I went back in. Sure enough, there was a false wall. And behind it? A sacrificial altar. Not for human sacrifice—Santerians don’t practice that. I’ve been well schooled in basic respect for religions, courtesy of Paige. Not that she always practices what she preaches—I recall a certain incident with naked Wiccans in our backyard—but she handled it more respectfully than I would have, and she would point out it’d been a small sect, not indicative of the religion as a whole.

Santeria is a Caribbean religion melding African, Catholic, and Native American traditions. Its rituals include the sacrifice of animals. There was evidence of that here—a small ornate axe and bloodstains on the floor. There were also coins, oils, flowers, herbs, colored cloth, stones, beads, even a set of dominos, for rituals of a less bloody sort.

A lamp burned on a table. It was a clay pot of oil with stuff floating in it and a wick on top. I could make out ashes and metal in the oil. Beside it lay a dead scorpion coated in oil.

I took pictures, sent them to Adam, then called.

“Now that you actually need my help, I can’t get rid of you,” he said when he answered.

“I just sent you—”

“Photos. I’m looking at them now. With the scorpion, we seem to have another home-protection ritual, this one specifically to keep away enemies. The oil has to burn for a few days, and most of it’s still there. You were up at the house yesterday, weren’t you?”

“So this ritual is to protect them from me? Cool. Doesn’t work, though.”

“I can’t imagine anything that would. So we definitely have someone practicing Santeria. Presumably someone high on the group’s food chain. One of the girls isn’t going to construct a hidden room in the toolshed.”

“I know Santeria doesn’t condone human sacrifice, but if we’re dealing with a wannabe, maybe they’re bending the rules. If chickens don’t work, try dead girls. Any link with the crime-scene stuff?”

“That bead Claire was clutching could be significant for the pewter or from the symbolism. Could even be a cheap stand-in for silver. I’ll keep looking. Anything else?”

“No, Jesse’s doing the background checks.”

“Got the guys doing the grunt work, huh?”

“After years of doing it for you, Paige, and Lucas, I’m liking this a whole lot better.”

“Just don’t get used to it.”

EVIDENCE OF SANTERIA did not mean we’d found our killer, any more than if I’d found evidence of a Catholic mass. But these ritualistic religions did attract fringe types who misunderstood the beliefs and focused on the occultlike aspects.

Now I needed to figure out who was the practitioner. The best place to find evidence of that would be in the house. If there was an alarm, I’d be out of luck, but I could always hope they were the sort who left without turning it on.

Even better—the back door was latched but not locked. I eased it open, bracing for the squeal of an alarm. Silence. I slipped in and looked around. I found a security panel, but it was green. Unarmed.

As I crept into the hall, a phone rang. On the third ring, it stopped. I paused, expecting an answering machine.

“Hello?” A man’s voice. Alastair. Shit. That’s why the door was open and the alarm off.

The voice came from the front of the house. I cast a blur spell, and began a slow retreat to the kitchen door. That sleep spell would have come in really handy right about now. Damn. I needed to find a cemetery.

“Ice cream, huh?” He laughed. “No, that’s fine. They could use the break and I could use the peace and quiet to finish this ledger. Take as long as you want, Meg.”

Okay, he was busy in his office and the girls were enjoying after-lunch ice cream.

I took off my boots, cast another blur spell, and zipped up the stairs, boots in hand. Padding around in socks, I searched all six bedrooms. The closest thing to talismans I found were a four-leaf clover pendant on a dresser and a dream catcher hanging in a window. For drugs, I only found a stash of pot and a cache of diet pills. Whoever was practicing Santeria was keeping it out of the house.

I headed back downstairs. As I passed the living room, the doorbell rang. I darted into the living room, dove behind an armchair, and cast a cover spell. As long as I didn’t move, I’d be okay.

When Alastair opened the door, I recognized the visitor’s voice. Tiffany Radu.

“I met your new girl in town,” she said. “She gave me a coupon for a dozen cookies. Getting a little bold, aren’t you? It would be much easier to call.”

Alastair laughed. “I wish I could take the credit, but no, Megan must have given Amy those to hand out. A nice way to introduce herself. Come in, please.”

Tiffany pushed the baby buggy into the living room and returned to the hall.

“So, do you want those cookies?” he asked.

“Is that the only thing on the menu?”

A chuckle. Then a crash, like a body hitting a wall. I jumped, startling the baby, who stared at me, her blue eyes wide. From the hall came a grunt, then the whir of a zipper. A groan. A sucking noise. Another groan.

Okay, no one was getting killed. And I would have been less surprised if someone was.

The baby craned her head, trying to see her mother. I really hoped she couldn’t. Seeing Mom blowing a guy who isn’t your dad really isn’t an experience any kid needs imprinted on her young memory.

I slid from behind the chair and tugged the buggy toward me until I was certain the baby couldn’t see Tiffany. It’s a sad day when I’m more concerned for a child than her mother is.

The baby started whimpering now. There was no way Tiffany could hear her—Alastair was too vocal in his appreciation. When a baby isn’t heard, though, a baby gets louder, and I didn’t want them coming in here.

I murmured an incantation. A light ball appeared on my fingertips. The baby’s eyes rounded. I tossed it to hover over her buggy and she giggled and crowed.

“Mama, Mama!” she said, bouncing as I made the light ball dance.

Tiffany really needed to work on her parenting skills if her kid adopted the first stranger who paid attention to her.

I went through a repertoire of simple tricks—lights, sparks, fog, all the ones kids love. I’d learned all the ways to keep Elena and Clay’s twins amused when I baby-sat. Now that they’re school age, they want to learn the tricks ... and get royally pissed off when they can’t.

So I entertained the baby as Mom and the local cult dude moved to full-on screwing. When they started banging against the walls, the baby got concerned again. I did, too. The house was old and they were really going at it.

I picked up an ugly stuffed toy from the buggy and made it dance. The baby grabbed it and threw it. I knew this game. I picked it up and gave it back. She threw it, then chortled when the stupid grown-up fell for it again.

The toy looked homemade. Tiffany didn’t seem the type to lovingly sew toys for her baby. It was definitely an amateur job, with weird stitching along the seams. An older sibling? Whatever they’d stuffed it with, it wasn’t exactly soft and cuddly. It felt like ... dried herbs.

I caught a whiff of something that made my eyes fly open. I lifted the toy to my nose.

It was stuffed with blessed thistle. Most witches don’t use herbs outside of rituals, but blessed thistle used to be stuffed into sachets for protection and health. I think Wiccans still used it. I glanced toward the front hall. Was Tiffany Wiccan?

I looked closer at the toy and noticed the stitching wasn’t actually messy. It was symbolic. Special stitching for protection. Not Wiccan. Witch.

Now I knew why the baby had been calling me Mama when she saw the spells. Cody Radu wasn’t the spellcaster in the family. Tiffany was.