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Alastair leaned back in his chair, watching Fey closely. She was hard to read, this Witch, but he saw the pain flash in her eyes for just a moment before she shut it down. Her face hadn’t changed, hadn’t shown any real emotion, but it had been there, even for a fraction of a second.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. And he meant it.
“This was the last place she was that night. Before she was killed,” Fey finished.
“And you think someone here had something to do with it?” Alastair asked.
She shrugged a single well-muscled shoulder. Her sweater slid a little further down her arm, and Alastair found his eyes drawn to the skin there. “I don’t know,” she told him honestly, toying with her glass. She plucked a cherry from it by the stem and popped it in her mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. “But I’m out of leads. I’m at a dead end, and I feel… I feel—” She sighed, clenching the cherry stem in her hand. “I can’t let it end, not like this. Not without knowing what happened. Why it happened.”
Alastair didn’t say anything. He just watched her, face impassive.
Finally, he shifted, leaning forward across the table to grab a pen and pad of paper.
“What was your sister’s name?” he asked.
“Alice,” Fey told him. “Alice Kelly.”
“Age?”
“35. Dark skin, and short hair. As in ‘cut above her ears’ short.”
He jotted it down. “Do you know what she was doing here that night?”
Fey shook her head. “Not really. I think she was meeting someone, maybe. She was—” The Witch stumbled, like it wasn’t easy to explain. “She was investigating something. Something big. She had some sort of lead, we think, someone she was meeting about it, but…” A shrug. “That’s all we know.”
“We?” Alastair asked, glancing up from his notes and raising an eyebrow.
“Me and my other sisters,” Fey clarified. He nodded, still writing.
“Do you have any idea what she was investigating?”
Fey nibbled on her lip, as though deciding whether to answer. “Yeah… we think she was following the trail of a drug dealer. Devil dust, probably.”
Alastair’s pen skipped, but he kept writing.
More fucking drugs in his club.
“Do you know the date and time she was here?”
She did, and she told him. She didn’t tell him how she knew. Didn’t tell him that her sister had spent hours combing through security footage of the city, finally finding footage of her entering the club at a quarter to 11 that night and leaving almost an hour later.
The entire time, Alastair kept writing. Finally, he set his pen down and gave her a heavy stare.
“How was she killed?” he asked, voice soft.
Fey didn’t answer. She just looked at him blankly.
“You won’t tell me how she was killed?” Alastair asked, incredulously.
“No,” she answered, face betraying nothing.
Interesting.
“So, you don’t know what she was investigating, you don’t know who might be involved or why she was here, and you won’t tell me how she was killed… For someone who needs my help, you’re not very generous with the details,” Alastair told her, tapping the pen against his notes.
Sometimes the easiest way to get someone to talk was just to give them space and wait. So, Alastair watched her. Watched and waited.
And, finally, it worked.
