The rain is still fresh on the flagstones when I reach the seminar room, my hood dripping, the scent of wet earth and old stone curling in the hall. Detective Nate Calloway is waiting for me at the doorway, his hair slicked to his forehead, one hand on the crime-scene tape that glistens like a spiderweb. "You'll want to see this," he says, his voice low and unmistakably accusatory. He holds the tape up for me, and I duck under, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
Inside, the overheads cast everything in the flat grey of a morgue. Professor Engel's chair stands empty at the head of the room, the chalkboard behind it scattered with the ghosts of old Latin declensions. But all my gaze can see is the floor: a flawless sigil chalked in a wide circle around the chair, lines intricate enough to trap anyone foolish enough to step inside. It’s my sigil. Not just the form—I recognize the small, nervous hook I give to the leftmost rune, the way I close a loop where a textbook would leave one open. I remember inventing this pattern last spring, candle guttering at 2 a.m., scribbling secrets into my battered black notebook. The notebook hidden under my mattress, with no one's eyes but mine, until now.
Calloway is watching me, not the floor, his mouth a flat line. "Care to explain why this matches your notes?" he says, holding up a plastic sleeve. Inside it, a printout: a photo of my notebook’s page, the lines unmistakable, my handwriting underlined in red. I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach.
Worse, the chalk in the circle is humming. Not audibly, not to any other ear, but sending a vibration up through the soles of my boots—a living, magnetic thing. Chalk remembers the hand that drew it. If I touch it, I’ll know who made this, and I’ll know if it was Engel, or someone else. But if I do it now, here, Calloway will see me work magic. He’ll see something that can’t be explained away with sleep deprivation or nerves.
"Well?" he prompts, stepping closer, not breaking eye contact. His suspicion is heavy as the rain-soaked air. Behind him, the chalk gleams in the light, lines sleeping, waiting. My heart claws at my ribs. I can almost feel the pressure of the whole room leaning in, holding its breath. One move—one slip—and all my secrets unravel here, in front of Blackwood’s sharpest detective. I can still feel the hum beneath my skin, and the urge to answer it is a needle in my palm.
I stand at the edge of the circle, Calloway’s eyes pinning me, the power humming louder, the rain outside growing harder. I have to choose: touch the chalk and risk exposing myself, or stay back and let the murderer’s trail slip further from me, and from justice for Engel. The sigil calls. I curl my fingers tight and decide.