Kicking It(5)

Signs that read GOD HATES WITCHES and FIRE THE WITCH.

I knew, with a sinking feeling, exactly who they were talking about.

My coworkers were having to run the gauntlet to get into the building, and were being handed neon-bright flyers (some were crumpled up on the ground, which made me happy). I was certain every flyer had my name, my picture, and some white-hot speculation on just how horrible and evil I was.

I realized that if I just sat in the car, they’d see me anyway, so I made the turn into the parking lot and pulled into a space at the back. Deep breaths.

I was preparing to face the lions, but then the phone rang. Saved by the bell, I thought. I was hoping it was Andy, but it wasn’t, and I wasn’t saved, either.

It was my boss, Heather. Heather said, “Hey, um, Holly? I think—maybe you should take some time off. Don’t come into the office, okay?”

“Really?” I felt shaky and cold, but I tried to sound clueless. “Why?”

“We have a little—situation here. HR and Public Relations are handling it, but everyone agrees that having you come in right now would really escalate things.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “I’m so sorry—you know I hate this, but there are . . . people out here. Saying bad things. And everybody’s very upset.”

“They don’t think it’s my fault, do they? Because I didn’t do anything!”

“I know that, and honestly, Holly, you’re great, but . . . let us try to sort this out. Just take a few days off. I’ll cover it. You’ll be paid for your time. Just . . . go home and relax, okay? I’ll call.”

She hung up without waiting for my answer. I didn’t suppose her directive was really optional anyway.

I put on my sunglasses, since I’d be driving into the sun, and circled the lot to get out. I considered running over a couple of protesters, but that would only prove their witches are evil point, so I didn’t. I gunned my engine, though. A little.

I got a whole mile before the enormity of it hit me. The feeling of having your skin peeled back and your insides prodded. The violation and betrayal of trust. It wasn’t logical, but somehow the feeling of being outed at work was horrifying. My private life had just been laid bare to people I had to deal with every day.

I pulled over to the side of the road and cried miserably for about ten minutes. Then I sucked it up, bought myself an ice cream sundae from a Mickey D’s in the same block, ate it in the car, and drove back home.

There were protesters in front of my house, too. Equal numbers to those at my office. Some had strollers and small kids with them, because screaming hateful insults is a family affair. They blocked my driveway when I tried to turn in, and one stupid woman actually put her toddler down on the concrete in front of my car’s bumper. She clearly hadn’t thought that one through. If I was as evil as she claimed, why wouldn’t I just keep going?

I hit the brakes.

Andy wasn’t home; I didn’t even need to check to know that, because if he had been, he’d have been outside with the shotgun, threatening to stand his ground. And that would only have made the situation that much more volatile.

I put the car in reverse and sped away, leaving a gaggle of protesters milling in the street behind me. If my neighbors hated me before . . .

After some thought, I drove to the police headquarters, where Ed Rosen had his office. If there was one place anti-witch protesters weren’t likely to gather, it was there. And sure enough, the coast was clear when I paid for my parking and went to sign in at the visitors desk. Once I had the right ID pinned to my jacket, I rode the elevator up with half a dozen others, savoring the relative quiet. Nobody gave me odd looks. It was like I was just . . . normal.

I had the feeling that was a sensation I would come to miss very soon.

Rosen was in his office and on his phone, frowning intently as he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. When he glanced up and saw me through the clear glass wall, he frowned even harder. He got off the call fast, hung up, and yanked his door open to bark, “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t go to work,” I said. “Can’t go home. I’m being picketed. The only thing that’s missing is a bonfire and a stake.”

“Give it a day,” he said. “You were right about the woman. Her name is Portia Garrity, and she’s dead. Beaten in her tarot shop with—get this—her own crystal ball. Throat slit before she was dead. You want to explain to me what her superpower was?”

“She was a seer,” I said. “She saw the future.” He gave me a look of cartoon disbelief. I sighed. “Not her own future. Other people’s futures. She wouldn’t have seen this coming, in other words. Don’t look at me like that—I don’t make the rules, or I’d be able to turn you into a toad for looking at me like that.”