Page 21 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

She nods. "The damaged wards. The missing boat. The strange weather." Each item arrives carefully, measured. "Something has been interfering with the coastline."

I lean forward slightly. "Do you know what?"

"If I did, this conversation would be much shorter."

Fair. I rub a hand across my jaw, the frustration returning. "There's something in those waters."

Reina remains silent, thinking, before she finally says, "When I found you, the currents were circling."

My attention sharpens. "Circling?"

She nods. "The water was folding around itself."

The description matches what I saw exactly, and a knot forms in my stomach because that means I wasn't imagining it. The silence stretches briefly between us, not uncomfortable, just focused—two people trying to understand the same impossible problem.

Eventually Reina speaks again. "You went looking for answers alone."

I shrug. "Seemed faster."

Her expression flattens. "That's a terrible reason."

"I survived."

"Barely," she says, the response arriving immediately, genuine irritation entering her voice. The reaction surprises me more than it should, because concern hides beneath it. Concern for me. The realization settles unexpectedly, and I find that I don't dislike it.

"You're angry," I say.

"I'm practical."

I grin. "That's not a denial."

Reina shakes her head, a tiny smile threatening the side of her lips before disappearing just as fast. The room grows quiet again, and this time my attention drifts toward her—not her magic, not the link. Her. The woman standing in front of me. The woman the town seems determined to fear.

I think back to the council meeting, the accusations, the hostility, the looks people gave her. Then I look at the lighthouse—the carefully maintained home, the repaired equipment, the records stacked neatly on nearby shelves. Everything here speaks of responsibility, dedication, service. None of it matches the image people describe.

My gaze returns to Reina, who is staring out at Moonhaven again, toward the town below, a familiar expression settling across her face. Quiet. Controlled. Distant. Something about it bothers me, because I recognize it. I've seen that look before—in rescue workers, in widows, in people carrying burdens they stopped talking about long ago.

Loneliness.

The realization hits unexpectedly, not dramatic, not obvious, just there, threaded through everything—the careful way she chooses her words, the way she immediately creates distance whenever a conversation becomes personal, the way she watches the town without ever seeming part of it.

I find myself asking, "Do they always treat you like that?"

Reina doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "The council?"

"The town."

A faint smile appears, one that never reaches her eyes. "Depends on the day."

That answer tells me more than a detailed explanation ever could. I lean back. "They're wrong."

Her gaze shifts toward me. "About what?"

"About you." The words leave before I can reconsider them, and in that moment, Reina simply stares, as though she doesn't know what to do with the statement. Eventually she looks away. "That's a generous conclusion for someone who's only known me briefly."

"Maybe," I say, holding her gaze. "Still feels accurate."

Something flickers across her expression, gone before I can fully identify it, though whatever it is makes her look away first.