The Witch In the Well by Camilla Bruce

Author:Camilla Bruce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

21

For the first few days after my last misadventure on the castle lawn, I didn’t hear anything, though I certainly had expected to. I had, however, been imagining a reaction in the form of an angry Elena at my door demanding an explanation, and not a phone call from Officer Rogers. This turn of events was very unfortunate, as I had already prepared just the perfect speech to give Elena, conjuring up a fond childhood memory: “I just wanted to remind you of the time we stole your Uncle John’s bucket of fish and threw them down in the well.” I had in fact perfected this flimsy defense while waiting for her to arrive, by reciting it to myself in the mirror.

The speech was, however, not right for Officer Rogers, who was overall more concerned with the dead rabbit than the moths. This was not something I had expected either—I had almost forgotten about that dratted roadkill. I had only thought about the humiliating moment in front of the window, and hadn’t realized that the carcass would become an issue.

“But it was you who put it there?” Officer Rogers asked me on the phone.

“Yes.” I didn’t even think to lie. Surprise will do that to you. “But it wasn’t a threat or anything like that.”

“What was it, then? Do you deny that you put the rabbit on Ms. Clover’s steps to scare her?”

“No.” I was still so foolishly honest. “But it wasn’t a threat as such, as I never implied that any violence would be done to Ms. Clover. I merely put it there to—” I finally managed to stop my own unruly tongue, realizing that my words were not saving me, but only digging the hole deeper.

“Then what could possibly be your intention, Mrs. Evans?” Officer Rogers sounded sardonic.

I had no ready answer to that. Whatever could I say to improve my situation? Sometimes in life, the best thing you can do is just lie down and accept defeat.

“She has filed a restraining order against you,” said the officer. “I think you’ll do wise in heeding that piece of paper.”

“I can’t go to the castle at all?” Somehow, that struck me as such a loss.

“No. You cannot go to the castle,” he confirmed. “You are lucky that nothing more serious will come of this—and Mrs. Evans, please leave the roadkill alone. You never know what germs and other nastiness those critters carry.”

At that point, standing there with the phone in my hand, just digesting the unpleasant words, I felt utterly, devastatingly beaten. I cried for myself, for my book, and for Ilsbeth, as it felt as if everything was ruined.

Elena would write her drivel, and Ilsbeth’s reputation would never be restored.

I had utterly failed in my mission.

I slept uneasy for the next few nights, tormented by nightmares I hadn’t had in years. First came the dream about the car crash that broke my legs when I was eight. It always started in the same way, close to my real memories of the events.

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