Page 20 of The Magic We Made

Still, I know my part in this little drama is over. I’ve done what I set out to do—avenged Mrs. Baumgarten, who’s unfortunately been victimized twice: first by getting robbed, and then by having no one believe her claim that she was robbed... until I showed this video to her, Harbor Hideaways, the police, and now Ash.

I know I should turn around and go into my own house. I know I shouldn’t get more involved than I already am.

But for some reason, instead I hear myself cry, “Wait!”

Then I run after Ash Merit.

Ash

This can’t be happening. Itcan’tbe.

But it is.

I’m stooped beneath the knotty pine planks of my back deck—it’s held up above the steep ravine leading down to the lake by multiple thick steel pylons—where I can still see the shoe prints. They’re less prominent than they were in Francesca’s video, but only because what limited rainwater makes it through the small openings between the planks of the deck has partially washed them away.

But they’re still there.

As if that isn’t bad enough, the doctor herself has come up behind me.

“So, not dementia,” she says. She’s not even panting from running after me since she’s in such good shape from her daily laps. “And not ghosts, either.”

“No,” I force myself to admit. This is so humiliating. “Definitelynot dementia. And not ghosts, either, unless ghosts have started carrying utility tools to slice open window screens.”

“Is that what they used?” She squats down beside the window—the one the inspector warned me didn’t lock properly, but that I figured was no big deal because there’s no crime in West Harbor—and peers at the severed screen. She’s wearing faded cutoffs, the raggedy threads brushing the tops of her strong, tanned thighs, while the back pockets hug—and emphasize—her heart-shaped ass.

Shit.How can this be happening to me?

“Who did you say you showed this to?” I ask, finally.

She tucks back a strand of dark hair that’s escaped from her braid and straightens up. Her sunglasses are still perched on top of her head. It’s too dark beneath the deck to see anything with them on. “I sent a copy to Mr. and Mrs. Baumgarten, of course, as well as Harbor Hideaways and Jackie—”

She breaks off, biting her lip. For some reason she doesn’t want to say anything more about whoever this Jackie person is.

Not that it matters.

“I don’t know what they’re going to do with it,” she goes on. “No one has ever shown up to ask me about it, partly because, according to Jackie, the homeowner never made a report. You’re supposed to—”

“God dammit.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m not the homeowner.”

She stares at me in surprise. “You’re not?” It’s plain from her astonished expression that Francesca—Frankie—never considered this possibility. And why would she? “But it’s in your name.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s complicated. The homeowner lives abroad and is a very private person, who—”

I break off nervously. I can see her staring at me, the gears of her brain shifting as she registers and then absorbs this information. How can I explain any of this without telling her who I work for, since I know she’ll never believe me? I already tried to tell her about my superpower and thought the stupid cat would come out and prove what I was saying.

But the cat had other ideas, because cats always have other ideas. I don’t have anything against cats in general, but I can already tell this one is a little bit of an asshole.

“The owner’s my boss, Guy,” I say instead. “I suggested purchasing this place because it seemed like a good investment. I’m the one who found it, and also the one who decided that renting it out would be a good source of income when Guy wasn’t ready to move in—oh,hell.”

I give up. I can tell by her raised eyebrows I’m only making things worse.

Or maybe not, since the next words out of her mouth are, “Investing in real estate typicallyisa good wealth-management strategy. And investing in vacation rental properties has, historically, paid off. But it can have its downsides, like this.” She points at the cut screen. “The owner, or at least the property manager, has to keep an eye on the place.”

“I know.” It’s all I can do to keep from running to my truck, getting inside, and driving back to Manhattan, never to return. “I tryto. But it’s hard. I live in the city and work full-time. I can’t get here every week. That’s why I hired Harbor Hideaways. I thought they could manage it.”

Frankie nods. “Normally they can. But during the busy season, when we have so many Summer People renting, they get overwhelmed. Things slip through the cracks. That’s why I thoughtyou must not have changed the lockbox code. Until I saw that.” She points at the cut screen and shoe prints.

I follow the line of her finger, noting that the nail is just like the rest of her—strong and angular. No nail polish, not even clear. Has Frankie Giovanni ever had a manicure in her life?