Wiccan, A Witchy Young Adult Paranormal Romance Read Online Free Page A

but is there someone
I could talk to about a possible murder?”
    He eyed me skeptically for a few
seconds before he barked, “Have a seat.” He picked up the phone to
his right and mumbled something into the mouthpiece.
    I walked to the bench that sat along
the wall right beside the counter, between the water fountain and a
door that was marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Clenching my keys
tighter in my hand, I perched on the edge of the seat and crossed
my arms over my chest, careful not to touch anything. It was hard
to tell how many prostitutes and criminals the bench had seen
before me and my hand sanitizer was in the Jeep.
    About ten minutes later, the door to my
right opened. A surly looking man with a bushy head of frizzy brown
hair grunted my name. I had to purposely keep my eyes trained on
his face, as they were wont to stray to the considerable paunch
that was straining against the buttons of his sweat-stained shirt.
The striped tie he wore rode high on his big belly making it look
like a young boy’s tie—way too short.
    I got up and followed him through a
maze of hallways to a small office with a MISSING PERSONS placard
on the door. With one hand, he gestured for me to take a seat so I
slid into one of the two functional blue and chrome chairs that sat
in front of the bare desk.
    “ Alright,” he said as he
squeezed into the chair behind the computer, grabbed the mouse and
started clicking. As I watched him, I saw that he wore a tiny black
name tag that read LT. J. DISHER. “How long has this person been
missing?”
    I’m sure I was looking at him like he
was speaking Greek. I’d thought it odd that they’d take me to a
room for missing persons, but who was I to say anything? I’d never
done this before.
    “ Um, she isn’t missing yet,”
I said carefully.
    “ What?” he barked. “I
thought you had a missing person.”
    “ No, I said a possible
murder.”
    “ Myers, you dyslexic son of
a—” He trailed off, rubbing his forehead in frustration. I assumed
he was talking about the guy behind the bullet proof
glass.
    Disher opened a drawer and rifled
through it until he found what he was looking for. Then he wet his
thumb and pulled out a couple of sheets and stuck them on a
clipboard.
    “ Here, start filling this
out,” he said, handing me the board.
    When I took the clipboard, the first
thing my eyes were drawn to was the big oval wet spot in the shape
of Disher’s thumb that decorated the top of the first paper. My
stomach swished and swayed for a second and I purposely looked down
at some of the questions instead.
    As I suspected, they wanted lots of
details. The form started out with specifics about the victim. Hair
color, eye color, skin tone, build, length and style of hair, and
kind of voice, which were questions I felt comfortable in
answering. But then it started to get a little hairy. Scars,
approximate height, approximate weight, specific personal features,
medical conditions, medications needed, detailed description of
person’s last known whereabouts. Those questions? Eh, not so much.
And that’s to say nothing for how I was going to explain the rest
of what I had to say.
    I flipped the pen against my finger as
I studied the questions, debating my best course of action. If I
filled out the form only partially, they might not take my claim
seriously. On the other hand, if I made up answers to the questions
I didn’t know, they might not be able to help me (and therefore
Lisa) at all.
    “ Excuse me, sir,” I croaked.
I cleared my throat again and took a deep breath before continuing.
“What if I don’t know—”
    “ Just fill in as much as you
can and be as specific as you can,” he interrupted, answering me
without even looking up.
    I nodded and bent over the paper to
fill in what I knew.
    Less than five minutes later, I pushed
the pen back under the jaw of the clipboard and laid it on the desk
in front of the lieutenant.
    I rose and turned toward the door to
leave, but he