“Considering her outfit”—Owen rolled free and stood, then offered Becca a hand—“they didn’t.”
She placed her palm against his and static leaped, the spark making both of them jerk back. It was kind of early in the season for that much of a static shock, wasn’t it? It had been so long since Owen had been in Wisconsin, he wasn’t sure, but the way Becca frowned at her hand, then rubbed it on her pants and got to her feet on her own, made him think she’d been as shocked—ha-ha—by the spark as he’d been. That his hand continued to feel oddly warm and tingly had to be his imagination. There was no other explanation for it. Unless it was witchcraft.
Owen used his nontingly hand to rub his eyes. Talk about cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“You think she escaped?” Becca asked.
“Yeah.” He dropped his hand. “I do.”
“Th-th-that’s your mother?”
Reitman crouched in the tiny corner formed between the stone fireplace and the wall. Owen couldn’t bring himself to answer. He didn’t have to.
“Mrs. McAllister?” George shouted, and she flinched.
“She isn’t deaf,” Becca said.
“She also isn’t Mrs. McAllister.” Owen’s parents had never been married. Owen wasn’t sure his mom even knew who his dad was.
“Mary?” George said in a normal voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Baby boy,” she cooed. “Come to Mama, sweetheart.”
Becca glanced at Owen.
“She isn’t talking to me.” His mom wasn’t even looking at him but at the empty hallway, and she’d never once called him “baby” or “sweetheart.”
Reggie appeared in the entryway, and Reitman cursed. “Keep him out of here!”
“Talk about a baby boy,” Owen muttered.
“His hair will contaminate the crime scene.” Reitman’s prissy voice reminded Owen of Miss Belinda, the ancient librarian who’d never allowed him and Becca to sit on the same side of the table in school. Had Belinda been her first name or her last?
“The crime scene is three ways from fucked already,” Owen said.
However, he did tell Reggie to “bly’b,” though the dog had ignored the order to stay already or he wouldn’t be in the house. They were going to have to do some retraining before they went back to Afghanistan.
“Baby boy,” Owen’s mother murmured again, and Reggie inched a little closer.
“Seriously?” Owen asked the dog.
Reggie hung his head as if he understood, even as he scooted ever nearer, as though he couldn’t help himself.
Animals liked Owen’s mom, and they, in turn, calmed her, as she was calmed by little else but heavy medication. Becca had always had a dog or a cat or two, which had followed her everywhere, including to Owen’s house. They’d usually wound up on Mary’s lap, or curled next to her wherever she’d passed out. Too bad they’d never been able to afford pets. Might have helped more than therapy ever had.
“Go on.” Owen flapped his hand in his mom’s direction, and Reggie’s head tilted. “You know you want to.”
Reggie promptly sprawled across Mary McAllister’s filthy crazy-house slippers. From their worn appearance she’d walked here, which was a pretty damn long walk. The Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility was a half-hour drive from Three Harbors.
“You think he smelled the blood on her?” Reitman asked.
Owen stiffened as if he’d inherited Reitman’s stick. “Excuse me?”
“I suppose she’s washed up since she did this.” The doctor indicated the pentagram and everything beneath it.
“She didn’t do that.”
“She’s got a knife.”
“So does three quarters of the town.”
“She’s here.”
“So are we.”
“She’s obviously off her rocker.”
“So are you.” The guy did believe he was a witch. “She’s barely able to function. She certainly didn’t have the capacity to snatch all those animals without someone seeing her.”
Although she had escaped a secure mental institution, and Owen really needed to find out how. When? And why he didn’t know about it.
“These are domestic animals,” Reitman continued.
“Your point?”
“They wouldn’t be hard to snatch. They’d probably come right to her.” His gaze went to Reggie. “He did.”
“She’s not a killer, especially of animals.”
Becca cast Owen a quick glance, which he ignored. His mom hadn’t killed anyone. Yet. Apparently she hadn’t given up trying.
“Consider the dog,” he continued. “He’s trained to know what a killer smells like.”
“Can he smell a witch?” George asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Owen demanded.
George shrugged.
“She’s a witch?” Reitman glanced at Becca.
Becca shook her head. “They called this the witch’s house when we were kids.”
“Still do,” George offered.
Becca gave George a dirty look before returning her attention to Reitman. “You know how small towns are.”
“Not really,” he said.
“What difference does it make if she is a witch or if she isn’t?” Owen blurted. “You said this wasn’t witchcraft.”