A car cruised past her, and she sensed the driver staring at her, then speeding up. Nothing to see here but a sad, stupid evil pawn, she thought bitterly. Move along.

The police station was in City Hall as well, and the entire building was being renovated, with work crews ripping out twisted metal and breaking down stone to put in new braces and bricks. The side that held the jail and the police headquarters area hadn’t been much damaged, and Claire headed for the big, high counter that was manned by the desk sergeant.

“Detective Joe Hess,” she said. “Please.”

The policeman barely glanced up at her. “Sign in; state your name and business.”

She reached for the clipboard and pen and carefully wrote her name. “Claire Danvers. I have a delivery from Mr. Bishop.”

There were other things going on in the main reception area—a couple of drunks handcuffed to a huge wooden bench, some lawyers getting a cup of coffee from a big silver pot near the back.

Everything stopped. Even the drunks.

The desk sergeant looked up, and she saw a weary anger in his eyes before he put on a blank, hard expression. “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll see if he’s here.”

He turned away and picked up a phone. Claire didn’t watch him make the call. She was too lost in her own misery. She stared down at the writing on the scroll and wished she knew what was inside—but then, it might make it worse if she did know. I’m only a messenger.

Yeah, that was going to make her sleep nights.

The desk sergeant spoke quietly and hung up, but he didn’t come back to the counter. Avoiding her, she assumed; she was getting used to that. The good people avoided her, the bad people sucked up to her. It was depressing.

Her tattoo itched. She rubbed the cloth of her shirt over it, and watched the reinforced door that led into the rest of the police station.

Detective Hess came out just about a minute later. He was smiling when he saw her, and that hurt. Badly. He’d been one of the first adults to really be helpful to her in Morganville—he and his partner, Detective Lowe, had gone out of their way for her not just once, but several times. And now she was doing this to him.

She felt sick as she rose to her feet.

“Claire. Always a pleasure,” he said, and it sounded like he actually meant it. “This way.”

The desk sergeant held out a badge as she passed. She clipped it on her shirt and followed Joe Hess into a big, plain open area. His desk was near the back of the room, next to a matching one that had his partner’s nameplate on the edge. Nothing fancy. Nobody had a lot of personal stuff on their desks. She supposed that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have breakables, if you interviewed angry people all day.

She settled into a chair next to his desk, and he took a seat, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. He had a kind face, and he wasn’t trying to intimidate her. In fact, she had the impression he was trying to make it easy on her.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her, which was the same thing Richard Morrell had said. She wondered if she looked that damaged. Probably.

Claire swallowed and looked down at her hands, and the scroll held in her right one. She slowly stretched it out toward him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sir, I’m . . . so sorry.” She wanted to explain to him, but there really didn’t seem to be much to excuse it at the moment. She was here. She was doing what Bishop wanted her to do.

This time, she’d chosen to do it.

No excuse for that.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Detective Hess said, and plucked the scroll from her fingers. “Claire, none of this is your fault. You understand that, right? You’re not to blame for Bishop, or anything else that’s screwed up around here. You did your best.”

“Wasn’t good enough, was it?”

He watched her for another long second, then shook his head and snapped the seals on the scroll. “If anybody failed, it was Amelie,” he said. “We just have to figure out how to survive now. We’re in uncharted territory.”

He unrolled the scroll. His hands were steady and his expression carefully still. He didn’t want to scare her, she realized. He didn’t want her to feel guilty.

Detective Hess read the contents of the paper, then let it roll up again into a loose curl. He set it on his desk, on top of a leaning tower of file folders.

She had to ask. “What is it?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said, which couldn’t have been true. “You did your job, Claire. Go on, now. And promise me . . .” He hesitated, then sat back in his chair and opened a file folder so he could look busy. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

She couldn’t promise that. She had the feeling she’d already been stupid three or four times since breakfast.

But she nodded, because it was really all she could do for him.

He gave her a distracted smile. “Sorry. Busy around here,” he said. That was a lie; there was almost nobody in the room. He tapped a pencil on the open file. “I’ve got court this morning. You go on now. I’ll see you soon.”

“Joe—”

“Go, Claire. Thank you.”

He was going to protect her; she could see that. Protect her from the consequences of what she’d done.

She couldn’t think how she would ever really pay him back for that.

As she walked out, she felt him watching her, but when she glanced back, he was concentrating on his folder again.

“Hey, Claire? Happy birthday.”

She would not cry.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and choked on the word as she opened the door and escaped from whatever awful thing she’d just brought to his desk.

It was nearly one o’clock when she made it back to Bishop’s office—not so much because it was a long trip as because she had to stop, sit, and cry out her distress in private, then make sure she’d scrubbed away any traces before she headed back. Ysandre would be all over it if she didn’t.

And Bishop.

Claire thought she did a good job of looking calm as Ysandre waved her back to the office. Bishop was just where he’d been, although the third vampire, the stranger, was gone.

Michael was still there.

Myrnin was trying to build an elaborate abstract structure out of paper clips and binder clips, which was one of his less crazy ways to pass the time.

“The prodigal child returns,” Bishop said. “And how did Detective Hess take the news?”

“Fine.” Claire wasn’t going to give him anything, but even that seemed to amuse him. He leaned on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms, staring at her with a faint, weird smile.

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What a civilized place Morganville is.” Bishop made that into an insult. “Very well, you’ve done your duty. I suppose I’ll have to keep my half of the bargain.” He glanced at Myrnin. “She’s your pet. Clean up after her.”

Myrnin gave Bishop a lazy salute. “As my master commands.” He stood with that unconscious vampire grace that made Claire feel heavy, stupid, and slow, and his bright black eyes locked with hers for a long moment. If he was trying to tell her something, she had no idea what it was. “Out, girl. Master Bishop has important work to do here.”

What? she wondered. Working on his evil laugh? Interviewing backup minions?

Myrnin crossed the room and closed ice-cold fingers around her arm. She pulled in a breath for a gasp, but he didn’t give her time to react; she was yanked along with him down the hall, moving at a stumbling run.

She looked back at Michael mutely, but he couldn’t help her. He was just as trapped as she was.

Myrnin stopped only when there were two closed doors, and about a mile of hallway, between them and Mr. Bishop.

“Let go of me!” Claire spat, and tried to yank free. Myrnin looked down at her arm, where his pale fingers were still wrapped around it, and raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t quite figure out what his hand was doing. Claire yanked again. “Myrnin, let go!”