Page 84 of The Witch

“Julia,” he murmurs.

Gently, he tucks the lock of those white hairs at my temple behind my ear. He raises one eyebrow, and I nod, lifting my lips so that they’re less than an inch from his. Then he lowers his lips onto mine and kisses me right there in the moonlight, our fingers laced together, his hand still on my back. The kiss is tender, only firm enough for me to just barely feel the stubble on his upper lip and chin grazing against me. As he kisses me, I can only think to myself that this must be what boys kissed like in the old days.

“How about another song?” he asks softly.

I nod wordlessly.

I can’t tell if it’s five or six songs later, but eventually, I’m just swaying in his arms, and he kisses me one more time as the music plays. I’ve never been a romantic—I’ve never been the kind of girl who danced with a guy in the moonlight. But this is very, very nice.

“We should go dancing sometime,” he says. “I’d love to take you.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is there a place in Woodhaven where people dance the foxtrot?”

He grins at me. “Not in Woodhaven, no. But…” He looks down at his watch. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I’ll drive you home.”

I wouldn’t have minded staying a little longer, but he’s right. We can’t stand out here forever. He could’ve asked me to go back to his place, and I might have said yes. But the gentlemanly thing to do is to drive me home, and he’s always a gentleman.

62

It’s a nice change to dream about a guy I like rather than a ghost coming out of the attic and killing me.

After having very nice dreams, the first thing I do in the morning is play some oldies songs on my phone, and I do my best to hum along. I’m definitely in a singing type of mood today.

Yes, I’m a bit smitten. Or I’m besotted, as Henry would say. Although I can also imagine him saying “smitten.”

I roll out of bed, humming about funny valentines. I stride in the direction of my dresser, but after a few steps, the sole of my foot crunches against something, and I hear a loud crack. I bend down to see what I just stepped on, and my heart sinks.

It’s one of Caroline’s coral-blue combs. For some reason, it was on the floor of my room, and when I stepped on it, it broke.

I pick up the shattered pieces of the comb, all thoughts of 1930s show tunes banished from my head. What was this comb doing in my room? I’m certain it wasn’t there the night before. I was so freaked out by the combs in the other bedroom, I would have definitely noticed if one of them migrated to my new bedroom.

The comb is in multiple pieces in my hand. It’s likely beyond repair, even with superglue.

Caroline is going to be pissed.

All lovely thoughts of my night with Henry evaporate as I shove the ruined comb into a drawer. Now that I’ve done one more thing to anger Caroline, I’ve got to try to make the other thing right—I’ve got to get that bone back from Henry. And then I need to bury it back in the ground, where it belongs.

I’m supposed to drive over to the museum; he told me he’d be picking it up this morning, and I’m anxious about what he’s going to tell me. But I have confidence he won’t turn it in to the police without a discussion.

There is, of course, one other thing I need to do before heading over to the museum:

I need to get a sample of Ethel’s hair.

This is not as easy as it sounds. There’s hair all over our bathroom, but I can’t distinguish one gray hair from another. If I get a strand of my grandmother’s hair without realizing it, the information won’t be very helpful. No, I have to get hair that definitely belongs to Ethel, and plucking it from her scalp isn’t an option.

Which means I have to go into her bedroom.

I wait for her to head out for the day. I don’t know where she’s going, or how long she’ll be gone, but it shouldn’t take me very long to locate a strand of hair, right? I’ve even swiped a plastic sandwich bag from the kitchen to take it with me.

Ethel’s bedroom is all the way down the hall from mine. The second I hear her car engine starting up, I climb the stairs to get to her room. Mick is outside in the yard again, and Gram is taking a nap. So I’m essentially all alone in the house.

I put my hand on the doorknob to her room, half expecting it to be locked, but it isn’t. The knob turns, and I’m able to go right inside. Apparently, the only place they keep locked is the attic.

Although much of the house looks neglected, it’s no surprise that Ethel’s room is almost painfully neat. Her bed is made, her pillows are fluffed, and the air has a clean lemon scent. I would be shocked to find even one piece of dirt in this entire room.

But will I find hair?

The first place I check is the pillows. They’re right in front of me, and it seems like after she lay on them all night, there have got to be a couple of hairs left behind. But I get in really close, searching the fabric, and there’s nothing. No hair, not even a piece of lint.