Trust No One: A Thriller

"There it is!" Tag announced, pointing his cane down the street while hobbling a step.

Sharyn steadied the young man with a hand on his elbow, but he brusquely shrugged her off.

"I can manage," he groused, clearly not wishing to be coddled. He swiped aside a drape of fiery red hair, which matched his trimmed beard. His pale cheeks reddened as he lowered his cane and stepped away.

Sharyn mumbled an apology. Her actions had been instinctual, reflexive, a part of her nature to help, something ingrained in her from her years under the unpredictable bearing of an alcoholic father—or so she had come to understand from Al-Anon meetings, where she had learned codependency came in many forms.

In Tag McKnight's case, she recognized her coping mechanism could be misconstrued as condescension. Her roommate, who was gay, had grown up on the outskirts of Edinburgh and had been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at the age of four, but he had set out to show the world that he would not be constrained by his body's limits. He had already earned a master's in biochemistry and had joined the Exeter program to study medieval pharmacology, specifically with an interest in ancient herbal medicines and psychedelics.

Tag continued forward, aiming for a wall to the left of the gatehouse. He pointed ahead, wheezing a bit from the exertion. "We made it."

Sharyn followed him into the shadow of the gatehouse's arch, where a plaque had been secured to the rough red stone. The title at the top read The Devon Witches.

Naomi stepped closer. "Let me get ready."

They gave her room as she extended her phone's selfie stick. Beyond paying homage to the persecuted women, Naomi had come to immortalize this visit on TikTok, specifically on a sub-section of the site known as WitchTok, a niche community with billions of views that centered on all aspects of witchcraft and magic: from herbal recipes to tarot reading, and the daily lives of Wiccans and their practices. Naomi had gained a large following as she shared her interest in the subject matter, though from a more erudite and educational standard, sharing her experiences and reasons for coming to Exeter along with documenting her ongoing coursework and campus life.

Once ready, Naomi flipped her hair and turned to Tag, trusting his judgment more than Sharyn's—and for good reason. "How do I look?"

"Posh Spice has nothing on you."

She touched his arm, thanking him. "Such a dated reference, but I'll take it."

She cleared her throat and began to record. As she stood before the placard, she ran a finger across the engraved names of the women.

"Here is a marker commemorating the last four women hanged in the UK for witchcraft: Temperance Lloyd, Susannah Edwards, Mary Trembles, and Alice Molland. The women were tried and found guilty here and hanged at the Heavitree Gallows. Afterward, their bones were buried in unconsecrated ground. Where, you might ask?" She dramatically pointed straight down. "Supposedly right here at the Exeter, beneath the car park at St. Luke's campus. I hope to confirm this in the year ahead. So join me. Hit the follow button and let's dig into this together!"

She cut off the recording and sighed. "That should do. I'll add some captions and music once we're back at the flat."

Sharyn frowned at the plaque. "Was that all true? About these women—"

"You mean witches," Tag reminded her, tapping his cane on the sign. Sharyn frowned at him. "Who were no doubt innocent of those accusations."

"Ah, but all four women confessed to be witches."

"I'm sure they did. Under duress. A forced admission."

Tag shrugged. "Records suggest otherwise. Temperance Lloyd was accused of casting a hex that sickened a local shopkeeper. Others came forward with similar incriminations, along with wild talk of communing with the devil. Eventually, Lloyd confessed. Even the day she was hanged, she continued to assert that the devil forced her hand. The other women were similarly accused and were tied to Lloyd's actions."