“And I don’t understand this ‘recipe’ she was talking about, either,” I say when he stops pounding. “Maybe it just means to see something again. As in we’ve seen it before, now we get to see it again.”
The crow stays put. Eyes locked on mine. Then it caws twice as if calling to me. I pop off my stool to see what it’s getting at—
A loud clank drops from underneath the car, causing me to jump.
“Got it!” Davis rolls out, holding up the prized piece, a bar with red plastic fringe dangling on the end. He watches the startled crow fly off. His eyes pan back to me with heavy concern.
“What’s that?” I pretend like I didn’t even notice the crow and saunter back over to Davis.
“Handlebar to a pogo stick.” He tosses it in the trash barrel with the remaining stick, now a red pretzel knot. “Miss Belinda ran over her granddaughter’s toy.”
“And it jacked up her car that bad?” The twisted bend of the front bumper a gnarled grin.
“Yep.” Davis scrubs his hands with a bar of Lava soap. “She’ll need a new one. Bent the tire rod, too. I’ll have to order one of those as well.” He leans back against the sink, drying his hands on a red rag that’s nothing short of filthy.
“New bumper,” I say more to myself as a thought occurs to me. Not an hour ago I lay on the Sugar Hill’s driveway, face-to-face with Stone’s car. Not a scratch anywhere on it. “Hey. If Stone’s car hit a bicycle, wouldn’t his bumper be jacked up? Like this?” I say to Davis. Before he can answer, I add, “Now that I come to think about it, I don’t remember seeing any damage to his car when I put the witching jar behind his tire. A little strange, don’t you think?”
“He probably had it repaired.” Davis shrugs.
“And why has Lorelei been driving it around? Where’s her car?”
Davis gives me a confused look. “Who knows. Maybe she sold it. And maybe you’re misremembering about Stone’s car; we had a lot on our minds that day at court. It’s nothing. Just let it go.”
Except I can’t let it go.
“But that doesn’t make sense—why would she sell a perfectly good car? Why would Stone’s even be drivable after the accident? I didn’t even get to the part about the necklace!” I’m about to tell him about the scales of justice and the ribbon necklace Lorelei had with that symbol—
“What are you doing?” Davis sharply cuts me off before I can finish my thought. “Why is any of this important?”
“It’s important because... Well, I’m not sure, but I think maybe—” Then I stop when I see the grimace on Davis’s face. “What?”
He glances down and away, like it pains him to have this talk, but it’s got to be done. I can feel the color wash from my face.
He glances back up with a seriousness that ages him. “I talked to Raelean,” he says, as if this is supposed to mean something.
“And?” I smart my hand on my hip, not really in the mood to be lectured.
“She said at the farmhouse you were...you were talking to a crow.” He picks up one of his tools and polishes it clean with the same red rag.
Oh, so this is where he’s going. I clinch my jaw and hold back an annoyed swear. “I told her I was reading something out loud.”
“That’s what you told her.” He spears me with a look, one that says he doubts my story.
“All little kids have imaginary friends.” I wield a stern glare right back at him.
“At ten, maybe. At twenty-four?” He raises a brow.
Damn Adaire for telling Davis about Rook. I mean, I never said she couldn’t, but it isn’t anyone’s business. I brought a dead boy back to some version of life, and it cursed him with the duty of a Soul Walker. I think it bothered Adaire he only returned when death visited me. Like my relationship with him was wrong somehow. That doesn’t change the fact he and I are bound, symbiotic, my gift and his duty. As though either of us really had a choice in the matter.
“We both know what this is really about,” Davis says. I don’t like his condescending tone. “You gotta stop clinging to her. It’s not a healthy way to grieve.”
“Oh, so you’re the expert on grieving now? Not all of us can continue on with life like nothing ever happened.”
Davis points an angry finger at me. “That is not what I’m doing.”
Crackled voices push through the ambulance authority’s scanner, something Davis keeps in case extra hands are needed. He pauses long enough to hear it’s not a medical emergency, then he turns back to me.
I pull my lighter and a small joint from my empty box of playing cards I keep them in. “What’s your point?”
“My point is you’re different. This...this...” He waves a hand up and down at my brown-and-orange-striped shirt. “You’re wearing her clothes, for God’s sake.”
It’s Adaire’s shirt, one she made from a vintage serape tablecloth she found at a garage sale.
“You’ve picked up her bad habits, too.” He raises a brow at the stubby joint I’m poised to light.
“She smoked when her visions came on too strong. It’s helping me—” to numb myself is what I want to say “—to get over her.”
“There’s no getting over her. Don’t you get that? We just have to make it through. And not like this.”
“Like what? It’s a little weed, no big deal.”
“It’s not just the weed. Jesus, Weatherly, you’re going through men faster than Miss Belinda goes through new bumpers. Jimmy Smoot. Rodney Wheeler. Ricky Scarborough.” He ticks them off on his fingers.
“Oh, so you’re my daddy now?” I light the blunt.
“Never. I’m your friend. And I’m worried. In the last month and a half, you seem adrift.” His words hammer out a chunk of that wall that’s been holding me up. “You’re not thinking clearly. Listen to what you’re saying. You’re over here talking about a mentally unstable woman and a dead deer and rain as if any of it matters.”
“It does!”
