Quit Your Witchin' by Dakota Cassidy Page B

and stereotypical, I was not.
    Win’s presence appeared out of thin air, the vibe in the room going from introspective to energetic.
    “It looks smashing in here, Stevie. A perfectly soothing setting. For someone who exists on Pop-Tarts and tacos, I’m impressed at your attention to detail.”
    I still wasn’t quite over his Bianca-and-her-hips-don’t-lie comment, which, if I’m brutally honest, also niggled me. Why should I care if he found Bianca attractive? A eunuch would find her attractive. She was gorgeous. There was no denying that.
    “I just want Maggie to be comfortable. She should be at home resting, grieving, figuring out what to do next now that Tito’s gone, not here having a séance to ease the stress her daughter seems so callously unable to handle.”
    “I’ve given this some thought, Stevie. Would it hurt to tell a white lie if it makes Maggie’s grief lighter?”
    Hands on my hips—which I assure you, are absolutely not as enticing as Bianca’s—I let my displeasure show. “Shoot no. I’m never going to agree to that, Win. I’ll never lie to someone about a dead loved one. That’s just bad karma all around. It can come back to haunt you.”
    “Has something like that come back to haunt you ?”
    “Nope, because I’d never do it. But remind me to tell you about a witch named Mercy who—”
    The chimes on the door rang, thwarting my story as Bianca arrived with Maggie in tow. Despite the warmth earlier in the day, the rain had returned, and with it, cooler temperatures swept in.
    The wind from outside blew at the edges of the tablecloth, the damp air sending a chill up my spine.
    Seeing Maggie, her wide chocolate eyes swollen into slits in her head, rimmed in a shade of red I didn’t know was possible, almost made me reconsider Win’s suggestion.
    But then I saw Bianca, with her skepticism all over her flawless face, and I girded my loins. I would only be feeding her cynicism by pretending I could talk with Tito if I really couldn’t. She wouldn’t know it, but I would.
    Behind Bianca and her mother came Bianca’s siblings, Mateo and Juan Felipe. They surrounded Maggie, hovering behind her, their eyes stricken with grief.
    I moved slowly toward Maggie, unsure how much English she knew or how receptive she’d be to my sympathies. She’d always been a hearty woman, robust in not just appearance, but in personality.
    Now, she looked so frail, so cracked around the edges, I was desperately afraid to stick my interfering paranormal finger in the tiny fractures for fear they’d bust wide open and she’d fall apart.
    Holding out a hand, I offered it to her. “Mrs. Bustamante, I’m so sorry about Tito.”
    She took it, her fingers cold and clammy. When she gripped my fingers, she trembled. “ Si, gracias. Tell me you can find my Taco . Por favor, Senora . I need to speak with him. You help, si? ” she whispered before her voice cracked.
    Now was the time for honesty, and the time to ignore Bianca’s icy glare. “As I told your daughter, Mrs. Bustamante, I’ll do my very best. Please…” I motioned to the table, wrapping my arm around her waist and leading her to the chair next to mine. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink? Water, maybe?”
    Maggie slipped into the chair, her spine almost collapsing as she did. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, shivering before she looked up at me, her eyes so bloodshot from crying it was all I could do not to cry, too. “Water, por favor .”
    “Of course.” I looked to Tito’s sons, avoiding the beautiful Bianca’s eyes altogether. “All of you, please gather round the table and get comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
    I scurried off into the back room and went for the fridge, finding my hands were cold, too. I was sick with nerves about this. If I couldn’t contact Tito, would that tip Maggie over the edge?
    This felt wrong. So wrong.
    “Win? You here?” I whispered, looking around the