Page 3 of The Magic We Made

“Judging by the fact that all the alcohol is gone, it was probably just some local kids. I’m betting they used your tote bags to carry it away.”

“Teenagers?” She looks shocked. “You think it wasteenagers?”

“I do. Not many of them care for cauliflower pizza crust. If you haven’t called the police or the rental agency, I’d be happy to do it for you.”

I avoid mentioningwhyI’m so happy to do these things: I’m delighted to do anything that might make life more difficult for Ash.

“Oh,thank you,” Mrs. Baumgarten cries. “Thank you for that. You can’t know how nervous I was coming over here to talk to you. My husband said—well, he said not to. He thought you’d think I was insane.”

“Not at all.” I would never use a term likeinsaneto describe anyone except myself—not even a Summer Person who thinks the house she’s rented is haunted. “I’ll ask my friend at the property management company to see if they can change the code to the lockbox, and maybe even the locks.”

I sound like the most responsible, caring neighbor in the world. No one would ever suspect the true reason I’m so willing to do this: I’m hoping Ash will be so annoyed, he’ll sell.

It’s not an unrealistic dream. Ash doesn’t even live here. He lives in Manhattan—at least according to his LinkedIn profile, which, yes, I did check the minute I learned his full name. Surprisingly, he’s listed there as AshrafMerit, not the more conventional Asher or Ashton I was expecting based on his Entitled Finance Bro vibe (LinkedIn says he works as a financial advisor for the pretentiously named Olympus Foundation, a “privately owned charitable trust”).

I’ve only ever seen him from a distance. He’s certainly never bothered to say hello to me or any of our other neighbors during his brief visits to West Harbor. He’s the very definition of an absentee homeowner.

“Calling the agency is a good idea.” Mrs. Baumgarten is glancing nervously back at her rental. “I’m not sure how comfortable I feel staying in the house anymore. I think... well, I think I’m going to cancel.”

“Oh, no!” I say this only to be polite. Harbor Hideaways, the property management company Ash uses, has a ninety-day noticecancellation policy. Ruth Baumgarten is never going to get a dime of her money back.

I don’t mention any of this to my soon-to-be-former neighbor, however.

“But that makes sense,” is all I say out loud. “Anyone would feel uncomfortable after something like this. It’s a violation.”

“Thank you.” Her hand creeps up to the collar of her cardigan again. “But it isn’t only that. David—that’s my husband—keeps saying that maybe we should have rented in the Hamptons instead.”

No kidding. But a vacation rental in the Hamptons, even off-season, costs three times as much as one in West Harbor... at least one here on Walker Lake. Beachfront is more expensive.

Still, Ash will have a hard time finding a new tenant for his house this late in the season. Everyone who has the money to waste on a thirty-day September rental has already booked theirs, so he’s going to be out of luck.

I should be ashamed of how happy this thought makes me. But I’m not.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. And Iamsorry. Forher.

“It’s all right. This whole thing is probably my fault, anyway.” Mrs. Baumgarten grimaces self-deprecatingly. “I’m the one who still insisted we book a place in West Harbor, even after I heard about the missing girls.”

This throws me. I’d been assuming she didn’t know. “You, uh, heard about that, and still wanted to rent here?”

“Well, yes!” Mrs. Baumgarten’s eyes look huge—but not from fear. Excitement. Now that I’ve reassured her it was humans, not paranormal entities, who took her wine, she’s feeling more at ease. “West Harbor has become globally recognized as a place ofspiritual enlightenment! My friend Joanne was here last summer for the West Harbor Witch Riot and said it wastransformative.I’ve never seen her look so good. She came backglowing.”

A chill passes through me, even though it’s so warm out. “So you rented in West Harborbecauseof—?”

“Of course! But I expected to encounter witches like Joanne did—not ghosts!” She shakes her head. “Ghosts are a totally different story.”

I blink. I should have known. Mrs. Baumgarten isn’t here to enjoy the pastoral tranquility of the lake. She’s here for the same reason as so many other Summer People lately: because of the witches.

The witches of West Harbor.

Frankie

Mrs. Baumgarten leaves my yard with an actual bounce in her step, she’s so relieved her rental was only broken into and not haunted.

But her relief doesn’t keep me from going inside and checking the local paper to see if any of the other homes along Lakeview Drive have been broken into lately.

I can’t find any reports about that. But I do find this:

West Harbor Daily