By the time Harvest pushes open the door to Tabitha’s, it is nearing the end of the dinner rush, and Kipp walks by frantically, carrying a pitcher of water. “Just sit anywhere,” she calls over her shoulder.
Tabitha’s is bustling with activity and loud conversations, though Harvest is still able to pick out some familiar faces in the crowd. She greets a baobhan sith with a hooded raven on her shoulder who is sitting at the bar. She waves to Stuart, a ghoul with a sickly pallor and sharp, pointy teeth. He is chewing his meatloaf, which is slightly raw in the center. He slurps his diet soda and smiles widely at her, his black eyes sparking red as he waves back.
Harvest looks at Quinn through the window as he frowns at his phone. He tosses it down on the passenger seat and then reverses out of the parking space, speeding off toward the highway. He offered to give her a ride, claiming that he was headed in the same direction, but the highway would take him back to the Bureau office.
The thought of the Bureau office reminds her of the look on Ezra’s face when she told him about the victim. The relief washed through him, brushing away the gray oppressiveness of his grief and fear, and Harvest could see Ezra’s feelings for Hazel as clearly as if she were viewing him through her second-sight. He’s still in love with her, she thinks again. It’s a fear that has circled in her head for two years, though she has rarely let herself think it.
The black, rotting thing in her chest hurts even more—perhaps because she was suddenly relieved to see the end of their relationship.
Rotten to the core, she thinks mildly.
And yet, Hazel isn’t dead.
She repeats it to herself. Hazel isn’t dead. It is all that matters at the moment.
She spots Ronan at the end of the bar and slides onto the stool next to him, propping her head in her hand as she eyes the menu. It hasn’t changed much over the years, but Ronan has been working on updating it—while maintaining the favorites for the regulars, of course. She can’t see Stuart tucking into a vegan burger with truffle fries.
Ronan doesn’t look up from the stack of receipts in front of him. “You know,” he says, “when your dad said I could become manager of this place, I didn’t realize there would be so much paper involved.” He holds up a yellow receipt with a grimace and then lets it fall back to the counter.
When he does look up at her, he grins, showing off his slightly pointed teeth, similar to Quinn’s though not as sharp. Werewolves may experience a complete transformation during a full moon, but those like Ronan—with werewolf lineage on both sides of his family—sometimes have physical attributes that hint at their second-form regardless of the state of the moon. His upper and lower canine teeth are tapered, and his eyes, in the right light, shine iridescent green. She has also, on at least one occasion, seen him shift his hands into claws when a stranger attempted to grope her at a dance club.
She opens her mouth to say something, but instead, she bursts into tears.
She is encircled in his arms quickly and she takes a deep shuddering breath, taking comfort in the spicy notes of his cologne before he leads her to the back of the diner. She’s not sure how long she sits on the creaky, slightly broken couch in the corner of the office, but when her hiccups subside, a glass of whiskey is shoved in her direction and she holds onto it with both hands as she tells Ronan about her day.
Ronan sits on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest as he listens. His frown increases with every new sentence, until, when she is done, there is a line between his eyebrows. “Harv, can I tell you something?”
She nods warily, taking a sip of her drink.
“Ezra is an asshole. You’re better off without him.”
She almost laughs. “I know you never liked him—”
“It’s not that. It’s not that I didn’t get along with him. He wasn’t good for you. Or Hazel.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Your dad is right.” He grins softly at her. “We both want the best for you.”
“I know.” She stares down into her drink. “Anyway, I can’t focus on Ezra right now. My bedroom is a crime scene.”
“At least it wasn’t her.” He doesn’t need to clarify who he is talking about. He’s barely uttered Hazel’s name since she left, as if he is in mourning. “Are you investigating?”
She nods and takes another sip of whiskey, not bothering to hide the small wince at the sharpness. If Quinn holds true to his word, Form 1122B (Temporary Reallocation of Employee) will be on Herman’s desk in the morning, allowing her to work with Quinn and his team. She didn’t bother to hide her acceptance of his offer, though she did say that she wouldn’t do any work on the case until the form was approved. Despite the fact that the procedure exists and that Quinn holds the authority to implement it, Form 1122B is rarely utilized. She’s sure it will be approved though. She’s equally sure it will have her aunt’s signature on the Sponsoring Council member line.
Still, she gave up on denying any type of impropriety or suggestion of favoritism when she found a murder victim in her bed.
Wild seemed amiable enough when Quinn suggested Harvest would work with them on this investigation. Angel had made a thinly veiled comment about conflict of interest that Quinn brushed off easily and with a level of skill that could only come from centuries of navigating workplace relationships. Harvest has already noted that he does this often when he is confronted with a question or situation he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He just avoids the offending comment with an annoyingly effective grin and then moves deftly onward.
“You’re staying with me,” says Ronan, in a tone of voice that brokers no argument.
“Thanks. It should only be a few nights while they finish processing the crime scene.”
“Stay as long as you need.”
----------------------------------------
After dropping Harvest off at the diner—he was appalled to learn that she doesn’t own a car and would be taking the bus after dark—Quinn ignores a text from Burrows and instead heads back to the Bureau.
It is so quiet in the office that Quinn and his team can hear the custodian whistling from a few doors down as he sweeps up the interrogation room. The custodian takes great pride in his work, particularly his dusting skills. He is a bwbach, after all.
“If she isn’t a victim, is she a suspect?” asks Wild, nodding toward the picture of Hazel posted in the center of their notes and evidence attached to a whiteboard.
“Not yet,” he says. “But I do want to make it a priority to find her. At the very least, she’s a person of interest.”
Wild writes “POI” under Hazel’s picture. Earlier, Quinn tasked Wild with reading up on Hazel’s disappearance, and with Quinn and Angel gathered around the whiteboard, he goes through the case file with them.
“Right, so two years ago, Hazel Rosenbloom left work for the day and headed home. Between her place of employment and her residence at the time, she disappears. Literally.”
He points to a sequence of photos from a security camera showing Hazel walking down a sidewalk, her long rose gold hair tied up in a messy bun so that her face is unmistakable. The next photo is a second later, but she is gone.
“Magi-Techs found spell residue on the wall at the entrance of the alley she had been passing by at the time and reported a faint smell of sulfur. They were unable to identify the source of the magic, though they theorized it was demon in origin. Portals and all that. An hour after she was supposed to be home, her fiancé at the time—Ezra—started making some calls. He contacted Hazel’s sister, Harvest, who then called Hazel’s phone, Hazel’s work, her parents, and a friend named Ronan Kelly, who is the current manager at the diner owned by the Rosenbloom family. Call logs show all of the conversations were fairly quick. Only a minute or two. Then, we have a longer outgoing call from Ezra to Agent Quinn.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“I’ve known Ezra for a few years now,” interjects Quinn. “He knew that I worked for the Bureau, and he wasn’t sure who else to call. I decided to escalate Hazel’s disappearance to a full investigation and called Agent Herman in MPU.”
“The fact that the Rosenblooms own half of this town probably didn’t hurt either,” says Angel. “Isn’t there a Rosenbloom on the Council?”
Quinn nods. “Trixie Rosenbloom. She’s Hazel’s aunt. Between me bringing the Bureau into it right away and the Rosenblooms’ status, we moved quickly to get a proper investigation going.”
“I gave Herman a call,” says Wild, looking down at his notes.
“Bet he loved that,” says Quinn.
Wild gives him a wry smile. “He wasn’t thrilled. In fact, he was very defensive. Seemed to think I was calling to say he’d done a poor job.”
“And did he?” asks Angel.
“Oh, a terrible job. He dragged his feet, but it didn’t matter because eventually, Ezra admitted telling Hazel he had cheated on her with Harvest. He said that Hazel was upset. Things got a little heated, and she walked out. She disappeared a day later.” Wild flips through a file folder on his desk. “He was questioned further about the argument. Herman seemed sure that Hazel’s disappearance was Ezra’s doing, and I don’t blame him, really. Ezra was vague in his interviews. It makes sense that Herman would focus so much on him. But Ezra had an alibi and with no body or indication that Hazel was in trouble, they dropped the case. Magi-Tech suggested that the portal residue wasn’t related to Hazel at all, but just a coincidence.”
“The alibi was me,” says Quinn. “We had gone out for a few drinks. I was with him when Hazel texted to say she was on her way home.” He motions to the security camera footage of Hazel. “The images are time-stamped right when we said goodbye. It was assumed that Hazel left because she felt betrayed by her fiancé’s affair with her younger sister. She’s had zero contact with her family since. Except now.” He stands up and points to the postcard. “This was posted yesterday from Valkaria Bay Boardwalk and was sent using a spell.”
Angel nods. “It’s more of a gimmick. Sealed with a kiss. But it’s effective. Guaranteed to always deliver a letter to the person you love. I can see the imprint of the spell, but the edges are a bit blurred. I think she was in a hurry.”
Wild folds his arms across his chest, his wings fluttering in thought. “The word ‘help’ is a little vague.”
Quinn agrees. “But it was enough to make Harvest worry, and she asked me to ask a few questions. Earlier today, I spoke with a witness who can place Hazel with a vampire named Ozias, a known associate of Grayson Locke.”
Wild lets out a low whistle. “If I found myself involved with Locke, however distant, I’d ask for help too.”
“The witness also indicated that Ozias is possibly abusive.”
“So, we think she wants help getting out of an abusive relationship?” asks Angel, their brow creased.
“We don’t think anything,” says Quinn. “The postcard isn’t a priority right now. I don’t know what Hazel is dealing with and it’s most likely related, but there’s an unidentified body now. Identifying our victim takes priority.”
Angel stands up and moves closer to the board. “Are we not going to mention the fact that Ezra and the sister are in a relationship? Is there anything there?”
Quinn shakes his head. “I know how it looks, but they ended things last night after Harvest found the postcard. I don’t think either of them was involved in Hazel’s disappearance. Or this murder.”
“Could she have been protecting her sister? How do we know that Harvest wasn’t aware of Hazel’s whereabouts the entire time? The postcard was sent to her, but we only have Harvest’s word that she hasn’t had any contact with her sister.” Angel points toward the picture of their victim. “If this isn’t Hazel, maybe it was meant to provide a way for Hazel to escape from her abusive partner. And from Locke, for that matter.”
“Harvest isn’t involved,” says Quinn.
Angel glances sideways at Quinn. “So, she’ll definitely be working with us on this, then? The transfer was approved?”
Quinn gives them a sharp look, even though he knows it doesn’t work on them. Not for lack of trying, of course. Instead, Angel matches his gaze, arms folded across their chest. “Not yet,” he concedes. “But it should go through first thing in the morning.” He waits for Angel to repeat their earlier sentiment about conflict of interest, but they just shrug and turn their attention back to the whiteboard.
“Was the postcard sent to Harvest, though?” Wild asks suddenly. “It’s not addressed. Maybe it was meant for Ezra?”
“Ezra didn’t do it, either,” says Quinn.
Wild nods distractedly, eyes still on the board.
“Did we get anything from the neighbors?” asks Quinn.
Wild pulls out his notebook and flips through it. “The next-door neighbor confirms what Mrs. Halloran said. She only saw Ezra enter, followed by you and Harvest a few minutes later. The neighbor on the other side had just gotten home from work and didn’t really have anything useful to add.”
“So if the neighbors are right, when did the victim get into the apartment?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe Magi-Tech will be able to get us some answers,” says Quinn. “Where are we with the illusion?”
“I’ve examined the spell work,” begins Angel, “and my biggest concern is breaking the illusion while maintaining the integrity of any evidence that’s hiding underneath. I’ve requested some documentation on illusions from the Archives. Ideally, I would like to preserve the original spellwork as well.”
“Is it possible to tell who cast it?” asks Quinn.
“Maybe,” Angel admits. “Spells sometimes have a signature, like a fingerprint, something to identify the maker. But this illusion is so close to the body. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing. I doubt they left any trace of their identity.”
Quinn nods. “I think that’s all we can do tonight. Why don’t you two head out?”
While they begin packing up their belongings and shutting down computers, Quinn stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the desk, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. Angel and Wild leave at the same time, making plans to grab a late-night meal before heading home.
He hears Wild say, “Are you sure you want a cheeseburger?” followed by Angel’s confused “Huh?”
“Aren’t you salty enough already?” Wild adds, with a snort of amusement at his own joke. Quinn doesn’t catch Angel’s reply, but he knows what Wild is hinting at: Angel has been unusually snippy, shooting both Quinn and Wild annoyed looks.
Quinn isn’t worried about Angel’s grouchiness, though. For all of their moodiness, Angel always puts their victim first. It’s one thing he admires about his colleague, not that he would ever tell Angel that. Quinn’s management style is decidedly hands-off.
The elevator doors ding shut, and then Quinn is alone, save for the custodian’s soft humming drifting from the office at the end of the hallway. He is still sitting on the edge of the desk, twisting his gold ring around his finger, and looking at the picture of Hazel pinned on the whiteboard when a voice behind him says, “They should have been twins.”
He arches an eyebrow at the witch who has sidled up to him almost silently. She looks young, but her movements are too practiced to be those of a gangly twenty-something, and he knows she is far older than she looks. She’s wearing a silk blue shirt that matches her eyes, tucked into high-waisted, wide-leg pants. Her hair is exactly the same shade as Harvest’s, a pale reddish-blonde. It’s a surprisingly chic business casual look for a woman whose appearance is otherwise quite ethereal, her long graceful limbs, high cheekbones, and tapered ears hinting at a heritage that is not of this world.
He’s not surprised by her fae-like, youthful appearance, even though he knows she is a witch. Commissioner Rosenbloom’s story is no secret; he has heard her tell it often at Bureau fundraising dinners and award ceremonies. “I grew up in the Fae-Lands and am a bit fae now, myself,” she said once, tucking a strand of hair behind her tapered ears as if she had choreographed the movement. Her upbringing has slowed her aging, a fortuitous fact considering that she is married to her own changeling, Bea, who grew up in Commissioner Rosenbloom’s stead until her fae heritage began to show. With any luck, they’ll both live long, nearly immortal lives with each other.
Commissioner Rosenbloom echoes his stance, leaning against the desk, arms folded. “Harvest and Hazel. They were born two years apart but looked exactly the same,” she says. “They grew into their differences, of course, but were still so close. There were times when it seemed like they were speaking a foreign language that only they knew.”
“And what about when Hazel left? Were they still close, Commissioner Rosenbloom?”
“I think they had been drifting apart, both dealing with their own issues. They had forgotten that they are both stronger when they are together.”
“I want to assure you that we are doing everything—”
She waves him off. “Oh, I know you and your team will do the best you can within the limitations of the Bureau’s Code of Ethics. I’m not here to threaten or make demands of you, Agent Quinn.” The word “yet” seems to hover on her lips; it will be unsaid until it needs to be heard. Her eyes flicker briefly to his ring before she stands with arms still crossed, to look closer at the photo of Hazel, before turning to look at Quinn, her eyes sparkling with something he can’t quite read. “Did you know that reading auras is not just about seeing energy, as Harvey likes to call it? It’s about seeing and interpreting the truth of someone. She could tell immediately that your victim was under an illusion because illusions are lies. And when we spot the lie, we unravel the truth.” She pauses. “Is Hazel a suspect?”
“No.”
“She should be, though, yes?”
He nods.
“My niece has gotten herself into a bit of trouble, it seems.”
“So it would seem.”
“I wanted to let you know that the Council has agreed that this is a high-priority case, and we will approve any overtime or expenditures required to solve it. With the understanding, naturally, that if Hazel is found to be complicit in any crimes, that she be prosecuted to the fullest extent of Bureau law,” she says. She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. “You’ll find my niece, won’t you, Agent Quinn?”
He’s not sure if she’s asking for reassurances or if she’s more afraid that he’ll actually do it.