“Sure we believe in magic, but even magic is natural. Did you know that, Agent Savich? There’s nothing supernatural about it. Our magic is about using our own personal power, and with the help of the divine power, we direct energy toward what we visualize, perhaps something we desire, something we need. Despite the prejudices and fairy tales about us, we are not so different from you as you think.”

Savich said, “Mrs. Alcott, perhaps you are right and someone is making it appear a Wiccan is responsible for these murders. Perhaps it is someone who doesn’t share your values, perhaps someone you unwittingly harmed.”

“Yes, yes, that is obvious to me.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “We are not idiots, Agent, we fully recognize there are those who profess belief but do not believe. But Brakey is not one of them. He has harmed no one, on purpose or without realizing it. It cannot be a question of revenge. We strive to focus on what is life-affirming and positive. We do not attempt destructive magic, nothing intended to hurt or exploit anyone. There may be someone capable of violence in any group, but for me? The evil of what was done, it terrifies me. And it terrifies Brakey. And that is how I know Brakey simply could not have done this, that it must be someone outside of us.”

“Mrs. Alcott,” Sherlock said, “you said your husband was a witch. We understand he was killed by a hit-and-run driver?”

Deliah looked away from them. They knew she was trying to hold herself together. She swallowed, turned back. “My husband—Arthur—was a gifted man, a spiritual mentor and a powerful witch, but he was kind and honorable, he never hurt anyone. I think Brakey learned that from him. I’ll never understand why the person who hit him didn’t stop, why he didn’t help Arthur.”

They heard Ms. Louisa’s creaky laugh from the doorway. She was waving a knitting needle toward her daughter-in-law. A balding man in his early thirties stood behind her wheelchair, pushing her in. “You speak of Dilly like he was the grand poobah of witches, Morgana. Dilly swayed and twisted like a clothesline in a stiff breeze, you know that. Yes, he was a good witch, but he had no backbone. Weak as water, was Dilly.”

Dilly?” Sherlock asked her.

“Arthur Delaford Alcott was his birth name,” Deliah said with a frustrated look at her mother-in-law. “Only she called him that ridiculous name—Dilly. This is my son, Jonah Alcott. Jonah, these are FBI agents Savich and Sherlock. You know Brakey.”

Brakey moved from behind Jonah to stand stiffly beside a well-used brown leather recliner, hands in fists at his sides, his face white; he was obviously scared. Sherlock nodded to him. “Mr. Alcott.”

“Sir. Ma’am. Agents.”

Brakey’s older brother Jonah walked over to them, sleek and confident, and asked to see their creds. He frowned over them, then said in their general direction, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, or how you can think Brakey murdered Kane Lewis. That’s really stupid.”

“Don’t be rude, Jonah,” Mrs. Alcott said automatically, probably a lifelong habit.

“It’s an insult to Wicca to accuse us of murdering people, Agents, and that’s what you’re doing. Our first and prime rule is to do no harm. My mother must have told you that already.”

Coming from Jonah, it sounded like a clipped party line, memorized to recite to the uninitiated. “So you’re a Wiccan yourself, Mr. Alcott?” Savich asked him.

“Yes, I practice the Craft.”

Brakey broke in. “Dad never talked about any of it in front of us kids. He never celebrated any of the rituals with anyone, didn’t pay any attention to craft tools like candles and stone, you know? Neither does Liggert. I think Dad agreed with Liggert. He laughed at Mom for dancing around in a white robe around a fire, chanting at the full moon.”

Deliah said, “I will tolerate no more disrespect from you about your father, Brakey. You didn’t know him, didn’t know the essence of him. I know you are scared. We are all scared. But that doesn’t give you the right.” She turned back to Savich. “You asked about my husband. Yes, it’s true, he didn’t feel comfortable practicing some of the ways of Wicca.”

“He was a witch,” the old woman said. “A witch, no fancy trappings.”

Deliah Alcott cleared her throat. If she wanted to smack the old lady, she hid it admirably. “Being a witch was a private matter for him. He didn’t take part in any public displays of what he was or what he believed. But what he accomplished, what he could do, was incredible. He never disdained my beliefs.”