Page 37 of The Magic We Made

Behind her, I see not only two adolescent-looking uniformed EMTs, but an ambulance, two fire trucks, and multiple West Harbor police cars, all parked along my side of the street. Somehow they managed to slide quietly into the neighborhood without me—or, more importantly, Meg—knowing.

But everyone else on the street seems to know. All of my neighbors are standing on their lawns wearing curious and even worried expressions as they watch the rescue workers milling around outside my front door

Great. Just great. Now I’m that guy on the street who has the cops show up at his house.

“Uh,” I say. “Come on in.”

Because what else am I going to do?

I step aside, and Francesca’s friend moves past me, still smiling as casually as if she’d run into us at the farmers market and isn’t standing in my living room with a gun on her hip and about ten other equally heavily armed law enforcement officers right outside the door.

“Hi, Jackie,” Francesca calls cheerfully from the sliding glass doors she’s physically restraining the hysterical girl from unlocking. “This is Meg Boucher.”

“Well, hey, there, Meg,” Jackie says in the most upbeat tone imaginable.

It doesn’t work. Meg, now utterly terrified, breaks down.

“It was only beer and wine,” she wails from the floor where she’s crumpled. The two EMTs have followed Jackie, looking pretty professional with their collapsible gurney and other gear. They’ve moved swiftly toward Meg and are now kneeling beside her, trying to revive—and reassure—her.

“We only stole beer and wine,” Meg is insisting, weakly. “And a little food. I’m so sorry. We were so hungry. Please don’t arrest me!”

“No one is here to arrest you, Meg,” Francesca explains patiently as the female EMT slips a blood pressure cuff over the girl’s arm. “They’re here to help you.”

“That’s right.” Deputy Chief Boyle’s big, jovial voice exactly matches her big, jovial presence. “You have a lot of people worried about you, little lady.”

Meg doesn’t look at all reassured. “I shouldn’t have come back here,” she murmurs, but this time without much conviction. Her eyelids appear to be getting droopy. The EMTs have given her something. “I don’t know why I did.”

I do. She was looking for me. She doesn’t know it, any more than Emma did when she was here rooting through the fridge the other day. Sure, they were hungry.

But more than that, theywantedto be found. It’s the only explanation for why Meg returned to the scene of the crime—or chose my house in the first place.

“Dehydration,” one of the EMTs murmurs to the deputy chief as Meg’s head slumps forward. “And exposure.” She points to multiple red welts on the back of the girl’s neck. “Mosquitoes. They’ve been sucking her dry. Between that, the abrasions, and the malnutrition, I’m surprised she was walking.”

“And look at this.” The other EMT holds out the fading girl’s arm. Near where the blood pressure cuff is wrapped is a nasty rash that I’m sincerely hoping Francesca didn’t inadvertently touch. “Poison ivy. It’s all over her.”

“Okay,” Deputy Chief Boyle says. Her tone isn’t so jovial anymore. It’s crisp and professional. “That’s enough. Let’s get her to the ER. You—” I’m surprised to find her hazel-eyed gaze on me. She doesn’t look so jovial anymore. “Let’s talk outside.”

I nod and follow her out the front door. I know the drill. You can’t spend most of your free time finding lost things—especially people—without running into questions from law enforcement every now and then. It’s never something I look forward to. Cops generally aren’t too keen on “magic” as a defense for anything illegal that they happen to catch you doing.

It’s too soon to tell if Jackie Boyle is going to have a problem with me.

“So,” the deputy chief says when we reach my front porch. Francesca has followed us out but only to stand with her arms folded across her chest, staring back through my open front doorat the EMTs, who are busy strapping Meg to their gurney. “This is your house, I take it?”

I nod again. It’s too complicated to tell her the whole truth. “Yes. I’m Ash Merit—”

I see the deputy chief’s eyes widen a little, almost as if she’s connecting my name with something she’s heard before.

Except what could she have heard? Unless Dr. Dick has been talking shit about me. Did he put something about me and the knotweed in his vlog? I wouldn’t be surprised.

It can’t have been anything too bad, though, since the deputy chief is grinning broadly and stretching her right hand toward me.

“Nice to meet you, Ash,” she says as she crushes my fingers in her surprisingly powerful grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Don’t believe it,” I say, and steal a glance at Francesca to see if she knows what slander her ex has been spreading about me around town.

But she isn’t even paying attention. Her worried gaze is still on Meg, who is moaning on the wheeled gurney the EMTs are pushing past us.

“Don’t ask her too many questions until she’s gotten some fluids into her,” she’s saying in a low tone to Jackie. “She’s already exhibiting signs of post-traumatic stress.”