Page 41 of Inextricably Tied

A woman sits on the couch. She looks the same age as Mr. Albrun, early forties with skin a shade lighter than his. When Harbinger enters, the woman smiles softly, then pushes up suddenly from the seat. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Oh, no, that’s ok.”

Mrs. Albrun settles back onto the couch as her husband takes his seat beside her. Harbinger does her best to smile.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harbinger. And I’m going to record this, if that’s ok.”

Mr. Albrun takes his wife’s hand. Harbinger sets her phone on the coffee table before she sinks down into an armchair, helmet perched on her knees. To their credit, the Albruns appear only mildly interested in the skull pattern of her face. Instead, their attention is held by the end table crowded with picture frames.

One is decorated with glued-on seashells, lovingly sloppy with child’s craftsmanship. At its center, a young girl with ginger hair squeals as she pulls a fish into a boat.

Harbinger realizes how quiet it’s gotten. How long she’s been staring. She shifts her gaze somewhere else.

“You can look.” Mrs. Albrun lifts a different picture from the table beside her. The frame has inlays for multiple portraits, but some don’t quite fit, cut out and squeezed together. There are three children, two girls and a middle boy with glasses, grinning in first-day-of-school backpacks or leaning together in summer shorts. The eldest wraps her arms tight around both her siblings’ as they make faces for the camera.

“Is that Evolet?”

“Yes, Evie. She’s always been a good girl. A good sister.” Mrs. Albrun’s mouth quivers, like she can’t decide between a smile or a sob. “People don’t look at the pictures any more — not the ones when she was younger. I wish they would.” Her fingers trace the curve of Evie’s chin, marking the same indentation Mr. Albrun has.

“I wish people would talk about her, like before.” Mrs. Albrun sounds far off, like she’s talking to herself. “Not the questions or about what happened. Evie is such a big part of our lives, especially when she was — here. We said her name hundreds of times a day and never thought anything of it. ‘Evie has rehearsal this afternoon. Evie tried to dye her hair. Evie forgot to take out the trash.’” Mrs. Albrun looks like she wishes Evie could forget it again.

“People don’t say her name any more. ‘Her.’ That’s what they call her now. ‘Any news about Her? Have they found anything of Hers?’ But mostly, they don’t want to bring her up at all. Like it’ll hurt too much.” Mrs. Albrun presses her lips to Evie’s face before she sets the picture back on the table, keeping her eyes on her daughter. “It hurts worse not to talk about her.”

It’s too familiar. Harbinger perches on the edge of the seat, gloved hands clasped before she’s able to talk past her swelling throat. “Is Evie a witch, too? I don’t mean to assume —”

“Yes, she is.” Mr. Albrun brightens at that. “Very good with plants. Terrible at cooking.” That makes both the Albruns laugh. “She’s talented with the medicinal side: healing spells, salves, ointments. Wouldn’t trust anything she asks you to eat, though.”

“I’m guessing you have?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Albrun swats her husband’s leg, smiles warm at the memory. “For a holiday, no less. She wanted to try her hand at baking. We should have let her have a practice run. When she set that poor cobbler on the table — she said we were all being dramatic, but after she tasted it…” Laughter bubbles up between them. “She decided we had a point.”

They settle contentedly before Mrs. Albrun looks to Harbinger again. “Thank you for indulging me. I know you’re not here to recount my memories.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.” Harbinger finally sets her helmet on the floor. “I know my showing up here is surprising.”

“You’re a banshee?”

Harbinger nods. A cloud shifts over the Albruns’ expressions.

“So you think she’s —”

“Not necessarily. Banshees don’t only deal with the dead. I understand it can be confusing, but we — banshees — all have different abilities. It’s more about seeing what’s Between. Things that defy real-world explanation, using senses most creatures don’t have.”

“Senses like what?”

“Like —” Harbinger blows out a breath toward the ceiling. Fuck, she’s no good at this. “Sorry. Let me start at the beginning. Your daughter — Evie — has been missing for some time.”

“Four months.”

“And you reported it to the OID.”

“Yes. We’ve hardly heard from them since.” Mr. Albrun scowls. “Do you work for them?”

“No.” Disgust jumps out before Harbinger can stop it. “I’m a private investigator. The OID asked for help with another case, but we — my partner and I — took over instead.”

Mr. Albrun watches Harbinger closely. “What case?”

She’s not used to this, exposed without her helmet, her expressions readable. Teeth drag into her lip before she exhales. “We don’t know for sure that it’s related…” Harbinger’s voice shrinks. “But your daughter’s information was in the case notes for Raymond Reid.”