“So not cute,” she said, though her lips tugged upward. She reached up, adjusted the dome light switch to off, and opened her door, letting her leg dangle out the crack. The swirl of cooler air felt good; her stretched-out leg muscle felt even better. She wiggled her toes in her sneaker—mindless bliss. She checked her watch again. Just headed toward midnight. Three hours left that she owed her client. It was the biz; for whatever reason, most crime happened before 3:00 a.m.

Even bad guys had bedtimes.

“You don’t need to wait,” Sylvie said. “I’ll be here for a while longer. Go on to your hotel. Alex’ll start working your case in the morning.”

It was going to be a research nightmare. If he was crazy, they would be chasing their tails, and if the ghost was real? Identifying a single ghost from Chicago? After the gods had stirred everything up? Wright would have to talk.

He slumped farther into his seat, looked up at her through sandy lashes. “I’d rather have you on the case.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t going to be involved. Don’t get huffy. Alex is my researcher.”

He propped his feet back on the dash and fidgeted, blocking her view.

“Go home already,” she said.

“Nah,” he said. “You want me here.” He slouched a little more firmly, tilting his knees out of her line of sight, making the old leather creak and complain. “ I can spell you so you don’t have to pee in a cup. I like being useful.”

“There’s a fine line between useful and distracting,” she said. “You’re right on it.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes,” she said.

“No fun at all,” he said. “Seriously, I’m good at my job. I can help. I want to help. Let me help.”

“White knight with a badge,” she muttered. It wasn’t a compliment, though he tipped his head toward her as if he’d heard one. That kind of zeal could get a man killed.

Sylvie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, a quiet interruption in the night. She flipped it open, glad of an excuse to avoid his gaze, and brought the phone to her ear after a quick glance at the caller ID.

“Dad,” she said. “You’re up late. What’s wrong?”

“You’ve got Zoe for a week,” he said without any preamble, harried and only half-attentive.

“What? No, one night. I thought you said one night,” she said. The burglars looked like a no-show tonight, which meant more stakeouts, more man-hours, and Wright—she didn’t know how his case might play out, if it was even a real problem and not some psychological scar.

She tuned back in to hear her father sigh. “. . . listening? The CIMAS presentation snuck up on us; we’ve got three days in Mexico City to present your mother’s new model for tracking climatic variability and hurricanes. We’ll be gone a week, and I don’t want Zoe staying in the house on her own.”

“She’s seventeen,” Sylvie said, but remembering the drugs, the smokes, the cash, the attitude . . . Sylvie’s objection lacked force. “I guess. But what am I going to do with her?”

“Put her to work for you?” her father suggested.

“Did you forget what I do?” Sylvie said. Bitter amusement touched her. Hadn’t she decided to keep her sister at arm’s length? Now she was supposed to let Zoe shadow her for a week?

“Hell, Sylvie, I haven’t known what you were doing since you were sixteen. Two daughters is too much for any man.”

Sylvie closed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll think of something.”

Wright squirmed in his seat, tapped her elbow, and jerked his head toward the mall. Sylvie peered over his shoulder. The janitorial van was packing up. Sylvie snapped her fingers, pointed at the notepad half-beneath his thigh. He wrote down the time, the license number, a quick description of the staff in more of that careful block print, a man used to making sure his reports were legible.

He mouthed useful at her, and she disconnected with more speed than courtesy and found Wright watching her.

“Family problems?”

“You gonna help me with them, too?” Sylvie said. “Go, get some rest. You could be the poster boy for jet lag.”

“Rather stick around—”

“Go home,” Sylvie said.

“Does that tone work on stray dogs? ’Cause that could be really useful on the beat. You’d be surprised how many cops get bit. It’s not always big bad dogs either. One of my partners got his ass handed to him by a Maltese I swear was rabid.”

She hovered between pure frustration—one good push, and he’d be out of the truck, sprawled on the asphalt—and a stuttering desire to laugh. Insane, haunted, or something in between, he was entertaining company. God help her, but she just might like him. While she dithered, he snagged the binoculars from her feet and turned them on the mall. “That a light?”

She snatched the binoculars back, peered through them, and said, “Not the kind we care about.”

“What are we looking for?” he said.

Sylvie sucked in a breath, ready to shout, then, all at once, gave in. He wanted to be helpful. Needed to be helpful. Fine. Two sets of eyes were better than one. If Wright did anything she didn’t approve of, she could ditch his case. He might push and test and talk, but ultimately, she was in charge.

“Robberies,” she said. “After hours, no alarm. Bayside’s the most likely target tonight. These guys are not stealthy in their planning. Execution, yes. Planning, no. They’ve just been running along the coast.”

“Inside job? Do all the stores have the same alarm co—”

“Nope,” Sylvie said.

“Insurance fraud? Sometimes those things just spread. Like a copycat kill.”

“The insurance companies are beginning to squawk, but they’d be screaming blue murder if they thought they were being swindled outright.”

Wright frowned, pulled out a cigarette, and tucked it away again at her look. “So what are you going on?”

“The path they’re taking. The merchant who hired me said she had more than her share of teenage looky-loos in the days before the thefts.”

“Weekend boredom settling in?”

“She doesn’t have the kind of business that gets the teens excited. Too pricey, too dull for their blood.”

Wright insinuated himself into her space, reading over her shoulder. “An art gallery?”

“Hey,” she snapped. “You want her reading your file? Watch it.”

He shrugged. “I’m a cop. You can trust me to keep things confidential. Where else have they hit?”

Sylvie slid the list over to him. He twisted his mouth, touched the cigarette pack again, and sighed. “I get the cell-phone store, the jewelry store, but luggage? That doesn’t sound like teens. Maybe someone used the kids to case the place.”

“Good luck getting teenagers to do anything you want them to,” Sylvie said. “I assumed the luggage was taken to carry the loot. I’ve got bigger questions than who. Right now, I’m working on how.”

Wright stiffened in the seat, his kneecap knocking against the passenger’s-side door as if he’d tried to put space between them. He tilted his head back against the headrest, baring the long line of his throat and chin, faint stubble illuminated by the streetlights. “They came to you for help. To you.”

His voice betrayed a weird sort of hesitance, a thought he wanted to deny. Sylvie recognized it; Lisse Conrad, the art gallery owner, had come to her, and Wright, whose world had expanded recently, was learning a new sort of trepidation—that even things as normal as burglary might have an uncanny side. The Shadows Inquiries’ interview form, with its cloak-and-dagger double talk, had amused him, but this—the possibilities he had to accept—scared him.

“It’s probably nothing more exotic than a well-connected burglar, and my client just picked me by chance,” Sylvie soothed. “More than one alarm company is involved, but an enterprising guy might job-hop, or hell, it might be a team of them, one at each company.”

“True,” he said. “A good way to stay clear of jail is make sure there’s a lot of suspicion to go around.”