They were wheeling me toward a waiting ambulance when I glanced over and saw a small crowd of onlookers had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the drama unfold. At the front of the group, there was a woman around my age, dressed in a mossy green dress. Her hair was plaited into about a zillion braids. Her ears were concealed by pointy prosthetics. And a pair of intricate wings were hooked over her shoulders, fluttering in the damp November breeze.
“Oh my god!” I yelled, delighted to see her. “Moonbeam!”
Her eyes shifted from me to the Ferrari and back again. “Girl… You have someseriouslyshitty luck with cars.”
I nodded in agreement. “Don’t I know it.”
Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
“I’m just saying,” Florence whispered under her breath. “I like him. I think they’d be good together.”
“If you push her, she’ll never go for it,” I whispered back.
We were hiding behind a large house plant, staring surreptitiously across the crowded room at Georgia, who was chatting with one of Desmond’s colleagues at the university. He was cute. He’d made her laugh twice in the past ten minutes they’d been talking. He was a professor of economics, a recent divorcee, and (according to Des) one of the nicest men he’d met in his life.
We were hoping like hell he’d ask Gigi out to dinner. If anyone on planet earth deserved a nice guy, it was her.
“What are we talking about?” Gwen interrupted, appearing beside Florence. She was holding three shot glasses of clear liquor. Tequila, judging by the smell wafting off the tops.
“Georgia and Professor Potential over there, flirting up a storm.” Flo grinned and snatched one of the shot glasses. “Cheers to love!”
We clinked our glasses against hers. As we did, my eyes snagged on the shiny, vintage engagement ring resting at the base of her fourth finger. Desmond had popped the question on New Year’s Eve. Tonight, all of their closest friends and family had gathered to celebrate the news. (Gwen had volunteered to host at her house, which had recently wrapped up its extensive renovations.)
The happy couple was planning to make it official next summer. I was a bridesmaid, something I’d never been before, but probably would need to get used to, based on the way things were going. I had a feeling Gwen and Graham would be tying the knot within the year. They weren’t yet engaged, but the way they looked at one another…
That kind of love was the forever kind.
It was evident in every facet of this house. The house Graham had fixed up, floorboards to ceiling panels, for Gwen. The house Gwen had decorated, with ultimate care and consideration, for Graham. The house they’d together made into a home. The finished product was truly stunning, all traces of renovation tools and painting supplies long gone, all remnants of their efforts tucked out of sight.
I downed my shot, blinking the tears from my eyes as it burned down my throat. I’d barely had a chance to set my empty glass down on the side table when Rory came running up to me, his socks skidding on the shiny hardwood floor.
“Imogen! Did you know there’s a room upstairs that looks just like a library?”
I grinned down at him. “Yeah, bub. I did.”
“Oh.” He looked a little crestfallen.
I dropped into a crouch and ruffled his hair. My voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Didyouknow there’s a deck off the library with a telescope for star-gazing?”
His hazel eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I grinned wider. “Go check it out. You can probably spot Pluto.”
I’d hardly stopped speaking before he set off in a blur of motion.
He’d rebounded from the events of the fall remarkably well. No darkness lingered. No traces of trauma, though I knew Georgia still worried. She would likelyalwaysworry, for the rest of her life.
I didn’t blame her. There’d been no real resolution when it came to the case. The so-called Witch of Salem Wood had never been found — not by police, not by Gravewatch, not even by the eager urban-legend chasers and true-crime podcasters who’d poured into town in the aftermath of Rory’s rescue, hoping for some thrilling content they could exploit for cash.
If she was still out there somewhere, she had no intentions of being brought back to civilization.
The media fervor would die down eventually. As for the ghost story, though… The whole incident had breathed new life into an old mystery. I had a feeling Salem’s youth would be whispering the rhyme about the voice-stealing witch for decades to come.
Initially, we’d all been concerned the rabid public interest would prevent Rory from moving on with his life. But, so far as I could tell, he was fine.
He was resilient.