The next day, Ingrid was still thinking of the hidden door she had discovered in Fair Haven. The minute she arrived at work she sent an instant message to the address she knew by heart. There had been no communication the night before, which she found a bit strange, and she was eager to find out what her source had discovered. He usually responded within minutes, if not seconds, but after an hour there was still nothing.
<<hey how r u? what did u figure out?>>
She hit Send and waited. The screen remained unchanged. She went back to work, deciding to tackle the rest of the Gardiner prints and ready them for the framer. The other day she had picked out a nice balsa frame, cheaper than the ones they were accustomed to in years past, but now that every little penny counted she had to cut corners somewhere. Strange, the drawer where she usually kept them was empty. She distinctly remembered putting the main floor plan back in its storage container with the rest of the drawing set when she returned to the library yesterday afternoon. Maybe someone had moved them to the conference table? No. There was nothing there.
Ingrid’s heart began to pound. She walked quickly back to her computer and sent another message to the same address.
<<hey, are you back yet?>>
<<hello??>>
<<if you’re there pls answer>>
She saw her messages piling up on the screen with no response. Finally, she wrote:
<<something’s wrong. i can’t find the blueprints.>>
“Did you move my prints?” she asked Hudson after hitting Send. “You know, the Gardiner blueprints of Fair Haven for the show?”
Hudson looked up from his work and removed his noise-canceling headphones. He cleared his throat. “No. I haven’t touched them. Maybe Tabitha knows?”
Tabitha did not know anything about the blueprints and neither did Caitlin, who was back to work after a bout with the flu. Hudson had locked up the night before, activating the alarm as usual. There was nothing amiss: the alarm hadn’t gone off, and aside from the blueprints, there was nothing else missing. Not that there was anything particularly valuable in the library in the first place.
Ingrid tracked down the janitorial services they used, but they reported seeing nothing out of the ordinary the night before. She went back to the storage room and opened the drawer again. Empty. She checked her computer. No reply yet. The blueprints were gone and her source was unreachable. She picked up her phone and dialed Killian Gardiner.
“Hello,” he answered sleepily.
“Killian—hi. It’s Ingrid Beauchamp.”
“Hi, Ingrid,” he said sleepily. “What can I do for you?”
“Killian, did I wake you? I’m sorry but it is half past noon,” she couldn’t help but add.
“And your point is?” he asked amiably.
“I apologize, that was rude of me. It’s been a long day. I was just calling about those blueprints of Fair Haven. Did you by any chance come by to take them back?”
“Why would I take them back?” he asked, sounding more alert this time. “I gave them to you. Why do you ask? Did something happen to them?”
“No, no . . . no.” Ingrid shook her head vigorously even if Killian could not see her. It would not do to panic anyone else. “I think the staff moved them to the other closet. Sorry to bother you.”
“No worries,” Killian said.
She hung up the phone, her heart beating wildly. The scans. She had scanned all the prints, she thought, executing a search on her computer. She had scanned all the sheets that contained the strange tags and elaborate symbols. But just as she suspected, every single file connected to the blueprints was gone.
Ingrid tried not to panic. Who would steal the blueprints? And erase all the records on her computer? And why? Then Hudson burst into the room. His tie had come unknotted and he looked uncharacteristically frazzled. “I think you better come out to the front—it looks as if Corky Hutchinson has lost her mind.”
Ingrid followed hudson to the main area to find the news anchor standing by the returns desk, looking hysterical and crazed in a pajama top and baggy sweatpants. When she saw Ingrid she pointed a red-manicured finger in her direction. “It’s all her fault!” she screamed.
“Excuse me?” Ingrid asked. The library was full of mothers with toddlers, teenagers at the computers, and the regular patrons at the magazine racks. Matt Noble was returning a few paperbacks and rushed to her side.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from Corky to Ingrid.
“She was the one! She did it!” Corky screeched. “She made me give Todd this . . . this knot under his pillow! He couldn’t sleep . . . he’s been acting so strangely—she did something to him!”
“Corky, calm down, what are you talking about?” Matt came around to restrain Corky by the shoulders since it looked as if she might take a swipe at Ingrid.
“She’s a witch! She did it! She made this happen! With her black magic and those stupid knots!” Corky screamed.
“I’m so sorry . . . but it doesn’t work that way,” Ingrid said, backing away and shaking her head. Every part of her body was shaking as well, but she tried to project a sense of calm.
Matt looked questioningly at Ingrid. “Hold on . . . what do you mean? What’s all this about magic?”
“He hung himself! With a knot! It looks just like this one!” the woman hissed, holding up the little brown knot that Ingrid had given her a month ago.
“What’s going on?” Ingrid looked to Hudson for help. People were beginning to stare and congregate, looking at Ingrid with curiosity and fear. Ingrid had a flash back to her past, when the crowd had first gathered around her at the square that fine morning. They had circled her, just as the patrons of the library were doing now.
“As if you didn’t know! They found his body this morning! Todd hung himself! At some skeezy motel on Route 27!” Corky cried.
Ingrid gasped. “Is that true?” she asked Matt.
The detective nodded. “We answered a 911 call from the motel this morning. The police are still there. Corky, calm down. Let’s get you to the station.” He gave Ingrid a long, searching look and led the newswoman out the door.
“Christ . . . what a crazy bitch!” Hudson said, walking out of the office. Ingrid noticed that everyone in the library was looking at her skeptically, some with outright hostility. “Are you okay?”
Ingrid nodded even though she wasn’t. First the blueprints went missing, and she had stopped receiving texts or instant messages from her source, and now she was being accused of what . . . she wasn’t even sure . . . but she couldn’t shake off Corky’s hateful words and accusations.
Tabitha gave Ingrid a pat on the back. “Don’t worry, no one will listen to her. You had nothing to do with this,” she said stoutly. “She’s lost her husband and she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
There were only a handful of women waiting to consult with her that day, which made Ingrid feel even worse. She tried not to think too much of it, but she couldn’t help but think it had something to do with those terrible things Corky had said that morning. What was it that awful woman had said? Black magic? That she was a witch—a hag—a false medicine woman?
Ingrid thought of what Freya was going through: Sal had told her to stop making potions and had, effectively, fired her. From now on, the town would keep its eyes on them. Ingrid felt a chill up her spine. She had lived through this once before; she knew how the story ended.
Once upon a time in Massachusetts, Ingrid had a thriving practice, a clinic just like this one, but then the whispers had begun, and the accusations had started to fly. But this was not back then, Ingrid tried to tell herself. Maybe no one needed her help because everything was peachy-keen. Right. And if Ingrid believed that, she had a bridge she could sell to herself. Gallows Hill might be gone, but its shadow lingered, and Ingrid was not foolish enough to think that what happened once could never happen again.
And the day was still not over. Before the library closed, she received another visitor. Emily Foster walked in, pale and trembling. “Ingrid. Do you have a second? I need to talk to you.”