She lowered herself to the bed, her fair skin paling. "Did you tell him?"

"Gabriel? G.o.d, no." I glanced out the window again. Gabriel seemed to be talking to some guy getting out of a van. "Patrick screwed around with Seanna and f.u.c.ked up her life. Then he f.u.c.ked off on Gabriel. Abandoned him. He saw what was happening. h.e.l.l, all the elders apparently knew, because they wanted to do their changeling trick with Gabriel, but Patrick wouldn't let them. He left Gabriel in that situation, with no support. And do you know why? To toughen him up. That's what he said." I realized how harsh my voice had gotten and stepped from the window. "No, I'd never tell him."

A long silence, as Rose stared at the wall, her expression blank but her eyes moving, as if seeing something there. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose stood quickly, maybe worrying he'd overheard, but his steps kept coming at his normal pace, steady and deliberate.

A single rap on the almost-closed door.

"Come in."

He pushed it open and stepped through, holding ... daisies. He was clutching a bouquet of daisies with sprigs of small purple flowers. The stems were short, his hand dwarfing them, and he held them awkwardly, as if they were something he'd found on the road and didn't quite know what to do with.

"Yours," he said, thrusting the bouquet at me as Rose stepped out. "Ricky."

"Ricky?"

"He called your cell this morning. I answered and told him you weren't feeling well. Mild food poisoning. That seemed the simplest way to explain the situation in a way that wouldn't bring him on the next plane."

I took my flowers to the bed. "He'd know better than to hop a plane unless I was in critical condition, but yes, that'll keep him from worrying. Thanks."

The card with the flowers said only, "Check your e-mail when you're up to it." He'd left a longer message there: Hope you're feeling better. I told you I'm not good at flowers, but these reminded me of the ones at the cabin. I just hope they aren't actually weeds. If they are ... um, sorry. Either way, I'll make it up to you with an actual trip to the cabin when I get back. Call me, but only when you feel better. I mean that, too. Rest up. All is fine here. Talk soon.

I fired off a Love the daisies. Call in an hour? and then laid my phone aside and said, "Okay, so where are we on everything?"

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX.

"Macy called me yesterday, and..."

"And?" Gabriel prodded when I didn't continue.

I gave my head a sharp shake. "Sorry, just ... there was something about Macy from my dreams, when I had the fever. Not surprisingly, considering she's on my mind as much as the rest of it."

"What did you dream?"

A short laugh. "Believe me, mine are not prophetic. I'll leave that to Rose. I don't even remember what it was. Probably some mixed-up nonsense like the rest of it. Did I mention I dreamed that James threw me off your balcony?"

"I don't have a balcony."

"Whew."

"I wouldn't say that's without meaning. Your subconscious is acknowledging the threat that James poses and-"

"And did I say Macy called? I think she suspects something's up with her and Ciara. Maybe it's a gut feeling. Anyway, we need to discuss how we're going to handle that. We can't show up on her doorstep and announce..." A memory niggling at me again.

"I will refrain from telling you to take a minute," Gabriel said. "But I think you should. There's something there."

"I know," I muttered. "Follow the signs. Macy. Something about visiting her- Thanatochemistry. That book was on Macy's shelf, with her nursing texts." I did a quick search on my phone. "Thanatochemistry is mortuary science. I dreamed that Macy was going to embalm me, and Tristan was going to cut off my head."

"Your subconscious was linking the textbook to Ciara's embalming."

"But I'm sure they don't teach that in nursing school. Macy's records indicate she went straight from high school to college. Maybe she'd been interested in mortuary science? If so, I might find it online."

"I can't imagine you'd add that to a dating profile."

I sputtered. "I was referring to social media. Facebook, Twitter, and so on."

A slight curl of his lip. "Ah."

"Yes. I'm going to bet you don't have a Facebook page."

"My practice does, which Lydia maintains. We have Facebook and possibly Mys.p.a.ce."

"Mys.p.a.ce? It's 2012, Gabriel."

"Perhaps not Mys.p.a.ce. That's the one I recall from my college days."

"Never had a page then, either, did you?"

"Certainly not. It's a waste of time, and it's dangerous. I've only ever been on Facebook when gathering information to influence potential sources."

"Influence. I like that. So much nicer than blackmail. Back to the point, though. The actual purpose of Facebook is not to provide sources of potential influence, but to socialize. To talk to friends and to share things like hobbies and interests in hopes of finding new friends."

His look said he couldn't imagine the point. Whether he meant hobbies or friends, I don't know. Probably both.

"People talk about their interests online. Let's see if Macy ever mentioned dead people." I picked up my laptop. "Later, I'll set up a Twitter feed for the firm. Don't worry-I'll run it, too. Advertising tweets like: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law. Finding the Saint in Satan's Saints. Or helpful tips like: Note to clients, quicklime is a preservative not a corrosive."

He gave me a look.

"We'll work on it," I said.

"Work on that." He pointed at the laptop.

I'd gone through Macy's online presences before now, but briefly, as a way to get to know her before our meeting. I didn't find "embalming" in her list of Facebook interests, or photos of amazing pre-funeral reconstruction work on her Pinterest account.

What I did find was more subtle. A tag on a friend's wall post from last Halloween. The friend had been dressing up as a zombie and tagged Macy, saying she should get Macy to help with the makeup because of "all that time she spent with dead people." Another friend asked what she meant and the thread went on to joke about Macy hanging out at a local funeral home. Then Macy herself jumped in to snap that she hadn't been "hanging out." The conversation ended there.

I hadn't actually thought Macy did embalm Ciara, as I'd seen in my dream. If I had, I wouldn't have been joking with Gabriel about Facebook and Twitter. But now ...

"That would mean she's not an innocent bystander," I said as I showed Gabriel the thread. "She didn't meet Tristan at a party. She may have actually killed Ciara. For what? To get her family back? Tristan tells Macy that she should be living Ciara's life, and she decides to ... I can't fathom that. I just can't."

"As legal grounds for defense, it's so flimsy I wouldn't even attempt it. Diminished capacity would be the only way to play it. Drugs, alcohol, mental illness." He took my laptop. "Now, before we speculate any further, the comment mentions a funeral home on Lawrence Avenue. We'll start there."

There were three funeral parlors on Lawrence. I called the first. Someone picked up on the second ring.

"Walker Funeral Home," a man said. "Kendrick Walker speaking. How may I a.s.sist you?"

His voice was pleasant, sounding older than I'd expect from someone named Kendrick. Once I explained that I was checking a reference on Macy Shaw, though, his tone changed, becoming younger and brighter, as if throwing off his professional voice once he realized I wasn't a grieving relative.

"Oh, sure, Macy and I went to school together. Well, high school, and only for a couple of years before my parents moved."

"Did she volunteer or work there?"

"In senior year. She wanted to become a mortician, so she worked here for two summers, but ... Well, trust me, it's not an easy career choice. Especially for a girl. Eventually the pressure got to her. She went into nursing. She kept working here for almost a year after she started college. She told people it was just for the money, but I think she was still considering."

"May I ask you for a reference? Or should that go through someone else?"

"Probably my dad. I'd just tell you she was great. If you talk to her, tell her Kendrick said hi. It's been a while."

"I'll do that. And on another note ... This is a little awkward, but as long as I have you on the phone..."

"What's up?"

"I have an uncle in palliative care, and the funeral home we always used has closed down. I know that's the last thing on my aunt's mind, but ... the end is close. Is there any chance I could come over and have a chat with someone? See your establishment?"

"When?"

"As soon as possible. It really is ... close to the end."

"I completely understand." His tone changed, reverting to the soothing one. "We can make an appointment for tomorrow, or tonight after seven-there's a viewing right now."

"Seven would be great."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN.

Gabriel fell asleep before we hit the outskirts of Cainsville. This would have been much more troubling if he'd been the one behind the wheel.

That left me with a sleeping pa.s.senger and a long stretch of road to play with. A boring, straight stretch. The scenery wasn't much, either. Farmer's fields on my left, the river to my right. The river would have been lovely, if I could have actually seen it-it was at the bottom of a gully. So a boring road and boring scenery, but the car made up for it, so smooth it was like riding on gla.s.s. The June sun was just beginning to dip, the car interior cool, the leather seats comfortable, the music ...

Well, the music needed a shake-up. It was Chopin's Funeral March, which was appropriate, given our destination, but really not a driving tune. I flipped through his library, looking for a Mendelssohn piece I'd heard earlier. I finally found it, and the information scrolled across the display. It was the Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream.

As I heard Rose's voice, quoting from the fairy play, I looked back at the road. There, in the distance, was a hound. Standing on the road.

I hit my brakes, but as soon as I did, metal crunched and the car swerved. The side air bag whacked into me as the car sheered off the road.

It went over the gully, careening down, then hitting something and flipping and- The front air bag slammed me in the face. I didn't pa.s.s out, but it was as if I mentally left for a few seconds, shock shutting down thought until the car stopped ... and I was hanging upside down.

I clawed at the seat belt, desperate to get free. Then I managed to stop myself. Nothing was burning. Slow down. a.s.sess.

It took a second for me to even remember what had been happening before the crash. All I could see were the air bags, deflating around me.

I was in Gabriel's car.

Gabriel.

I twisted, calling his name. He was there, slumped onto the roof.

"Gabriel?"

No answer.

I reached over and nudged his shoulder. "Gabriel!"

Still nothing. That's when I scrambled to get free again, caution be d.a.m.ned. I got halfway out of my belt before I found the release. I hit it and fell, knocking my head hard on the roof.

I twisted and writhed, hearing my shirt rip as it caught. My skin ripped, too, warm blood welling up on my arm. I ignored it and got myself right side up, crouched there between the seat and the roof.

I could reach Gabriel, but he was doubled forward. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't get to his neck or wrist to check for a pulse. The solid wall of his shirt blocked me.

I backed out through the driver's window. It was shattered, the remaining safety gla.s.s crumbling when I went through. As I pushed myself out, I could see the driver's door was bashed in. We'd been hit. That's why the side air bag deployed. Someone had hit us. Pushed the car over the embankment.

I craned to look up the gully. It was only about a thirty-foot drop, but nearly perpendicular. The top was clear. No sign of another vehicle. No sign of a pa.s.serby who'd witnessed the accident. There'd been no one else on the d.a.m.ned road. So where had the other car been-? A billboard. There were several along this stretch.

Had someone been lying in wait?

Was I really trying to figure that out while Gabriel lay in a car wreck?

His window had smashed, too, on the roll down the gully. I swiped out the remaining gla.s.s and shoved my head and shoulders through. Gabriel's head hung down, but I could see his face from this angle. There was a moment there when I don't think he was breathing. Then it came, that faint rasp, and when I pressed my hand to his neck, his pulse was strong.

He'd laid his jacket in the back before we set off, and there were only a few drops of blood on his white shirt. I searched for the source. A wound on his head.

As much as I wanted to get him out of there, I knew better than to move him, in case there was spinal damage. It seemed as if he was only hunched awkwardly-his height not accommodating the crushed roof-but I wasn't taking any chances. I backed out. That's when I saw the smoke.

The engine was on fire, wisps of smoke snaking from under the hood. There are a half-dozen flammable things in an engine. While they're well contained, they aren't meant to withstand a serious crash and a rollover landing. And the barrier between the engine and the pa.s.sengers isn't good enough to hold off fire for long.

I ran to the front of the car and peered under the crumpled hood, praying I wouldn't see- Flame. I saw flame.

I tore back to the pa.s.senger side, squeezed in, and undid Gabriel's seat belt. It wasn't jammed. Gabriel was, though-wedged in tight enough that he didn't even budge when the belt came loose. As I tugged at him, he groaned.

"Gabriel?" I said. "Gabriel!"

I shook him, but he slid out of consciousness again without even opening his eyes.

I could smell the smoke now and hear the whoosh of fire. No time to second-guess. I grabbed his shirt by one shoulder and heaved, my other hand bracing his head. I had to brace my legs, too, against the car, using every bit of leverage I could, until- His head and shoulders swung free and he fell, nearly knocking me down with the dead-weight drop. I dragged him out of the car. Smoke billowed, making me cough, my eyes tearing up. I had Gabriel out on his back, my hands wrapped in his shirt, and thank G.o.d it was well made, because I'm sure I wouldn't have gotten him very far otherwise. As it was, the seams still ripped while I dragged him over the rocky ground.