Page 5 of The Magic We Made

“I don’t understand why you hate Ash so much.” I can hear her long fingernails clicking on her keyboard in the background as she types. “Every time I talk to him, he’s perfectly nice.”

“Wait... you’vetalkedto him?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve seen Ash a half dozen times since he bought the place, and he’s never spoken to meonce.”

Worse than that, he’s always kept his cell phone glued to hisdark-haired, expensively groomed head, making it impossible to speak to him about his noisy renters without interrupting his very important calls. Every time, he was wearing what my little sister Cat refers to as “business bro” attire: plain toe boots, linen blazer, and dark jeans that fit so snugly, a tailor had to have been involved.

“Hmm,” Rochelle says when I casually mention this. “Sounds to me like someone has been checking out their new neighbor’s package.”

“Very funny. Just because the guy looks good doesn’t mean heisn’t a creep.”

Rochelle sighs. “Oh, Frankie. Is this all because of the speaker thing? Ash says that was an honest mistake.”

“Leaving ‘Margaritaville’ playing on an endless loop on your outdoor speakers overnight is not a mistake, Rochelle. It’s a crime.”

“It was his last tenants who did that, not Ash. You can’t hold any landlord responsible for what his tenants do.”

Yes, I absolutely can. But instead of saying so, I ask, “What about the pickup truck? That’s his, not his tenants’. Can I hold him responsible for that?”

“That...” Rochelle pauses. She’s having trouble with this one. “I mean, I could see someone from the city being excited about the rural property they’ve just bought, and wanting to get a vehicle that matches their new vibe....”

“Nice try, Roche. There is no excuse for that truck. None.”

Rochelle’s silence only proves that I’m right. Ash used to come check on his investment property in a boring, but perfectly quiet BMW sedan.

Then, in an effort to get into his new “country vibe,” he bought a beat-up old Chevy pickup that Mark—a car fanatic—happened to see and declare a “classic” from the 1960s.

But like anything that peaked in the 1960s, Ash’s truck no longer performs at its best. In fact, the whole neighborhood hears it whenever Ash chooses to grace us with his presence. His every coming and going is announced with a deafeningly loudPUTT PUTT PUTT.

Since he only seems to show up when I’m having an online session in my home office with a distressed patient (who can’t hear the truck, because the sound is muted by my earbuds), I have to ask myself: What kind of asshole doesn’t have a muffler?

You don’t have to be a licensed therapist to know the answer is: one who is insecure over the size of his dick.

Rochelle bursts out laughing when I say this, even though I’m not trying to be funny.

“And what’s with people still wanting to rent here when they know about the missing girls?” I ask when she’s calmed down.

“Are you kidding me? That’swhyso many of them want to rent here. Do you know how many more Fall Foliage packages I’ve sold this year compared to last?” Rochelle seems almost giddy. “No one is even complaining about the leaves still being green. They’re only here to take selfies while they play amateur detective.”

I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. People love being scared... just nottooscared. “That makes sense, I guess. No one likes hearing about a missing kid, but a missingadult—”

“Especially an attractive one with tons of online followers like these girls have. I bet anything that they’re all staying in a beach house around here somewhere as part of a collaborative content creation project. What would attract more views than a bunch ofmissing witch influencers suddenly vanishing in a town known for its paranormal events?”

“Oneparanormal event, Rochelle,” I remind her. “Only one, and it was later determined to have been a microburst.”

“How do you know? You weren’t even there that night, Frankie.”

It’s true. I wasn’t. My ex and I had tickets to attend last year’s “Celebration in the Square,” where the alleged paranormal event took place, but a patient of mine who’d just learned his wife had used over twenty grand of their retirement savings to buy crypto—a notoriously unstable investment—booked an emergency session. So Richard went to the event without me, saying we shouldn’t let both tickets go to waste.

This was fine with me. Just because two people are married doesn’t mean they have to be joined at the hip. Richard and I used to do a lot of things separately. Most things, if I’m being honest.

I probably should have realized then that this was a red flag. But I missed it, just like I missed so many other red flags where my ex was concerned.

“Damn.” I glance at my watch, which doubles as a fitness tracker for when I’m running or doing laps in the lake. “I have to go. I need to change so I look presentable from the waist up for my next patient. Will you at least check the lockbox situation andtryto get Mrs. Baumgarten a refund?”

“Sure, I’ll try. But no guarantees.”