“I said it wasn’t Wicca.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Wicca is a religion. Witchcraft is a skill set.”
Owen blinked. “Huh?”
“Witchcraft is a craft. Spells and magic.”
“Magic,” Owen repeated. “You think this is magic?” He waved at the mess nearby.
“I don’t know what it is, but that”—Reitman pointed to the inverted star—“hints at Satanism.”
Owen thought it did more than “hint” but he wasn’t the expert. Didn’t want to be.
“My mother definitely isn’t a Satanist.”
Reitman eyed Mary. “You sure?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s helpful.”
Owen let out a breath. “She worships narcotics not the devil. She’d rather drink vodka than blood.”
“Who said anything about drinking blood?”
Owen considered giving the guy the finger, but that would be redundant.
“She was the local crazy, who lived in a broken-down house in the forest,” Owen said. “Hence the name ‘witch’s house. ’”
Reitman’s forehead crinkled. “I don’t get it.”
“Where are you from?”
“L.A., originally.”
“They don’t have witches there?” Owen asked.
“They call them something else. Starts with a b.”
“You can say bitch. No one will wash out your mouth with soap.” Though it might be fun to try.
“Bruja.” Reitman’s lips tightened. “In L.A. they call them brujas.”
“What. Ever.” Owen’s lips tightened too. “My mother isn’t one.”
“We still don’t know that she didn’t kill these animals.”
“I do. You’re the one who doesn’t believe it.”
“Convince me.”
Owen toyed with another bout of “fuck you.” Then Becca touched his arm. “You should probably call the mental health facility.”
“You should probably call a lawyer,” George said. “Attempted murder is pretty serious.”
“Good luck with that,” Owen returned. “She’s certifiable.”
A judge had said so—although in more legal-type terms—and one continued to say so every year when the order to keep Owen’s mother in the mental facility came up for renewal.
“She’s also committed,” Becca said. “She didn’t check herself out, especially dressed like that. You need to find out what she’s doing here.”
“They won’t know the reason.” Owen considered his mom, who was still whispering to Reggie. At least she was occupied. “I doubt she does.”
“I meant when did she escape? Why don’t you know about it?”
“Right.” He’d already wondered that and gotten distracted by … everything. He pulled out his cell, pushed the contact number for the mental health facility before he remembered. “No service.”
Becca pointed upward. Owen headed for the stairs. He hadn’t taken two steps when Becca cried out. Reggie woofed. Owen spun, hands up, expecting his mom to barrel into him and body-slam him to the ground. Wouldn’t be the first time. When she was lit up, she’d thought Owen was all sorts of strange things.
However, his mom remained right where he’d left her. The dog stared at Becca. Becca, Reitman, and George all stared at Owen’s leg.
Owen glanced down. Considering their expressions, he half expected to see blood darkening his pants. But everything looked normal, or as normal as it had looked since he’d gotten out of the hospital in D.C.
Ah, hell. He was walking like a peg-legged pirate. All he needed was a parrot and an eye patch.
Becca stepped toward him, hand outstretched, concern all over her face. “You’re limping.”
“I’ve been limping for months. Limping is pretty much why I’m here.”
“You said … I thought … You haven’t…”
“I know.”
“I never saw you limp until now,” Reitman said.
“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“How have you avoided walking without my seeing?” Becca asked.
“Wasn’t easy.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Not.”
“You weren’t limping when you grabbed me behind Becca’s place,” Reitman pointed out.
Owen doubted that. He also doubted the guy had been noticing anything besides Owen’s hands around his throat.
“You walked from my parking lot to your truck before, and I’d have noticed if you were doing that.” She jabbed a finger at Owen’s leg.
Owen’s hand fell to his thigh, and he rubbed at the ache. The movement made him remember Becca’s palm landing in the same place only an hour before when he’d helped her stand. An accident, but he’d enjoyed it.
In times past the simple brush of her fingers would have made most of his blood pool north of his thigh, leaving none in his leg to pulse and pain him. That hadn’t happened today, but he liked to remember the days when it had. Maybe the memories, the distraction, the shock—who knew—had caused him to forget the pain for a few minutes. It was back.