Veronica had brought in a sheaf of papers. I only caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman's photo. When I filled their teacups, she said, "You're in the city quite often, aren't you, Olivia?"

"Oh, we shouldn't bother her with this," Ida said.

"With what?" I asked.

"Posting notices for Ciara Conway," Veronica said. "I'm sure the police are doing all they can, but every little bit extra helps."

"Olivia hasn't been around since Friday," Ida reminded her. "With everything that was happening, I doubt she's even heard one of our young women has gone missing."

There were very few "young women" in Cainsville, and I'd met none named Ciara. When I said as much, Ida explained: "Her mother grew up here." Meaning Ciara had likely come to visit her maternal grandparents, which in the eyes of the elders made her a local. That was Cainsville. Gabriel had never lived here, either, and they considered him one of their own.

"When did she disappear?" I asked.

"Sat.u.r.day."

I glanced at the papers. "So you're ... posting flyers? That's certainly how it used to be done, but these days-"

"There are other methods," Ida said. "We know. But the old ways are still useful."

Veronica pushed the stack toward me. She said something else, but I was too busy staring at the photo on the flyer.

Ciara Conway was the dead woman I'd seen in the car.

"Liv?" Walter said.

"S-sorry." I wrenched my gaze from the photo. "Sure, I'll take some to the city. I'll be there tomorrow, doing work for Gabriel. Just leave me a stack."

I retreated as fast as I could. I took another table's order, but after I'd finished, I stared at the words on my pad as if I'd written them in a foreign language.

"Olivia?" Ida said. "Are you all right, dear?"

I nodded. As I headed for the kitchen, Larry watched me, his wide face drawn with concern.

"Liv's been investigating the deaths of young people," Patrick said to the elders. "You don't go shoving pictures of missing girls in her face."

I said no, I was fine, but Larry took the order pad from my hand and told me to go home and take it easy. The lunch rush was over. He'd handle the rest of my shift.

Any other time, I'd have protested. But I kept seeing that smiling girl on the photo as an eyeless corpse.

"I'll walk you home," Patrick said. "You look a little woozy."

"We were just heading that way," Ida began. "We can-"

"Got it." Patrick smiled at Ida. "Rest your old bones."

BLACK SHUCK.

If looks could kill, the one Ida aimed Patrick's way would have drawn and quartered him. Which was far worse than the usual ones that only wished him a swift and relatively painless death.

Olivia's long strides consumed the sidewalk, leaving him jogging to catch up. He wondered what was really bothering her. While he was certain her bas.e.m.e.nt ordeal had been traumatic, resilience was in her blood. She should be over it by now.

When Olivia noticed he'd fallen behind, she slowed her pace. Together they pa.s.sed through the tiny park and on to the walkway that led to her Rowan Street apartment.

"How's Gabriel?" he said.

He hadn't meant to ask. He would prefer not to, or if he did, he would like it to be a show of fake concern. He'd lived a very long time without taking any interest in his epil. Gabriel was different. Or perhaps Patrick was simply getting old. Soft.

"I heard he was injured in that business at the Evans house," he continued.

"Shot in the leg." The briefest pause. "He won't use his cane. He's going to make it worse."

Patrick had to bite back a laugh at the way she said it. First she acknowledged he'd been shot, almost casually. Then she complained about the cane. Worried about Gabriel and loath to admit it.

After a few more steps, she asked, "What do you know about dogs? Symbolically, I mean. Folklore, occultism, whatever. From your writing research."

"Any specific type of canine?"

"Big black ones."

He tried not to react. Fortunately, she was still walking with her gaze straight ahead.

"Mmm, it depends on the culture," he said. "If you're looking at the British Isles-"

"Probably."

"Black Shuck."

Before he could explain, she nodded. "The Hound of the Baskervilles. I did my thesis on Conan Doyle. He based his book on the legend of the Black Shuck."

"You didn't need to ask me, then."

She shrugged and looked uncomfortable. "It didn't ... It didn't seem..."

It didn't seem to fit. Because the Black Shuck was a portent of death, and she could interpret those instinctively. That was how her old blood manifested. If she'd seen a death omen, she wouldn't have needed to consult him.

"Is there anything else in the lore?" she asked. "Besides the Black Shuck?"

"No," he lied.

Patrick left Olivia at her building door. Grace was on the porch, and he knew better than to pa.s.s her. Before they parted, he tried to get Olivia to tell him why she was asking about the black dog. She wouldn't.

Had she seen a cn? That seemed most likely. She'd spotted one in Chicago, and realized it was no ordinary pet-and no ordinary omen.

If she had truly seen a cn, that meant ... well, it meant trouble. For her. For Gabriel. For all of them.

CHAPTER FOUR.

My landlord, Grace, sat in her usual place-a folding chair on the front stoop. She looked like one of the town's many gargoyles, a wizened imp scowling at the world, daring it to cause trouble.

I said a quick h.e.l.lo as I reached for the doork.n.o.b.

"Scone?" she said.

"What?"

"You were at work, weren't you? Where's my scone?"

No, not an imp. A troll. A gray-haired lump of a snaggletoothed beast, guarding her gate, one gnarled hand raised for the toll.

"I forgot," I said. "I'm sorry. I'll grab you two tomorrow. With coffee."

Her beady eyes narrowed. "What's wrong, girl?"

"Nothing."

"If you're apologizing and offering me extras, something's wrong."

"I'm just ... off today."

I opened the door and stepped through.

"Well, get some rest and eat something. You're too pale. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Maybe I have, I thought as the door closed behind me.

When I swung into my apartment, TC was perched on the back of the sofa. I dropped my bag with a clunk and he only snarled a yawn, his yellow eyes narrowing as if I'd disturbed his rest. Then he hopped down and wound around my ankles, completely oblivious to the fact that I was racing to my bedroom.

"I'm changing it to DC," I muttered. "d.a.m.n Cat."

TC wasn't a name, as I was quick to point out to anyone who asked. It was an acronym for "The Cat." I refused to name him because I was not yet resigned to the possibility I might actually be stuck with him.

TC was a black cat, which should have given me all the ammunition I needed to get rid of him. Except in some parts of the world, including Cainsville, they're considered good luck. And it wasn't as if I'd "let" the beast into my home in the first place. He was a stray who'd zoomed in after a mouse and refused to leave.

The suitcases I'd brought from home sat in the corner, still packed. I tugged one onto its side, took out each piece, and stacked it. Then I lifted TC-protesting-off the second bag, pulled out my dresses and wrapped shoes, and made absolutely sure I hadn't stuffed any other clothing in there. Then I looked at the piles surrounding me, searching for something specific, something I wasn't seeing.

When I found that corpse in my car, I'd paid little attention to what she was wearing-not surprisingly, perhaps. Seeing those missing person posters brought it back, though. I'd noticed the corpse had been wearing a green shirt. I'd packed a green shirt. Now it was gone.

As I twisted, my gaze caught on the row of shoes. Four pairs. Trainers, heels, pumps, and boots. There was one missing. My Jimmy Choo green lace-up sandals. Completely impractical, but I loved them, and I was absolutely certain I'd packed them.

I took out my cell phone. Then I set it down. Picked it up. Set it down. Finally I gave in and hit speed dial.

The phone went straight to voice mail and I remembered why I wasn't starting my new job with Gabriel today-because he had business at the courthouse.

"Sorry," I said when his voice mail beeped. "It's nothing important. Talk to you later."

I'd just hung up when I had a call from Howard, my mother's lawyer. He was checking in on me, which would have been very sweet if it hadn't been a duty call on behalf of my mother. That might also have been sweet-of her-if she were the one actually calling. Still, I know better than to read too much into it. My mother doesn't handle stress well. h.e.l.l, my mother doesn't handle life well. Having the world find out her daughter's birth parents were serial killers? Then having that daughter insist on investigating their crimes? That kind of stress could drive my mother to a heart attack ... or so she seemed to think.

When our early calls had proven difficult, she'd turned them over to Howard. Once she's ready to speak to me again, she'll be ready to come home. For now, she's hiding-in every way.

I told Howard to let her know I'd been to the house for my things and I'd borrowed the Jetta. If she wanted to talk about any of that, she could call. She didn't.

Next I researched the case of Ciara Conway, what little "case" there was. As Veronica said, Ciara had been reported missing Sat.u.r.day. As for when she'd actually disappeared, that was harder to say. Until a month ago, she'd been a twenty-two-year-old Northwestern student, living with her long-term boyfriend. Then she'd left him.

Neither her parents nor her ex could provide a list of friends she might have couch-surfed with, and I got the impression Ciara hadn't actually "left" her boyfriend. I'd worked in shelters long enough to recognize the clues. Ciara had a problem-drugs or alcohol. Her parents and boyfriend had finally resorted to tough love. He kicked her out and told her to clean up. Her parents wouldn't take her in. She found places to stay, while her loved ones made daily check-in calls, until last Wednesday, when she'd stopped answering. By Friday, her phone was out of service, the battery dead. Now her parents and boyfriend were racked with guilt, frantic with fear, and the police weren't much help because they'd seen this scenario a hundred times and knew it was just a matter of time before Ciara came off her bender, borrowed a phone, and called for money.

She wouldn't. Ciara Conway was dead. And the only people who knew that were me and her killer.

I was still searching when Gabriel called back. Street noise in the background meant he was hurrying-or hobbling-somewhere.

"I'm sorry I called," I said. "I forgot you had a trial today."

"No trial. I'm simply at the courthouse speaking to a few people about your mother's new appeal, which we'll discuss later. What is it?"

"Nothing urgent. Go ahead and do whatever-"

"I'm not doing anything right now except obtaining dinner."

I told him about Ciara Conway, and my missing shirt and shoes.

"I didn't see my shoes on her," I said. "h.e.l.l, I could be mistaken about the shirt. And maybe the dead body only resembled Ciara-"

"Olivia."

I inhaled. "Stop backpedaling, I know. The body was Ciara Conway's and she was wearing my shirt, which I know I'd packed. Still, I can't see how anyone could dress her, stage her in that car, and take her away again."

"How long were you in the pool?"

"Maybe an hour."

"And twenty minutes in the house afterward, waiting for me. The yard is private, with both a fence and greenery blocking the road and the neighbors. It's risky, but not impossible. Without a body, there is little we can do, but I want to speak to Chandler."

"Chandler?"