re putting some pressure on the phone provider to access those messages and call logs.” Angel takes a step back, standing next to Quinn to see the entirety of the whiteboard. “So the last known sighting of her is from her sister who says she left Thursday half past eight after receiving a text message that seemed to affect her in some way. The email she sent to her assistant was delivered at nine thirty-two. This is the last contact we have from her.”
“And sometime in between then and five o’clock the next morning, she’s murdered and her body is dumped at the Gardens,” says Wild. “That’s a decent window. So many things could have happened.”
“Water can drown you just as much as fire can burn you,” mumbles Quinn.
“What are you thinking, boss?” asks Wild.
“There must be a connection between the victim and the Gardens,” he says. “Or maybe even the rose itself.” As he speaks, his gaze snags on the head of rose gold hair that he can just see through the half-opened blinds in Fitz’s office. The figure turns, just enough that he can see a sliver of pale cheek and a slightly pointed ear. “I’ll be right back.”
Commissioner Rosenbloom stands a second later and even before Fitz makes it to the door, Quinn is walking toward the office, hands stuffed in his pockets as he saunters forward casually.
Fitz looks grim as he enters the office. “I’ve just been informed of a few details about your Council meeting that seemed to have slipped your mind,” she says, motioning for him to have a seat.
“Oh, it didn’t slip my mind,” he says, sitting down and stretching his legs out.
Fitz lets out a huff of annoyance. “Quinn—”
“How would Harvest react if she were to know the full story about you, Agent Quinn?” Commissioner Rosenbloom has returned to her seat, and she crosses her legs as she turns toward him. Her smile is friendly, but the threat is clear in her tone.
“I’m willing to find out,” he says with a grin. “Are you willing to find out how she’ll react when she hears about you messing with her life like this?”
“Agent—”
“No.” He straightens up and leans forward, a cinder of indignation in his stomach gathering heat, rallying him onward. It’s foolish, he knows, to talk back to the people who hold his leash. He will take plenty lying down for the sake of others, but Harvest doesn’t deserve to have her life meddled with like this. His own actions toward her are the result of a complicated mess of emotions he knows he will have to reckon with soon, but he’s fed up with orders, with the ring that warms his finger. Suddenly, the weight of his past feels more like a millstone than salvation. “You can extend my contract by another thousand years. You can strip me of every bit of power my fangs give me, but it’s not up to you whether I’m in Harvest’s life. That is her choice and until she tells me otherwise, you’re just going to have to deal with that.”
Commissioner Rosenbloom purses her lips as she considers his words. There is a flicker of something—maybe a strange sort of acknowledgement that she’s overstepped her bounds? A begrudging respect? And then she smiles, a perfectly bureaucratic uptick of the corners of her mouth. “Glad to know those fangs aren’t ornamental just yet.”