Friday. 2:30 PM

I raced across the city, driving five over the speed limit and blasting through yellow lights whenever I could. It’s probably fine. It’s probably nothing. You don’t need to worry so much.

If I was wrong, I’d have worked myself up for nothing. If I was right, though...

Andrea Hills lived in the pink house just by the Nelson Atkins museum. I didn’t know the house, but I knew the museum. The campus was fairly large, but most homes were on the north side. Rolling by a stop sign, I throttled the gas and started circling the campus.

Pink house. Pink house. Pink—

It was hard to miss. A two-story thing, bright, sunny, and picturesque, with a flower garden to match. Andrea was wealthy enough to hire a fairly expensive landscaper, or she put in the time and love to keep the exterior well maintained.

There was no driveway, and the street parking was totally occupied. I slowed for a moment, cruising past, looking for any sign of trouble. Nothing was obvious. There weren’t any screams, and the windows and door were all securely closed. I had time to park.

Circling, I found a spot a block up, dropped the kickstand, and pulled out my phone. Bringing up my call history, I tapped Andrea’s number as I started running towards the house. “She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.”

It rang in my ear, seconds stretching out as I hurried down the sidewalk.

“Hi, this is Andrea’s phone.”

“Andrea!” I shouted. “Are you—”

“You missed me right now,” the recording kept playing. “But leave a message after the beep, I’ll hit you back when I can!”

It beeped. I hung up and called again, throwing open her gate and running up to the door. As the phone continued to ring, I hit the doorbell, pressing the button half a dozen times. “Andrea. Andrea!”

I panted for breath, waiting a moment, listening. She said she would stay home, so she had to be inside. Maybe she was in the shower, or taking a nap, or…

“Hi, this is Andrea’s phone.”

I hung up, and tried the door handle. It was locked. I moved over to the front window, peering through the blinds.

Oh no.

No time to be subtle. I looked around, ran to grab a rock from the flower garden, and threw it at the glass. At the same time, I hung up, dialed 911, and waited for it to pick up.

I crouched through the shattered window, listening as I walked over to the body.

Not the body. To Andrea.

My thoughts were starting to fog. I couldn’t focus, except to look down at Andrea.

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance. I’m at, um—It’s a pink house, on Rockhill and… forty-fourth? Forty-fifth? Just north of Nelson Atkins. There’s a woman here, she’s not moving, there’s a lot of blood.”

“What’s your name?”

“Levi. Levi Lawson.”

“Okay, Levi, are you in any danger?”

“No. I don’t think so. But she’s—”

“Can you tell me what number you’re calling from?”

“Yeah, uh, eight one six, five five five, oh one six two. She… she needs an ambulance, bad.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I… I don’t think so. Her chest isn’t moving.”

“Do you know how to check her pulse?”

“I do. Just… hold on.”

“Alright. An ambulance is being dispatched.”

“Okay.”

“Have you checked her pulse?”

“I don’t—there’s so much blood. My hands are slipping. I can’t—her wrist, it’s—”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“She called me. I came by, and… and her phone was ringing. In the window. I…”

“Stay on the line. Help will be there soon. Do you know how to do CPR?”

“Y-yes. I took a class.”

“Okay. I want you to administer CPR. Don’t hang up, just set down your phone while you do it.”

“Okay. I—Okay.”

“...”

“She’s still not breathing.”

“Alright. The EMTs will be there soon. Please stay on the line.”

“... she’s cold.”

“Sir?”

I hung up the phone. It left a bloody fingerprint on the touchscreen.

She was dead. I didn’t need an EMT to tell me that. Sitting next to the body, I scooted away until my back bumped a wall.

My phone started to ring. The 911 dispatch. I let it go to voicemail.

I’d talked to her just a few hours ago. I’d told her everything was fine.

I had blood on my hands, and the front of my jeans. I drummed my fingers to the side of my head, venting stress, trying to get myself together.

She hadn’t just died. Someone had killed her.

Before they’d killed her, they’d put a communications hex on her phone, and I’d missed it. I’d assumed her ramblings were just that, and I hadn’t considered any alternatives until they were staring me in the face.

Andrea had called me, begging for help, and I’d blown her off.

Her death was premeditated, preplanned, and whoever had done it had access to magic.

The cops weren’t going to be able to do anything to touch them.

I got up. I had a problem to solve, and that was enough of a lifeline to keep me focused. As long as I was working, I could bottle up my feelings, keep them contained until I had a chance to decompress. I focused on my breathing, and on my thoughts, fighting back the panic that threatened to rise from somewhere deep in my chest.

It’s a puzzle, not a crisis. Solve it. What happened?

Surveying the room, I couldn’t immediately piece together the order of events. The door was locked. The window was smashed in, but I’d done that.

I looked around, took a guess, and navigated to the kitchen. Leftover barbeque was on the table in a Styrofoam takeout box from Arthur Bryant’s, the remains of a meal Andrea would never finish.

I pumped out hand soap from a dispenser shaped like a squirrel, running hot water up to my elbows, trying to get them clean. Using a roll of paper towels to dry off, I focused my attention back on my goals.

My phone rang again. I hung up, and instead dialed Andrea’s number. It started to buzz, somewhere nearby. Listening, I realized it was in her pocket, knelt, and took it out.

The screen was shattered beyond the point of functionality and it didn’t even light up when I hit the power button, but it was something. I slipped it in my pocket, then started taking photos with my own device.

I only snapped one picture of Andrea. I didn’t want to see any more of that than I had to, but it felt irresponsible not to at least get a single image. With the whole scene documented, but disturbed as little as possible, I turned to head up the stairs.

My phone rang again. The 911 dispatch was continuing to try and contact me. I ignored them.

Without an idea of what to look for, I started checking doors. A briefcase with ‘clues’ written on the front would have been ideal, but I didn’t have any such luck. The bedroom was as pretty and neatly organized as the front garden, and had a big picture window overlooking more well-maintained greenery in the backyard.

I took a couple photos of the bedroom, and one of the backyard, where plants and stones were arranged in concentric circles to make for a sort of zen-garden style arrangement. It might be relevant, but at first glance, there was nothing that would explain why she’d been killed. Shutting the door behind me, I walked back into the hallway.

Checking the next room, I found an office. There was a plain wooden desk resting in the corner, and some electronics arranged to the side, but the majority of the room was taken up by a large digital display on the wall and a table in the center. A roll of graphing paper was on one end, with holders for pens, pencils, and other artists tools on the other end.

I checked out the desk first. There was a laptop’s power supply, an ethernet cable, an HDMI cord to go to a bigger monitor, and a mouse, but the laptop itself was nowhere to be seen. I took a photo and moved on.

There was nothing on the table except a couple pens, and the edge of the graph paper on the roll was torn, rather than cut. I took a photo of that, too.

It wasn’t much to go on. It was possible I was overlooking something, or that there just wasn’t anything left to find. Either way, my options were running thin.

A noise came from downstairs. Someone was at the front door.

The EMTs must be here. Why didn’t I hear the siren?

I moved to walk towards the stairs, then a thought struck me.

What if it’s the killer?

With that thought rattling around in my head, I suddenly felt very trapped up on the second floor. Moving my feet carefully, so the floorboards wouldn’t creak, I backed towards the bedroom.

The door rattled as someone tried to open it against the deadbolt. There was a pause, as I shifted my feet without lifting them off the floor, sliding along and avoiding any loose boards. A second later, the deadbolt clicked, unlocking. As the figure came inside, there was no accompanying jingle of keys on a ring. Magic?

Heavy boots echoed as they walked in, looming over the body, wordless and silent. Definitely not an EMT, or a cop, or anyone else that would have showed up because of my call. Probably not a friend, either. A friend would have reacted with shock or horror.

I was more and more confident that, whoever it was, I didn’t want to meet them. Either they would think I had killed her and would attack me on sight or, more likely, they had killed her and would attack me on sight. I didn’t want a confrontation.

It was only two more paces to the bedroom. If I could get the picture window open, I could jump down to the first floor and they would be unaware that I’d even been there.

Grasping the handle tightly, I turned it, slow, barely moving the door. The hinges didn’t creak, and an inch at a time I got it open, giving myself a gap I could silently squeeze through. My escape was imminent.

My phone rang again.

Shit.

Below, I heard a surprised cry that was followed quickly by footsteps, pounding hard towards the stairs.

No time for stealth. I darted into the bedroom, slammed the door, and pressed the button on the handle to lock it. Crossing the room, I prayed as I put my hands on the frame of the picture window, wishing that whatever deity was up there would ensure I could get it open.

A shoulder hit the door, cracking the cheap wood. The interior door wasn’t designed to resist a home intruder. It wouldn’t survive another hit.

I got lucky. The window slid to the side easily, and without a second’s hesitation I vaulted over the edge.

The drop wasn’t far. As a kid, I’d jumped down from treehouses that were higher up. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and the landing sent a jolt of discomfort through my legs, but I was up and scurrying around the side of the house in moments.

I got to the sidewalk clean. Nobody had followed me out the window, and they hadn’t made it back to the front door in time to intercept me. Now that I was on the street, I could hear the ambulance siren’s whine as it rolled onto the road, followed closely by the wailing of a police cruiser. I kept walking at a normal, if slightly clipped, pace. Just a pedestrian, out for a walk. The ambulance buzzed past me, followed by the cruiser, and neither slowed down to confront me.

When I was almost around the corner, I finally let myself glance back at the house, just for a second. When I did, I saw a figure on the porch. It was too far away to make out any details. They were tall, maybe six feet, dressed in dark clothes that made their silhouette indistinct. And they were facing me.

I looked away and kept walking before they could get a good look at my face. My motorcycle was around the corner. Putting on my helmet, I hopped into the seat, revved the engine, and sped away, putting distance between myself and the crime scene.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and it took me a minute to realize that I’d accelerated to well past the speed limit. I slowed down as fast as I’d sped up, following side roads. The last thing I wanted was to get pulled over and have to explain the blood stains on my clothes, or why I was fleeing a crime scene.

Do I go to the police?

The cops would be able to trace the 911 call to my phone. It was attached to my name. Heck, the phone number was on my website. Once it was clear that I’d fled the scene of the crime, they’d definitely have questions for me. There would probably be a cop waiting for me as soon as I got home.

Whoever had killed Andrea, they had enough resources to put a communications hex on someone. That wasn’t an easy enchantment to cast. Given that my DNA was all over Andrea’s body, I had no doubt that they could just as easily tamper with police records and get me convicted.

So, I couldn’t go home. That was fine.

I’d have to approach this from the magical end of things. If the real killer was apprehended by wizards, I could go to the police later and work something out. Or, if I got lucky, the council might decide that, for the secrecy of the commonwealth, they should just make the records of the crime disappear.

In short, I had to catch a killer with access to magic, and I had to do it before the police caught up to me.

At least I knew where to start.