Rewrite That Witch
CH489 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 489: Tracking Down the Criminal

“Is this your first time seeing something like this?” Rene stepped close to Summer, keeping his voice low. “Perhaps some fresh air would help.”

“No.” Summer kept her eyes on Nightingale, who was already crouching beside the body and examining the wounds. “No, I’m—I feel much better now.”

If Nightingale can hold herself still here, so can I.

“When was he found?” Nightingale asked without looking up.

“Early this morning, before sunrise. Residents nearby came across him when they went to draw water.” Rene glanced toward the door. “It was left standing open, as it is now—as if the killer wanted the whole community to know.”

“In the past something like this might have gone unreported for two or three days,” he continued. “The City Hall rewards have changed that.”

“Do you know the victim’s identity?”

“Goes by Shovel. A freeman.” Rene looked around the room. “Nothing of value here. From the look of things—he was probably a former Rat as well.”

“Anyone see him last night?”

“No.”

“Any sounds?”

“None reported.”

Nightingale’s brow creased. “That doesn’t fit. A man this size—even with his throat cut he wouldn’t have gone quietly. There should have been struggling, a body hitting the floor. Are you certain they’re not lying?”

“I don’t believe so,” Rene said carefully. “The murders have frightened the whole community. People are receiving rewards for information. There’s no obvious reason for them to hold anything back.”

“Bring the neighbors here. I’ll speak to them myself.” Nightingale rose and turned toward Summer. “And you—go to the castle and fetch Soraya.”

“I will.” Summer was already moving toward the door.

The way she gives an order. Summer turned this over as she ran. There was nothing harsh in it, nothing that demanded. Just the sound of someone who expected to be understood. No wonder the prince had put the Security Bureau in her hands.

When Summer returned, she was not alone.

“Why didn’t His Highness ask me to handle something like this?” Lightning flew into the room ahead of her and turned around once, eyeing the blood and the body with undisguised interest. “He’s being completely unfair!”

“Coo, coo!” Maggie added from the doorway.

“I couldn’t stop them,” Summer said, apologetically.

Nightingale’s brows rose a precise fraction. “Shouldn’t you be protecting Prince Roland while I’m away? This isn’t an adventure.”

“Sylvie’s there—no one can approach His Highness without her knowing.” Lightning winked. “And His Highness is calling a meeting with the nobles. The castle hall will be perfectly safe.”

How are they like this? Summer looked at Lightning—younger than her by at least a few years—standing in a room with a dead man on the floor, eyes lit up as if she’d just been invited somewhere interesting. What exactly had witches lived through, that a murder scene looked like this to them?

Rene and his officers stared at the two new arrivals with identical expressions of careful uncertainty.

“Witches,” Nightingale told them, in the tone of someone settling a question that should not need settling. “Lightning, you go back to the castle before the meeting ends. Both of you. That’s an order.”

“Aw…”

Soraya was last through the door. Summer felt some small relief noticing that she looked exactly as pale as Summer felt.

“You need the murderer drawn?” Soraya asked.

“Not the body—the murderer.” Nightingale closed the door, gathered everyone around, and laid out the plan. “Once we have his likeness, we post it on every bulletin board in the square and offer a reward. Fastest route to finding him.” She gave Summer a nod. “Go ahead.”

Rene drew a sharp breath. “You mean—Miss Summer can reconstruct the crime scene itself?”

“It depends. She can only hold the illusion for a limited time, so we’ll need some luck as well.” A nod toward Summer again: permission, expectation, and confidence compressed into a single gesture.

Summer closed her eyes.

She pushed backward along the hours—somewhere between midnight and dawn, as Nightingale had indicated. In the darkness behind her eyelids, her magic rose from her fingertips and intertwined, building outward: wooden planks, a bed, a table, the room assembling itself piece by piece. The victim was on the floor, blood running across the uneven ground. The door stood open.

The officers went quiet. Someone inhaled sharply.

“Is this the witch’s power?”

“It looks just like—”

“Hush.”

Nightingale touched Summer’s shoulder. “He’s already dead here. Don’t waste your power. Move to a different time.”

Summer exhaled, gathered herself, and pushed further back—closer to midnight. The figure on the floor vanished. In its place, the victim lay in his bed, deeply asleep, undisturbed.

“Then he was killed between those two points,” Rene said slowly. “Between midnight and—”

“Three in the morning.” Nightingale nodded. “The killer acted in that window. Miss Summer can’t hold each illusion for long, so we’re likely to miss the exact moment unless we’re precise about where we aim.” She looked at Summer. “Start from just before three o’clock.”

Summer breathed out, summoned her power a third time, and set the image to the space between two and three. The magic rushed toward the wall and a shape solidified at the bedside—a stranger, back to her, drawing something on the wall with a bloodstained cloth.

“Found him.” Nightingale’s voice was quiet and satisfied.

“Coo! So that’s the killer?”

“He looks so ordinary,” Lightning said, with evident disappointment. “I’d assumed at least someone formidable.”

“I can only see his side from here,” Soraya said. “Is there a way to turn him around?”

Nightingale looked at Summer.

Summer understood without being told. She pushed the time a quarter earlier.

Now they saw everything. He had strangled the victim first with a rope, then dragged the body to the floor and cut the throat. Throughout the entire sequence Shovel had not moved, had not made a sound—he might have been sleeping still, except that he was already dead.

Rene turned, noticed something in the corner, and went still. “The water tank.” He turned back. “Did the killer give him Dreamland Water beforehand?”

“That would explain the silence.” Nightingale nodded. “He slit the throat after—to get blood for the mark. The victim was already gone.”

“My lord!” One of the officers had gone rigid. “I—I know that man.”

Every eye in the room went to him.

“His name is Maans.” The officer’s voice steadied as he spoke. “He used to be a patroller. I’ve had dealings with him.”

“Do you know where he lives?” Rene pressed.

“The inner city. West Street, somewhere near the Sheep Tavern.”

Nightingale looked at the image of Maans still standing at the wall. Her voice had an edge in it now—not anger, something quieter than anger. “We don’t even need to track him. It seems God is on our side after all.” She turned to the room. “He cannot escape. Let’s move.”

“Yes, my lord!” The officers answered as one.

Discussion

Suggest a change