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“Pretty much, always after a full moon.”
I shook my head. “What does a full moon have to do with it?”
“You tell me. It takes a lot of power to take out a transformer.”
“But we haven’t had any storms.”
“I didn’t say it was lightning.”
“But what else could it be?”
Kelly sighed. “I’ll call Buck at the power company and tell him to send someone out. They know the drill.”
“Okay,” I murmured. “How long will it take? I need to use my laptop.” Yesterday I’d written the first six pages of my book—a monumental feat.
Kelly made a sucking sound through their teeth. “Yeah, I wouldn’t count on your computer working when things come back up. It’s probably been zapped. Sorry about that.”
Kelly ended the call, and I balled my hands into fists. “Ooh!”
My anger over the pages I’d bled evaporating was surpassed only by my incredulity that during the full moon something around the Whisper House had generated so much power, it had zapped a transformer. My mind went back to the ritual I’d witnessed.
Something… or someone?
July 23, Tuesday
AFTER DROPPING the extra eggs at the grocery, I rode my bike to the public library, hoping to find more information about the local witchery situation.
I told myself it was a legit distraction while I waited for my new laptop to be delivered.
The library was an old building—the oldest in town that I’d seen, made of hand-hewn bricks and other natural stones.
I would have ask Sawyer about its origin when I saw him again.
If I saw him again. He’d finished the repair of the monolithic headstone, so he didn’t have a good reason to be back my way… which was probably for the best.
I pushed open the door to the ancient building and walked in on worn wooden floors. The architecture on the inside was just as impressive, with a domed atrium whose ceiling was painted with a foreboding Biblical scene.
No signs of witches here—Christianity was on full display.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to see an attractive woman I guessed to be in her forties standing behind a tall desk, processing a pile of books.
“Yes, I’d like to find some books on—” I glanced at her nameplate and stopped. Tilda Benson.
“Book on what topic?” she prompted me.
“Um, I noticed your nameplate. Your last name is Benson?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Was it me, or had her eyes become guarded? “I was told the Benson family has been around this area for a long time.”
She nodded. “That’s right. Are you a new resident of Irving?”
“I’m just visiting. Do you have a big family?”
“I’m one of three sisters, although one of them has passed. My other sister has two daughters, and so do I. Twins, in fact.”
