shuffled through the papers scattered across the coffee table. No letters. I glanced around the

room.

Not a single picture on the wall. Now that truly was weird.

I made tracks for the kitchen. It was disorderly, but not dirty, despite the persistent

reek of garbage. A phone book lay open on the table. I glanced at the yellow pages:

locksmiths. Was that significant?

Next to the fake oak cabinets was a bulletin board with photos of Angus and Wanda –

Wanda in a giant sombrero, her face smeared in whipped cream. Birthday party, California

style. There were a couple of postcards, a schedule of classes that neither of them was

attending. That was about it.

All the while I searched, the quiet chill of the place gnawed at me. I began to feel like I

was being watched. Every time the house creaked – and sometimes when it didn’t – I

snapped to attention, staring about myself uneasily.

If I hadn’t already told Jake I would be there, I’d have walked out a dozen times. As it

was, I’d been inside about eight minutes when I decided I’d had it. I would wait for Jake out

front in the Forester. For that matter, I didn’t even know if Jake had got my message. He

likely hadn’t. He hadn’t called me back. He was probably home in bed, sound asleep, right

now. Which is where I would have been if I had any sense at all.

As I crossed the living room, heading for the glass door, it occurred to me that the sour

sick smell that hung over the place like a pall was stronger from the hall that led to the

bedrooms.

I stood rooted in the intersection of rooms, my mouth dry with dread.

Thank you and good night , I thought. At the same instant, I realized that I couldn’t

walk away. Never mind the ethics of the situation, I’d touched the front door knob, the

sliding glass door, the lamp – and those were the articles I knew for sure would retain

fingerprints. The articles I remembered touching.

I could be wrong, I reassured myself. I was often wrong. More and more often, it

seemed lately.

But I knew I wasn’t wrong. Not this time. Not about this.

I turned down the hallway. It felt like when you’re trying to run in nightmare. Despite

the adrenaline overdrive, my footsteps dragged as I paced the length of the hall. I poked my

head around the doorframe.

Moonlight poured from the back window onto the thing sprawled on the bed. White,

limp, and streaked with dark: a body.

“No,” I said. “No. No fucking way.” My voice sounded shocked and loud. Way too loud.

Too loud for the room, too loud in my head. I clamped down on it.

Dimly, I made out the giant circle scrawled on the wall above the headboard. Circle

with a five-point star, and in the center, a terrible symbol – the calling card of a high-

ranking demon.

Chapter Ten

I retreated a step, then a few more, walking backward because – crazily – I was afraid

to turn my back on the body in the bedroom. I reached the living room without falling over

anything. I stood there, white noise filling the space usually needed for thinking.

The glass door slid open behind me. I spun around, blood thundering in my ears. I

don’t do surprises well.

Jake slipped inside, got one look at my face, and was across the floor in two strides. His

hands closed on my arms. He said close to my ear, “Don’t pass out.”

“I won’t.” I thought I said it aloud, but maybe I was just thinking it. My face seemed to

be pressed into his shoulder. I breathed him in. He smelled like the night and like deodorant

soap; he smelled alive.

After a few moments he gave me a shake. “Adrien? Come on, baby. Pull yourself

together.” He gave me another joggle, this one less patient. “Is it Angus?”

I shook my head.

He put me away from him, moving past. I heard the bedroom light click on. Light

spilled down the hallway. I tottered the last steps to the couch, dropped into the sagging

cushions, practiced taking long, calm breaths.

While You Were Out, with special guest Charles Manson.

After a couple of minutes, Jake dropped into the chair across from me. I glanced at his

face. Nice to know I wasn’t the only one sick with horror.

“I think it might be the girl from the bookstore,” he said.

“Velvet?” I was aghast.

Jake looked confused. “The one you called Kinsey. The blonde.”

Kinsey. Right. Where did I get Velvet from? That was a weird jump.

“Who’s Velvet?”

I shook my head.

He was silent. Then he said abruptly, “Did you see the symbols over the bed?”

“Not clearly.”

“Could you handle another look?”

I stared at him.

He explained, “I think they match the carvings in the tree where we found the Zellig

kid. I think, but I’m not sure, that they match the stuff painted on your doorstep. Would you

be able to tell?”

Why did he have to know right that minute? Why the fuck couldn’t he wait till he

looked at the photos himself?

I gave him a long, unfriendly look, forced myself to get up. I walked back to the

bedroom.

How had I not instantly recognized that smell for what it was? I swallowed hard.

Jake followed. As feeble as it sounds, the fact that he stood at my shoulder did bolster

me. I kept my gaze focused on the wall, not looking at what lay beneath, but Jesus Christ, the

thing was written in blood – her blood.

I reached for the door frame, and he startled me by catching my wrist.

“Try not to touch anything.”

That didn’t register. The fact that he gripped my arm hard enough to leave his own

fingerprints didn’t register.

“I think it’s the same.” The voice didn’t sound like mine.

He let me go. I turned, found my way back to the couch. I put my face briefly in my

hands, trying to scrub away the picture in my brain. I’ve seen bad things, but that was the

worst, by far.

Jake came and stood over me.

“He set you up. You do realize that?”

I lifted my head. Blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Your pet nutcase. Angus.”

“You think Angus killed her?”

“If he didn’t, he sure as hell knows who did. He didn’t accidentally pick tonight to send

you over here.”