Delusional

By Scott Spotson

Poor Wendy Jewett can’t stop tormenting herself. Born with unlimited magic, she kills those who discover her secrets, lest a panicky world diabolize her. When she’s smitten by marketing executive Paul Blast, she delights in unleashing powerful hallucinations that twist the minds of those who compete for his love, befriending them once her magic turns them malleable. But when she indulges in high-profile thefts of priceless art and jewels to fuel her crime-ridden spree, the FBI tracks down the perpetrator, working closely with local police investigating the murders left behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spotson
• Release date: Sep 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301136841

Scott Spotson

Scott Spotson is a novelist who excels in imagining scenes of intrigue and adventure within ordinary lives while daydreaming, then pulls together various plots to create a compelling story. He likes to invent “what if?” scenarios, for example, what if I could go back to my university days, and what would I do differently? What if I could switch bodies with friends I am jealous of, like the guy who sold his software for millions of dollars and does whatever he pleases? What if I had the power to create clones of myself to do my bidding? Scott then likes to mentally insert himself into these situations, then plot a way to “get out” back to reality. This is how “Life II” and “Seeking Dr. Magic” were born, within weeks of each other. He’s still working on dreaming up a situation where he gets to smash a pie in the face of his boss, with no justification whatsoever – how to get out of that one?Scott loves to travel and is partial to the idea of spending extended vacation at ski resorts up in the mountains. You know, the one like in the James Bond movie “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” where the view is breathtaking, there’s an outdoors hot tub facing a pristine snow covered mountain, and one can warm up inside on a bear skin in front of a huge cobblestone fireplace, sitting on a circular wooden bench fitted with animal pelts and sipping at a mango and pineapple smoothie mixed with a touch of grenadine – okay, he’s getting too carried away!Scott has visited Taiwan, Australia, New Zealand, Sweden, Germany, Denmark, Iceland, France, Mexico, Austria, the Netherlands, Switzerland, England, and Hong Kong.As can be deduced from the beginning of “Life II,” Scott loves brain teasers.

Book preview

Chapter One

Two sudden, sharp raps on the door startled Wendy, causing her to twitch. She flicked her witchy finger, commanding forth a clear image, much like a surveillance screen, lasting a mere second.

Mama. Here, at her spanking new Elk Grove condo on the shore of the laguna, the body of water so manmade that the contours resembled carved-out jack-o-lantern teeth. Actually, her condo didn’t exist a month ago. She’d conjured it out of nothing, no paperwork filed in City Hall for zoning permits. No survey just a poof—a bothersome word from those silly cartoon shows featuring magic—and it was done.

Mama was at the front door, her eyes like slits, and she hollered, Wendy! Let me in! It’d been so long Mama was no longer Mama. Just Audrey, that painful memory of a pitiful pretend-mother who harassed Wendy on her use of magic ever since the day she was born. Her magic. Her birthright.

Her loud huff gave way to her fist unclenching, releasing her black art. The lock unclicked and the door sprung open as if powered by a robotic arm.

In her 5,225 square-foot luxury triplex, Wendy couldn’t see her mother storm down the front hallway, but she heard the pounding stomps on the polished concrete floor.

The curly auburn tresses, the worry lines, the top-heavy browline glasses emerged through the kitchen entrance, all features burned into Wendy’s memory since her earliest memory. The eyebrows dipping strong enough to peek out beneath the frames.

Why did you do it? Audrey yelled, her fist raised.

Wendy backed away. Magic made her powerful, but being human excused her startled dodge. What are you talking about? She knew, she just wanted her estranged mother to say it.

What you did to Jackson! You had to wire his jaw shut, too?

I did what I had to do.

Audrey’s jaw slackened and she raised her hands. What you had to do? You’re sick, Wendy. You know what. I’ve had enough. You’re coming with me. Nostrils flaring, she lunged at Wendy, grabbing her wrists.

A surging swell of hatred flooded Wendy’s mind, and she closed her eyes.

She’d long practiced these fantasy scenarios, especially when alone and in the midst of a raging fit. This time, she didn’t have to think.

In a flash, both women vanished from the kitchen, into a fantasyland—an idyllic forest clearing, with graceful thickets of evergreens standing in a perimeter, calm as they watched the domestic spat. Her head swiveling, gasping, Audrey released her vitriolic grip and stumbled back onto a mound of leaf-encrusted peat. Strong pine permeated the air, so bewitching it triggered a false warning of toxicity.

Wendy transformed, her skin spouting unreal colors—striking, bold patterns of pumpkin orange, forest green, pitch black, bright red, and ivory white. Her head swelled tenfold, bearing green-tinged eyes, black tongue, huge scalloped teeth, and backward-facing pointy ears. The exterior hardened into a shiny, porcelain-like surface, glistening with menace.

Audrey’s big, round eyes swelled even more; her hands trembled like crimson leaves fluttering in the wind.

The monstrosity once known as Wendy mutated further, her torso widening into a fat, round belly, like that of a boar. Her arms thickened too, into stubs, adding an extra joint. Sharp, black talons jutted out of her paw-like hands.

The bloated, grotesque form of the native art print in her bedroom, one given upon her fourteenth birthday by her parents. Bright, vivid, and clean lines formed the indigenous portrayal of a S’eek—a black bear—in the Tlingit language.

S’eek-Wendy towered over her mother, now a pitiful sacrifice who could only shrink back, utterly defenseless.

Wendy, Audrey begged, this isn’t you. Dadda and I only meant the best for you.

The gigantic, sheer-surfaced creation of black magic, white painted all over with thick bands of orange, green, black, and red, craned her massive head, her gleaming incisor teeth harder than steel.

The throaty response was a guttural amalgam of Wendy’s normal voice and a raspy saw. Really? Let’s see now. Who slapped me on the face when I did that birthday cake for you? Who bound me to my bed, thinking I wouldn’t be able to do magic? Do you really know me, Audrey? The cry lifted into a dizzy echo that failed to fade among the soft-needled trees. "Do you?"

A tear escaped the corner of Audrey’s eye. Her knees buckled, she collapsed on her backside, palming dark rich soil that had never experienced human touch.

A thunderous roar barreled out of the polished stone-like lips of S’eek-Wendy, but the heat spell proved far more deadly. Audrey’s panic-filled eyes, pursed lips, and ruffled bangs atop her taut cheekbones were the last image burned into S’eek-Wendy’s psyche before a cloud of swirling, compressed ashes popped up. The particles that once bore her mother’s soul spun, diffusing, coating the tender boughs of the nearby spruce pines.

The shiny, colossal native-art-inspired S’eek hung her head low, slowly scanning from left to right. Her eyes remained glassy, fixed, but her shoulders slumped.

Beneath that clumsy, immobile skin-porcelain layer, she surely should be aghast. Her mother, who gave birth to her, dead by her hands. She should break down and sob, out of control. Nothing. She felt no remorse. Was she even human? Did being born a witch rob her of any empathy that should be life-affirming?

Maybe it was that stupid morph spell. Certainly, a rigid exterior did not enable feelings of regret and grief.

Holding up her arms, she transformed back into plain old Wendy, back in the sterile confines of her kitchen. She gazed down at her scrawny, sometimes veiny arms, and tugged at her wavy auburn locks so she could examine the curl. Satisfied she inhabited her original form, she waited for the spasm of grief to emerge. Another ten seconds.

Nothing.

With a snap of her fingers, she conjured up an old childhood photo from the past, when she was in grade school, sitting on Mama’s lap on that awful-but-cute sunflower yellow recliner when she read out Amy’s Amazing Adventures, Wendy-child’s favorite series. Surely that memory should provoke a feeling—something, anything.

The emotion came, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Relief. Ease of guilt over the removal of an unwelcome, uncomfortable prod from her existence.

Did she even deserve to live? What a wicked—ironic twist of that word—cursed life she owned.

The photo in her hand wasn’t made of paper. Nor was it any hard material; it was simply an illusion, composed of atoms—or pixels?—perfectly arranged. She literally crystallized the memory, converting it to glass so she could release her pent-up frustration in the next act.

She threw the square slab of the memory to the floor, where it shattered into dozens of pieces. Clapping her mouth, she recognized the edge of one shard—the piece that showed her mother’s teal dress, her own pale pink shirt, and the distinctive yellow of the armchair, that part of the photo had shown all three objects bordering one another.

Shifting her weight forward, she palmed her kitchen counter, grasping a nascent thought, another horrible one, something she couldn’t resist. A siren call to complete the destruction, to shutter off what had long gnawed at the edge of her conscience.

She nodded.

Vanished, without a puff of smoke.

Materialized in her father’s loft, a space that hinted bachelor pad. No hangings on the walls. Simple, although sleek and brand-new furniture, with the mandatory large screen television that suddenly-single men craved. Of all the places he could have chosen in San Francisco, he chose Glen Park, which did not surprise. Close to the hipster district of The Mission, but still affordable for a fifty-something man still coping with divorce.

He was not home.

She checked the wrought-iron clock on the wall. Probably something he grabbed from a local artisan outdoor market. 8:39 p.m. Yet the television was still on, his single plate on the table spattered by what appeared to have been tomato sauce. He did always like Italian.

He must be out, but should be back soon. Closing her eyes, she clenched her hands, released them slowly, and blinked them open. So ironic, then, he was this close to—expiring. Death was such a cold, final detail. Her magic could do many things, but it couldn’t tell her where people were. Or what thoughts jumbled in their pesky craniums. So stupid. She would have to wait for him.

As she sat down on the cluttered sofa to help herself to his electronics magazines, she smiled. Relieved that he had precious extra minutes tacked onto his life. But really, what good were those? She wouldn’t grant him time to commiserate with loved ones on what he could’ve done differently. He wouldn’t jaywalk down memory lane, snatching the best of the metaphorical blue ribbons that decorated his life path.

Damn, putting off revenge had a way of talking you out of it, like a little voice, librarian-type, sincere and well-meaning, with glasses edged off the bridge of the nose. Wendy fidgeted. She glanced at words like Data Architecture, Near Field Communication. Cascading Style Sheet. Her eyes watered, not from foreboding, but at the abstruse terms she neither cared nor had time for. She tossed the magazine aside, glancing around the room. Maybe time to leave, think it over?

The front door lock clicked.

She stiffened.

The slim, average-height man who walked in carrying a paper bag with the slim-necked bottles of wine peeping out, his sideburns now grey, a hint of sagging jowls, seemed so—ordinary. There it was. Indistinguishable in a crowd, but he was her father. This, the inescapable truth. So easy to dispose of. But so wrong.

His greeting conveyed warmth little more than a boss passing by his subordinate in the corridor. Oh, hi, Wendy.

Dadda. Kevin. Sometimes informally known as Kev. Hello, Kevin.

He exhaled, rested the bag of wine bottles onto the dining table, and spread open his arms, without stepping closer to Wendy.

Well, he huffed, Is today my last day, then? So be it?

The casualness stung Wendy. How could you think that of me? Her stomach lurched, the blood carrying the rich magic dulled its regular beat within her veins.

I can see it all over your face.

A quick, brutal stab of regret, shoved aside by a deadening white noise conveying indifference. Is that so? Words to buy time.

Audrey’s dead, isn’t she?

Damn. Yes, she is.

And now… it seems I’m too important a witness. I’m a danger to you, despite your overwhelming power.

Wendy finally marshaled her resolve. That’s the way it works, Kevin.

Kevin’s eyes reddened quickly, his shoulders twitched, as if a knife thrust between his shoulder blades. Audrey, he echoed, his voice in a far-away place. She tried so hard, you know. She did what every mother had to do. She wanted nothing but the best for you. She couldn’t stop.

The best for me? Wendy’s voice shot up several octaves, her teeth flashed. Including trying to chain me to my bed? How could you even say that?

Wendy—

How dare you!

Kevin wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Here we go again. No matter what, we fall back in the same trap, over and over. Only it looks like it’s finally going to end today. He wagged a finger, but his voice remained even, lacking any spark. You knew you were hurting people with your magic. Broken bones. That guy, Rob Cresswell. Oliver—I heard his family ended up losing their home. And Melody never recovered. It goes on and on. We were the only ones who knew. Who else was going to stop you?

It’s my magic. Why should people judge me? Her chin lifted higher. As far as I’m concerned, I’m beyond those… petty words and small minds.

If anything, Audrey and I failed. He flattened his lips, blinking hard to hold back the tears. We were your mom and your dad. We wanted you to feel loved. But the magic got in the way. It corrupted you.

Dadda… She closed her eyes and winced. Kevin—

But you know what? I’m powerless. You’re powerful. Ultimately, that’s all that matters. He hastened forward, locking into her eyes, hands out. I ask one thing. Just one last hug, because that’s all I can—

No! she shrieked as she stepped back, her upraised index finger the great divide between father and daughter. Don’t touch me!

Wendy, was his last plea.

A soundless explosion erupted, the ashes swarming in a heady whirlwind, the vortex subsiding after a mere two seconds. Wendy’s hazel eyes widened and her jaw slackened as the ashes halted, the cloud containing the essence of Kevin Jewett frozen in time.

Chapter Two

Wendy stood, her body infused with the magic that rendered every cell in her body invisible. Or perhaps it was an invisibility shield that coated her, like a second skin. She could never figure out the physics that allowed her to go anywhere, unseen. All she knew was that when she cast this ghostly spell, people stared right through her, the ultimate epitome of being tuned out.

She stood on the windswept tarmac of JFK airport, her phantom hair fluttering in the strong breeze. Cargo Area B, according to the detailed map she’d studied.

She’d spent hours researching the Internet, figuring out when the armored trucks rolled by, how much money they hoarded, the protocol for guarding the breathtakingly exorbitant stash. She’d even tested a few trial runs, chasing the secured vehicles wherever they chugged and eavesdropping on the guards. Not once did any security-trained mind see her.

Banks rarely worked in denominations higher than $100 bills. A strap of 100s—the props popular in heist films—was worth $10,000. A bundle was ten straps, worth $100,000. The numbers kept quickening, bursting into a climax of orgy-induced wealth lust. A rack consisted of ten bundles, driving up the figure to an eye-popping one million.

Now for the pallets, but not the handyman-like braced squares of two-by-four wood. Those were specially manufactured for carrying moolah, made of sturdy aluminum. Each pallet could hold a hundred racks, or a (whistle) $100 million in stacked bills. Each armored truck could hold four to six pallets, so $400 to $600 million to make you the next wannabe young Bill Gates if you got your hands on it all.

A Parker’s truck, that of the fabled security firm exemplified in Hollywood movies, pulled up next to the Gulfstream VII, the go-to military plane designated by the Pentagon. Wendy stiffened, adrenalin pumping throughout her body, mixing in with the magic. It wasn’t scientific—but she did magic best when she felt the passion of something about to happen, like a fox sensing prey.

She watched, at ease. Her invisibility cloak would hold. She’d even danced a variation of the salsa she’d seen on a television special once, waving her arms about and kicking up a fast beat. No one batted an eye.

Two security guards, not the usual square-jawed, beefy wrestler types you saw on the screen, but rather two very normal-looking men—one black, the other Latino—streamed out of the truck, bearing holstered handguns. The black guy waved up a forklift, manned by an eyeglass-toting older woman with dishwash-colored hair pulled back by a tiger-patterned hair clip. No words were spoken. The woman, operating the forklift as smoothly as she would a compact car, maneuvered the steel prongs through the open doorway of the side of the plane, extracting those stacks of plastic-wrapped cash. The forklift shifted back and forth mechanically, relentless, a testament to the operator’s skill. She unloaded the huge fortune into the back of the armored truck, taking several trips.

Wendy absorbed the shifts, turns, and rumbles, like a girl who rests her chin on the fence surrounding a construction site. Finally, confirmed by a wave from each of the two guards, the forklift operator pulled away, eventually disappearing behind several neighboring planes.

The two men hopped into their front seats inside the truck, and the engine roared.

Fighting off a mild case of the jitters, the still-invisible Wendy reached out and clenched her fingers, in her mind’s eye grabbing onto the engine cased within the hood. The roar stopped, deathly silent.

Dammit, the driver muttered to his comrade.

The witch had done her inspection days ago, and committed the layout to memory. One by one, she pointed to each surveillance camera surrounding her spot. Soft tinkles burst, too quiet to be heard above the everyday bustle of the airport. Lens shattered; tiny shards dropped to the asphalt.

Now, she whispered. Like an over-zealous mime, she held out her hands, palms upwards, emulating motions of dragging a blanket. Repeat two times.

A thunderous wall of fire popped up out of nowhere, inching toward the front of the armored truck.

Eyes bulging, mouths flapping wide open, the two security guards pointed toward the fire, banging open their doors. Fast on foot, they sprinted toward open space in the middle of the tarmac, about a hundred feet away—their self-designated fire-free zone. They stared on, eyes wide and feet shuffling.

Time for the reality shield. With a quick flourish of her left hand, Wendy conjured up a fifty-foot-by-fifty-foot paper-thin illusion in front of the pair of guards, blocking off their view of the fire wall. The two men wouldn’t realize what they now saw was a fabrication, a window of an alternate reality that only existed in Wendy’s mind. The false spectacle continued to show the wall of fire thickening, enlarging, even with the occasional fireball flaring here and there. The goal—distract and deflect for thirty precious seconds.

Still invisible, Wendy marched up to the back of the truck, a woman in a hurry. Summoned by two raised arms, her magic tore off the back wall of the truck, exposing rows and rows of olive-green moolah. Flashing her palms forward, she performed the magic trick that had taken years to master, spot-vanishing any large object and relocating it to any location intimately familiar. She drew on a deep memory, using it to mirror her coveted hiding place. The gleaming mahogany hardwood floors. The deep navy blue and cream patterns of the Surya Smithsonian rug, one she’d stolen from the American Art Museum, gracing the floor. The walls of rare Aztec stone carvings she’d snatched from the ruins in Tenayuca, mounted like prizes. Her outsized living room in Elk Grove.

She couldn’t confirm until she’d zapped herself home, of course. But she felt confidence surging, just like her magic.

The money, every last hundred dollar bill, vanished, leaving the interior of the truck exposed and naked.

Next trick.

Again throwing her shoulders back, she unleashed her arms, a virtuoso delivering peak performance. Stacks and stacks of blank cotton-linen blended paper now occupied the space, just dummy stock, to replicate the materials from which United States Treasury money was made.

She conjured up a huge fireball right in the middle of the fake paper, whispering, Burn, burn. Stepping back, she wiggled her fingers, her powers lifting the just-sundered back of the truck. She made the partition click into place, fusing the metal and re-coating with the color-matched exterior paint to make the vehicle as good as new. Satisfied, the witch removed the illusory wall that fooled the guards, enabling them to see the armored truck just as flames licked at it, melting the plastic lining the windows and windshield until it fused with the searing hot metal.

Hey! It’s burning! shouted the Latino guard, rushing a few yards closer in before the ferocious heat repelled him.

With a nod, Wendy vanished from the airport tarmac.

Chapter Three

The two officers from Sacramento Police sat sullen, their files and notebooks cluttering Wendy’s favorite tea table, that with the dainty linen cloth draped over, dotted with cute drawings of mice and triangular slabs of Swiss cheese.

Get out of here, she willed them. Nearly moved her mouth as she thought these very words. If she had no control over her magic, these two intruders would be vanquished—poof—but she couldn’t mess with the police. Any display of her magic, even the slightest spell, and these guardians of law and order would sic an entire surveillance apparatus on her. Even if they didn’t know it was magic, at first.

She just had to answer their questions and wait for them to go.

Ms Jewett, started the one on her right, a no-nonsense officer whose badge read C. BAILEY. She had already introduced herself as Officer Bailey; her manner suggesting don’t-you-dare-cross-me. Like many female police officers, she adopted a stern look to suggest authority, by whisking her grey hair into a ponytail. No make-up, no cheer, and the wrinkled brow implied she was in her forties, maybe fifties. On Wendy’s right was a male officer, clearly the junior and back-up colleague, as evidenced by his freshly scrubbed look and smug grin. An unintimidating fellow, his comfortably-set baby fat strained against his uniform jacket. Clearly, he had been slightly overweight since childhood, but maintained discipline by keeping his weight consistent. Probably attended the gym regularly. His badge read S. HOWARD, but he hadn’t stated his name yet.

What was the point of those initials? Those swaggering authoritarians should show the full name, already, or omit the one-letter teasers, visible but not quite there either. Could the police be afraid that if they disclosed first names, aggrieved suspects would hunt them down on some secret rampage?

Officer Bailey looked down at her notes.

Please, don’t let this be about the burning truck of cash at JFK. But it was very unlikely. Besides, they wouldn’t send in the local flunkeys for such a felony. They would order the FBI to march in.

When was the last time you saw your parents? Officer Bailey asked, clipping her voice at the end.

Shit. I should’ve thought through an alibi. I’m not prepared at all. Stupid.

Um, Wendy began, careful to not tip the boat into encroaching waves. I wasn’t on good terms with them. I’m embarrassed to say that I last saw them at my graduation from high school when they sat in their seats. I didn’t even meet them after the ceremony.

They separated three years ago?

That’s what I remember.

The rookie officer S. Howard smiled, gesturing with his hand after a telling glance by his colleague. Did you have a fight with either one recently?

Ah. The junior guy got to ask the difficult questions. To allow the team to pass the provocation off as inexperience, to create a more forgiving mood. This strategy was designed to reel in awkward responses and dig up dirt.

No, Wendy replied, her arms resting parallel on the table and her fingers arched. As I said, I wasn’t on good terms with either one. You can check their emails or phone records if you like. I’m not in communication with them very often.

We will, replied Officer Bailey. Just because she said it, it didn’t mean she actually would. She squinted as she posed the next question, Why would they disappear at the same time?

I have no idea. Are you sure they’re gone, like, just took off?

City College reported him missing when he didn’t show up for class, Officer Bailey replied. Wendy knew her father was a professor, teaching business studies. As for your mother, her employer reported her missing for one week, to date. She had no vacation scheduled, nor did she call in sick. Same for your father.

That’s very strange. Wendy knew better than to fake tears or distress. Police officers, however hackneyed they could be, were usually adept at picking up such maudlin cues.

You don’t seem very concerned, the guy said, jumping in. He leaned forward, squaring his shoulders.

I just think everything is fine, Wendy said, choosing an answer that best symbolized the balance between fakery and coming off as glacial. They’ll show up. Maybe they decided to reconcile and took off on a secret second honeymoon? She shrugged, her eyes proclaiming innocence.

Well— began Officer Bailey.

Since the timing is the same, right? Wendy offered.

Hmm, was all Officer Bailey said, lowering her chin and staring directly in Wendy’s eyes. At her side, Officer Howard scrawled into his notebook, which was no wider than two inches.

An uneasy silence ensued.

Officer Howard glanced at the ceiling, letting his gaze do a quick sweep of the room. Holding his hands up. How’d you get all this wealth?

Wendy stiffened and put on her best sang-froid voice. What business is it of yours?

We checked out the background of your parents. Your father was a college professor. Your mother an insurance adjuster. We checked out their assets and their properties. Neither are particularly rich.

Like I said, it’s none of your business. What does this have to do with the investigation?

Officer Howard momentarily lost his boyish charm, glaring straight ahead.

Look, Wendy said, obviously, I’m not after their money. I don’t need it. If anything, this should remove me from any suspicion. Besides, how dare you? Are you implying I had anything to do with their disappearance?

Both officers glanced at each other.

How did you find me? Wendy pressed. I don’t normally give out my address. I’m very private that way.

We have more questions, said Officer Bailey, reading down a sheet of paper in her hands.

Great. They always asked, but they never answered. Get it over with. Fine, Wendy said.

Do you know of any other people who wished them harm?

No.

Do you know if they owed money?

No.

Do you know of any affairs they had?

Wendy scoffed. They’re separated, right? So who cares?

Just answer the question, please.

No, not that I know of.

And so on it went, Wendy getting more bored the more the officers drilled her. Every time a question surely had to be the last, there was always another one.

Finally, closing their tiny notebooks, shuffling the papers in their attaché cases, they thanked her with the warmth of a funeral parlor director and saw themselves out.

Wendy smiled once the door shut. They had no dirt on her.

As the afternoon wore on, Wendy browsed several websites, checking for volunteer positions available on boards of directors of large art charities. Due to her powerful magic, she had zero need for either occupation or schooling. In essence, she differed little from any of the select few well-heeled heirs or heiresses worldwide who indulged in jet set travel or figuring out ways to squander the billions promised to them once their parents croaked for the last time.

It’s been said trouble travels in threes. In her case, twos were just as bothersome.

A loud series of persistent, pressing raps startled her, triggering an image of her zombie mother venting away at the door, as if last week replayed itself.

Twirling her finger, as if tracing a doorknob at waist level, she brought about her magic peephole. A virtual disk, diameter about one foot and of no thickness at all, flashed.

Groan.

It’s Aunt Sharon.

Audrey’s younger sister. The one who always rushed in to babysit Wendy when Audrey had a ‘work emergency’ or some night out that was too good to pass up. Who brought over homemade chicken soup every week when Audrey had mononucleosis for three months straight. Sisters in name but not appearance. Audrey’s curly red hair and pinched, high-cheekbone face contrasted mightily with Sharon’s softer, rounded face framed by blonde-wheat hair, which people thought she dyed but actually… no.

Wendy fretted back and forth a few steps.

Ignore her? Pretend not to be home?

But then she would come back. Again and again. As many times as it took.

Given the ‘best friends’ sisterly bond between Audrey and Sharon, it would be nigh impossible to spurn her.

Thank goodness Audrey never revealed Wendy’s deepest secret, not even to her beloved sister. The consequences were just too shattering.

Wendy did not spring the door open by magic, but did as she always behaved in public. Like a mortal, no more special than the ordinary Jane. No cheats. No shortcuts. Any slip, and studious government scientists in ivory white lab coats would soon be peering over her dissected body. She paced herself, walking in steady, measured steps to the front door, actually reaching for the handle and twisting it open.

Sharon had probably called the police. Hired a private dick to find Wendy’s address. Yup. That’s gotta be it.

The door swung open to reveal a squinting Sharon, her lips pressed together so hard they could have been glued.

Yes, Sharon? Wendy said, feigning the same indifference she’d radiated since she last wore the pajamas with the fluffy bunnies.

Sharon brushed past her, storming into the front entrance. Where’s Aud? she demanded, her bottom teeth jutting forward, triggering a memory flash of their past arguments. True, Aud sounded like odd, but the two sisters—and the rest of the family—declared it endearing.

I don’t know, Wendy replied in a studied voice. As you know, she and I don’t keep in contact.

How can you just stand there and do nothing? I’ve been texting and calling her every day, but nothing! Her voice screeched; her eyes begged for an inkling of an answer—anything.

Wendy stood, deeply ashamed. This woman’s love for her sister poured forth like a tsunami, slamming into anyone who knew Audrey. Could she ever command love like this woman, whose haggard face and drooping posture showed such pain? If this saint was born with magic, she would be a goddess, not a piddling witch.

Where is she? Sharon shouted, the yell deafening enough to rattle china. A shade of red crept up her face, not out of humiliation, but out of emotional exertion.

Wendy’s finger twitched. But adding a third murder would surely be a colossal blunder. Too easy for anyone else in the connected universe—the Jewett family tree, the alerted police forces, and friends and colleagues down the line—to deepen their suspicions. She had to leave it at Kevin’s murder. Any misstep, and her house of cards could tumble.

I don’t know, Wendy said, her voice as tired as any elderly woman’s.

But you don’t care! shouted Aunt Sharon, clenching her hands. I can’t believe you! How can you brush this off and not give a shit!

Wendy recoiled at the first time Sharon had ever unleashed swear words into her ears.

At least do something, Sharon pleaded, grasping Wendy by the sleeve. The cloth bundled up so much in her fierce grip tight enough to constrict the veins on her forearm. Call a detective. Phone everyone you know. Go over to their apartments and look for them. Please.

The startled niece clasped the back of Sharon’s taut hand, applying a gentle squeeze to decompress the painful grip. I’ll see what I can do, she said.

At least give me your number. Call me anytime. I don’t care, two, three in the morning. Anything you find out, let me know right away.

I don’t give out my number, but I’ll give you my email.

Sharon stood wild-eyed, her thumbs hovering over the screen.

Wendy spoke out her address and Sharon typed it as fast as her thumbs could fly.

Before she departed, Sharon hugged her niece like she was clinging to driftwood in the middle of a storm breaking across the vast sea. She bawled, her tears dropping on Wendy’s trim shoulders.

Once alone, with a terry cloth handkerchief she zapped out of thin air, Wendy wiped away the salty droplets from her face and neck. Those of Sharon’s mixed with her own.

Chapter Four

Wendy trudged through the wide, airy space on the third floor of the Untethered exhibition currently on display at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Badly in need of a mood booster (she called it her spiritual uplift), she glanced at the colorful, sometimes weird paintings, sculptures, even performance art by trained models. This exhibit promised to showcase how the civilized world’s insatiable appetite for cyber-technology and social media can, as some allege, lead to feelings of despair, loneliness, and isolation in society. Her pulse raced as she aimed her gaze. One exhibit featured a whitewashed, faceless mannequin surrounded by dozens of screens flashing titillating entertainment in rapid-fire succession. One she admired slightly more was a colossal, floor-to-ceiling painting with lively, bustling abstracts of color and symbols degenerating into black and white, repetitive code halfway up, before bleeding into nothingness at the top.

But unwelcome thoughts intruded, even in this oasis of bustling creativity.

Why did Nicole blow me off?

The only friendship she had these days—already imploding near the two-year mark. She had planned to mark their second anniversary by treating her to her favorite restaurant, Hy’s Steak House, with its swank atmosphere and exorbitant prices designed to scare off wannabe socialites. She thought she could buy friends with her riches; humans were drawn to dollar signs. The primordial impulse in the early stages of evolution, no less weak just because their civilization had surpassed the need to hunt prey for food and now sought the latest label of Gucci boots.

But after exhilarating go-arounds, in which they visited museums and stylish boutiques, and even splurged on a tandem sky-diving adventure, always hugging like best chums upon greeting, Nicole stopped responding to Wendy’s calls or texts within the platinum standard—ten seconds. Wendy continued to persuade Nicole to meet up several more times, but her bestie’s friend’s once-ebullient conversations slackened, her eye contact more guarded. The unthinkable then happened: Nicole took more than twenty-four hours to respond to Wendy’s latest text message. As of today, they hadn’t spoken for a month.

Frantic, Wendy had browsed several websites, searching for clues to the predicaments that’d dogged her since childhood, like stubborn leeches that wouldn’t flake off after a firm scrape. She’d learned of the term ghosting, a trendy pseudo-babble tag that resonated deep within.

She frowned, ignoring the splashy displays of art that surrounded her. In the beginning was Heather, her first real buddy since the fifth grade. But in the eighth grade, this two-faced snitch coveted her crush of the day, a reedy, brash boy by the name of Darren who landed a spot on every competitive athletic team at school in his age range. He got so many permission slips, he even waved a stack of them at his classmates. With a twitch of her finger, from halfway down the hall, Wendy had slammed Heather’s locker door into her temple. The force was so vicious, the backstabber suffered a concussion and required five stitches to close the gaping wound that bled crimson into her flaxen locks.

More short-lived friends followed. Jyoti, Emma, Maya, and Becky. In the end, it didn’t matter. Either they wanted something that threatened her, or they—using the new word—ghosted her. Despicable, the lot of them. Bright smiles, cute faces, that all hid a sinister motive, each a jealous sinner biding her time to thwart Wendy’s dreams.

The present-day Wendy allowed her gaze to drift, until it rested upon a young lady sitting on a polished stone bench, scribbling like mad on a large sketchbook. The artist’s choice of clothes snapped up her attention. Platinum-bleached hair, looking like a wig, adorned on top by a black felt porkpie hat, trimmed by a bright red ribbon. That dress! It should be hung in a gallery displayed to curious onlookers, not actually draping her slim body. What was she thinking? A bold thin-striped dress, alternating navy blue and chalk white horizontal bands, with a wide red sash hugging her flat-bellied waist. Too long, surely, the hem crumpling uselessly against the shiny floor. The thick flat heel of one black leather boot peeked out from one fold. Wendy wanted to bend over, touch this young woman on the shoulder, and when she’d turn with quizzical eyes, Wendy would suggest that the dress perhaps be trimmed back, lest it drag along and gather dust and dirt. Her fingers twitched. Oh, please. Just let the magic shorten the hem by an inch, maybe two? No one would notice. After all, she was doing this grungy artist a favor, no?

She sighed. No. Hold back the magic. Right now, she was too curious, too stirred by the sketch artist’s fascination with the subject she drew: a gleaming white statue of a nude woman, her eyes wide and her mouth agape as she raised her elbows against thick, entwining cables that bound her about the ankles, thighs, shoulders, and neck. Wendy looked down at the artist’s lap. The charcoal sketches on the paper excelled in conveying the dynamism, capturing the sculpture's emotion and body language.

That’s a very good drawing, Wendy noted, surprised she’d spoken out.

The artist turned to face Wendy, her blue eyes innocent and curious. Her heart-shaped face looked pinched, with those firm, ample muscles flowing to the cheeks and lower jaw. A very red shade of lipstick matched her two crimson earrings.

The stranger paused, her expression hollow. Wendy fretted for a moment, fearing that the lady displayed offense, or madness, or both. Two seconds passed, and Wendy wished she could glimpse into the gears whirring behind this artist’s forehead. Alas, as powerful as her magic was, it didn’t allow her to read minds, or manipulate them by invading craniums with her own thoughts. My, how she wished for those powers, but she couldn’t complain.

A smile broke out on the woman’s stout face, her voice as gracious and responsive as could be. Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.

That is so good, I imagine you do this for a living?

The lady bore into Wendy’s eyes once again, raising fresh doubts about the stranger’s sanity. But the artist straightened up, clutching the sketch pad close to her chest. With her