“Hanalee,” said my mother, “Deputy Fortaine came over. He’s waiting downstairs for you.”
I rolled over in my sheets and faced her. The bottle of Necromancer’s Nectar still sat on my bedside table, I realized, the cap unscrewed, the bottle wide open and smelling of booze and dope—or at least what I imagined dope to smell like. Bitter as molasses. Medicinal. Nauseating.
“Why is he waiting to see me?” I asked. I forced myself not to grab the bottle and hide it from sight.
“He wants to speak to you about Joe.”
My skin simultaneously sweated and froze.
“Get dressed.” Mama marched over and pulled the covers off me with a gust of air that blew hair against my face. Her eyes locked on to the dress I still wore from the day before. “You never changed into nightclothes?”
“I didn’t feel well last night.”
“Are you better now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She lowered the covers to my knees. “Change into fresh clothes and come downstairs.”
“I don’t want to talk to Deputy Fortaine.”
“He’s here to help.”
“To help whom?” I asked.
She creased her brow and put her hands on her hips. “To help us. All of us.”
My glance flitted to the Necromancer’s Nectar, which now seemed as large and conspicuous as a living creature, perched beside my bed.
Mama turned her face toward the bottle. “What’s that?”
I sat up. “A tonic.”
“For what?”
I grabbed the potion. “Straightening hair. Mildred gave it to me.”
She grumbled. “Stop buying those horrible cure-alls from her. Your curls are beautiful.”
I tried to screw the lid into place without appearing nervous, but my hands slipped and accidentally shook the liquid until it sloshed and foamed.
“Put that bottle away,” said Mama. “Get yourself brushed and presentable. Deputy Fortaine is a busy man. We mustn’t waste his time.”
I nodded and pressed the bottle’s black-magic symbols against my chest, finding the glass cold to the touch. The note from the night before rustled in my dress pocket, but my mother didn’t seem to hear it.
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
I released the breath I’d been holding and concealed both the bottle and the note in the drawer of my bedside table. My clothing and hair smelled of smoke from Joe’s lantern, I realized, so I changed into a fresh gray and white dress and sprinkled my hair with talcum powder before twisting it, tucking it under, and pinning it into the style of a faux bob.
A quick glance in the mirror revealed fear in the pupils of my hazel eyes.
WITH A FLASH OF HIS DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS SMILE, Deputy Fortaine stood up from his seat next to Uncle Clyde’s at our dining room table.
“Good morn—” He bumped his thigh on the table’s edge. Mugs of coffee jostled. “Good morning, Hanalee.” His olive complexion reddened, but the smile stayed in place.
“Morning, Hanalee,” said Uncle Clyde, bobbing up from his own chair for a swift moment.
Mama placed her hand against my back and urged me forward, while both men watched me with a kindness that tasted false. I stepped toward them with my hands clasped in front of me.
Deputy Fortaine pulled out a chair for me. “Please, have a seat.”
Uncle Clyde clutched his own mug of coffee and nodded at me to obey the deputy’s orders. The skin beneath his eyes bulged, as if he hadn’t slept the night before.
I sat down with reluctance, and Mama plunked a glass of orange juice in front of me.
“Your breakfast will wait until after the chat,” she said, her hand on my shoulder for a slip of a moment.
Deputy Fortaine sat back down, this time holding on to the table. Mama took the seat across from him.
I fidgeted and rubbed my hands over my skirt, and the cotton stuck to my palms.
“Hanalee”—the deputy cleared his throat and wrapped his fingers around his mug—“as I know you’re well aware, Joe Adder is back in the area. The state penitentiary released him early on good behavior.”
“Yes, I know.” I summoned every ounce of restraint I possessed to keep my head from turning toward the window. Toward the woods.
The deputy took a sip of his beverage, and, after a smack of his lips, he lowered the mug back to the table. I smelled an off-putting potpourri of coffee, orange juice, and the deputy’s musky cologne, the last of which Fleur’s mother probably found arousing. Everything at that table made me sick to my stomach.
“Have you seen him?” asked the deputy, his head tilted to his right, his eyes narrowed.
All three of them—Mama, Uncle Clyde, and Deputy Fortaine—stared me down like buzzards.
I folded my hands on the table, and through gritted teeth I answered, “Why on earth would I be seeing the drunk who killed my father?”