He bit down, the muscles in his jaw contracting with the movement. “Then we need more of a plan than your usual fare.”

“What’s my usual fare?”

“Rush headlong into any situation that could get you killed, consequences be damned.”

“That plan has worked beautifully for me in the past,” I reminded him, frowning in reprimand.

“I apologize,” he said, but the insincerity cut to my core. He totally didn’t mean it. “I tend to forget how beautifully your plans work when each and every one goes awry, including the one that left you stranded on a deserted bridge with a man who had every intention of burning you alive.”

He did not just bring that up. “You’re still mad at me about that?” When he only glared at me, his eyes shimmering in the low light, I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. “That wasn’t a plan. That was a surprise attack. And I told you, I tried to summon you. I couldn’t. I was concussed.” I pointed to my head to demonstrate. Not with my pinkie, though.

He was in front of me at once, the animal inside him rearing reflexively, and kept going until I’d backed into the cabinets and could go no farther. Bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of me, he moved even closer, his heat spiraling in blistering waves around me. “You can summon me whenever you desire,” he said, his warm breath at my ear, brushing down my neck. “I am but a thought away.”

“Are you saying I didn’t summon you on purpose?”

He leaned back to look at me. “You tell me.”

“I thought you had to go to work.”

He bit down again before checking his watch. “I mean it. Nothing until we can come up with a better plan. Promise me.”

“I promise. Geez.” He was so untrusting.

* * *

First things first. I hunted down my phone and dialed Uncle Bob.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he said, clearly in a good mood.

I was about to change that. “I need you to come over tonight.”

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Dad.”

“He’s there?” he asked, seeming surprised.

“No, but Denise came to see me. She is under the impression Dad isn’t going on a trip into the wild blue yonder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Not really.” He paused a long moment, then added, “But I’ve suspected.”

“You’ve suspected what?” I asked in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I have a meeting in two. We’ll talk about it when I get there. What time do you want me over?”

While I wanted him over right then and there—this was my dad we were talking about—I had to consider the plan Cookie and I—mostly I—had dreamed up to get Ubie to ask her out. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth with this guy. “Around six?” That should give Cookie enough time to get ready and her date enough time to get over from the West Side. He had to work until five, so … “Yeah, six will work.”

“That’ll work for me, too. Do you want dinner? I can pick something up.”

Though I should have felt at least a twinge of guilt—I was setting him up, after all—I couldn’t quite manage it. The setup, or as I liked to call it, the Get Cookie Laid Plan, was a necessary evil. Uncle Bob was usually so confident, so straightforward, but throw Cookie into the mix, and he became a spineless wiener. Not that wieners had spines to begin with, but really. It was Cookie. Our Cookie! What was she going to do? Bite him?

Okay, that was a strong possibility, but that’d come after the fruits of our endeavor had been delivered. Cookie could be sassy like that.

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen.

C’est la vie.

“I love it when you buy dinner. How about Italian from that really expensive place that I never go to because it’s too expensive?”

He chuckled. “Can do. Would you just like me to order the most expensive thing on the menu?”

“Duh. See ya then.” Right before I hung up, I said, “And don’t be late!”

“Please. It’s Robert Davidson you’re talking to.”

Who was Robert again? Oh, right. That always threw me. “Fine,

Robert,

just don’t be late.”

“I’ll try.”

I hung up and realized Mr. Coffee was ready for me. A sharp thrill ran up my spine with that knowledge. It was weird. I hurried over to him, gave him a saucy wink, then poured a cup of joe, dumping all kinds of artificial thises and thats in with him, wondering why he was called Joe in the first place.

Then I turned and stared at my walls, realizing I suddenly had nothing to do. Actually, I did. I could mull over ad nauseum the fact that there was a demon out there feeding on the souls of the living. Or I could ponder the fact that cancer was a stone-cold bitch who needed to die a slow and painful death, over and over for all eternity. Or I could think about the fact that Reyes had a human brother. A biological one. But none of those options appealed to me. Since Reyes had thwarted my plans to scope out the Dealer Mr. Joyce had described to me, I was at a standstill. In my apartment. With absolutely nothing to do! It was weird.

I supposed I could stare at Mr. Wong, my apartment mate. He’d actually lived there first, hovering with his nose in one corner of my living room when I’d first scoped out the place, but I’d loved the apartment. No, I’d loved the building. It seemed to lure me inside. To woo me with its old-world architecture and cultured lines. Either that or I’d had one too many margaritas that day.

And while I talked to Mr. Wong all the time, I’d never really tried to communicate with him. To get the lowdown on his story, his life. Maybe I didn’t want to. I often did my best to avoid the more painful aspects of life, even though it didn’t always help; witness my physical and emotional breakdown with Mr. Joyce in my office only an hour earlier.

But maybe Mr. Wong was like Mr. Andrulis in my passenger seat. Maybe he was just lost, wanting to cross, to get to heaven, but he didn’t know how. I’d never really examined Mr. Wong for markings or tattoos of any kind. Perhaps if I found out who he was, what his story entailed, I could lure him out of his stupor and help him to the other side. Wasn’t that my job, after all?

I pulled a chair over to Mr. Wong and sat down.

“I’m here for you,” I said, taking the slow and easy approach. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, his short gray hair a bit mussed and in need of a trim. “If you want to cross, you can, you know.”

Wait, what if he did? What would I do without him? I’d grown so used to having him around to talk to, to commiserate with, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle the place without him.

“Can you at least tell me your name? I’m fairly certain it’s not Mr. Wong.” I’d only called him that because … well, because he kind of looked like a Mr. Wong. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

When he still didn’t answer, I put my cup down and stood by him. His head, even though he was hovering about a foot off the ground, still did not pass mine. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. His gray uniform reminded me so much of the pictures I’d seen of Chinese internment camps. The people starving, made to work until they dropped. Literally.

Maybe that was why I’d never really tried to communicate with him. Maybe I didn’t want to know his story, what he’d gone through. As surprising as this might seem to the average observer, I did not handle that stuff well. My heart broke all too often. Even when people passed through me who’d gotten past their hardships, their heart-wrenching pain, and had lived long, full lives, seeing that part of them still cut me to pieces. So, maybe all this time I’d been hanging with Mr. Wong, I was really putting off the inevitable, the truth, not for his benefit, but for my own.