"A graveyard."

Her friend gave her a puzzled look. "You have enough morbid stuff going on as it is. We found a corpse in your bedroom, remember?"

He shook his head in resignation, extracted himself from the sleeping bag and booted up the laptop on his desk. "You're so weird."

Ignoring his complaints, Madison asked, "Where would a woman who died in 1651 in Oxford have been buried?"

Bitterness tainted her last words. How well McCain had played his role. He would have known all along where Sarah had lived and died. Because McCain must be Peter's current, living host. Her only other suspect, poor Miss Lindsey, was lying in the morgue.

Jackson hadn't flown to Geneva on the night of the burglary. He had had plenty of time to come to Christ Church between their argument at his place yesterday morning, and his visit to Rupert in the late afternoon. Miss Lindsey was in love with him, and she must have followed him into Madison's bedroom.

"Was she n.o.ble?"

Ollie's question brought her back to the present.

"No. She was a Puritan, and married one." The thought of Sarah's marriage to Peter raised bile from the pit of Madison's stomach.

He had stopped typing into the research engine and shook his head. "It's too broad. If she had been a n.o.ble girl, that would have been easier, but ..."

Madison put her hands together in a begging clasp. "Please, Ollie. Let's try. Her name was Sarah Perkins."

Ollie checked his wrist.w.a.tch, then ruffled his hair with his right hand. "We won't have the answer you're looking for by the time we have to leave. But we could use a shortcut ..." He stopped mid-sentence, absorbed in internal debate.

Her hands twisted together, and her feet drummed against the floor. Madison had to restrain herself from grabbing Ollie's shoulders and shaking the shortcut out of him.

He continued. "Wherever there's a cemetery, there's a church. At least in England."

Madison nodded.

"Well, what's the oldest church? Let me rephrase that. What's the oldest religious building in Oxford with a decent-sized cemetery?"

She had no clue but poked her memory anyway. For no result. "I don't know. St Michael of the Northgate?"

"The cemetery is too tiny. Come on, Madison."

"Please, this isn't quiz night. And we have to go to the police station. So, tell me."

Undeterred, Ollie kept on throwing questions at her. "A church? Lots of very, very old graves? City center?"

At last, sparks connected in her brain. "St. Giles?"

"Spot on."

Chapter 52.

SHOWERED AND dressed in yesterday's clothes, Madison had been about to rush out and inspect St. Giles' churchyard, but Ollie refused to let her go on her own. He had tagged along and now they got off their bikes, leaning them against the church's iron gate.

On the sidewalk he caught up with her fast-paced steps.

"The chance of finding the grave here is very remote," he warned when they reached the freshly painted church gate.

"Yeah, yeah. You've already told me that." She pushed the gate open. It didn't squeak. It was, in fact, perfectly oiled. Her last time there had been with Rupert, on the night of their first date. Her heart squeezed. She breathed in the clean, cold air.

They entered the pathway to the graveyard, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. The frost had started melting in the morning light, removing some of the icy coldness from the scene. A robin's song and the early sounds of the city inhabited the silence.

Madison had a flash of memory showing Sarah's grave. The vision had haunted her since that day at Jackson's, when they had called the spirits.

The crooked, weathered headstones weren't many. The brittle sound of her shoes on the ground scared a foraging squirrel away. Her body knew the way, even if she herself didn't.

A grave covered with overgrown gra.s.s lay at her feet, the familiar name carved on its headstone, moss and mildew filling in the engraved letters. She knelt and wiped dead leaves from the grave, making a crinkling sound. The metallic tang of damp stone meshed with the salt of her tears.

At last. She had found Sarah.

Madison looked down at her own grave. A part of her was buried here, and had been for centuries. She leaned over and pressed her forehead against the cold stone. A warm glow expanded throughout her drumming chest and the rest of her body.

"She must mean a lot to you, this Sarah."

Ollie had spoken in such a low tone that she almost missed his words. She got back on her feet and turned her face-covered with dirt by then-toward him.

"Yes, you could say that." A sister, a soulmate.

He took her hand. "I wonder who's buried with her." Ollie nodded toward the headstone behind Madison. "The stone is discolored and a lot of it is hidden beneath the undergrowth, but there's a name above hers."

He walked past her, and leaning against the headstone, started scratching at its surface.

Pa.s.sive, Madison watched him, still digesting her discovery.

"Here we are." Ollie stood back up, rubbing his hands against each other to get rid of the dirt. "In memory of Peter Perkins, who died ..." The rest of the dedication was unreadable.

Madison wanted to pound her fists against the stone.

You sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Peter had murdered Sarah and his vicious mind had insulted his victim one more time by lying next to her for eternity.

Madison wanted to knock down the tainted gravestone with Peter's memory etched on it. She wanted to dig up Sarah's bones and rebury her in a separate ground. As far away as possible from him.

But Sarah needed more than that. She needed Peter's spirit annihilated. For good. Forever. So did Madison.

THE FLOOR OF THE police station had seen better days. Madison could feel the threadbare carpet beneath the soles of her shoes.

She kept her gaze downcast, absorbed in contemplating the dirt from the graveyard splattered all over her sneakers. Chief Inspector Crawley sat on the opposite side of a messy desk where a calendar, fi les, staplers and Post-it notes cohabited in professional harmony. His bald head glinted under the harsh ceiling lights.

"Did Miss Lindsey often check the students' rooms?" he asked.

Miss Lindsey loved spying and lurking. A real pa.s.sion of hers.

Badmouthing the dead wasn't a smart move, especially when the dead person had been murdered in your room.

Ollie stepped in and filled the silence by providing answers to the cop's questions. Madison disconnected herself from her surroundings and replayed in her head the moment she had found the body, the instant Peter had strangled her, and the scene when she had knelt in front of Sarah's grave. Peter's grave.

Her satchel pressed against her chest like a shield, she fought the urge to stand up and scream. She hadn't been the one who'd killed the censor, but she was responsible for the woman's death all the same.

Since the first time she had seen the painting, her fears had controlled her actions. The fear of being viewed as a freak, the fear of losing her sanity, the fear of rejection and a terrible fear of loneliness.

All Madison had wanted was to belong, to fi t in.

But you can only belong to one place, and a humid corner of Louisiana already owned her. At least, for this lifetime.

If she hadn't shrunk away from her heritage, poor Miss Lindsey would still be alive. That was the cold, hard truth.

A woman had died because of Madison's shallowness, because she was so G.o.dd.a.m.ned immature, and too much of a coward to pick up the fight.

Crawley brought a paper cup full of the liquid to his thin lips. The caustic smell of bad coffee tickled her nostrils. Awareness fell down on Madison, and background noises started reaching her ears again: papers rustling, clicks on keyboards, file cabinets jerking open.

"Do you know why she was in your room?" The policeman pointed the question at her. Ollie couldn't subst.i.tute anymore.

Madison managed to shake her head.

"Have you noticed anything missing?"

Another shake of the head.

"Miss LeBon, a few weeks ago you were burgled. Yesterday, a woman was murdered in your room. You don't seem to understand how serious the situation is."

"I do, inspector," she mumbled in an attempt to sound polite.

"Have you been threatened?" The bald man continued with his questioning. "Has someone..."

Her cellphone rang throughout the police station, a "quiet" area. She rushed to grab the phone. Rupert had called her back. She really wanted to take the call, but Inspector Crawley's accusatory eyes convinced her not to.

Once Madison had put her cell on mute, Crawley finished his sentence. "... someone around you changed their behavior?"

"No," Madison answered, but she was lying. To kill any doubt in Crawley's mind, she insisted, "I haven't noticed anything suspicious."

There was no point involving the authorities. They could put Jackson to jail, but Peter would still be free to go and invade someone else's soul. n.o.body would believe her story anyway. Jackson had zero motive.

Madison had to find a way to punish Peter for what he had done. Without making Jackson the latest of his victims.

Chapter 53.

PETER HAD, FOR the moment, lost control. The human sh.e.l.l he had taken on was becoming weaker and weaker. Maybe he had made the wrong choice when he selected his accomplice. The behavior of his host had become erratic. He could not foresee when the next outburst would come.

Peter was in a state of high alert. After the woman's murder authorities would look for him. He had let his emotions rule him, and now modern sciences would trap him. They would prove his guilt. He had not been careful enough about the physical evidence he had left behind.

His possession of the body he inhabited would not last much longer. The murder had asked too much from him. His energy faded with each tick of the clock. Dormant at the moment, he was being carried around in the realm of the host, reduced to helplessness and impotent silence.

He had to break out and get to Sarah. By nightfall this long journey would be over, and Sarah would be his.

THINKING INTENTLY, Rupert took a long, deep drag on his cigarette. He stood with his back against the wall of the Faculty of History, where he had just gone through a frosty tutorial with McCain. On George Street cars sped by and slowed down, bicycle tires whirled, and car doors slammed. He didn't pay attention to any of it, the noises were all background.

Hopefully n.o.body would report him for the breach of Coach Bartlett's training rules. But G.o.d, how he needed a smoke. Even if the taste was bitter and less satisfying than he remembered.

He threw the cigarette b.u.t.t on the ground and started tugging at his ear. It was an old habit of his. Getting to Iffley Road might be a sound idea. He had already missed the first half of his daily training routine by going to Magway early that morning.

"Rupert?"

A clipped voice dragged him out of his thoughts. Harriet's voice.

He didn't have to move because she planted herself in front of him, all blond, all picture perfect, and for once without that hairy coat he hated.

"It's great to b.u.mp into you," she said, her words soaked in honey.

Rupert released a sigh. He didn't want to pretend, but Harriet loved games.

"I have to get to training," he said, trying to get around her. He stared down and tried to hold his impatience at bay.

"I'll follow you then, at least part of the way."

Some girls didn't get the message easily. Oblivious of her stilettos clicking on the pavement, Rupert strode toward Cornmarket Street. He quickened his step there, forcing Harriet into a trot. But she could run in heels and talk.

"Monty told me about your breaking up with the American girl."

Rupert froze. What the h.e.l.l? Had Monty broadcast the news to all Oxford?

Years of hiding his true feelings kicked in. He gave a half-shrug and rammed his hands into his pockets. When he moved again, it had started drizzling, but he had a swagger in his step.

"Rupert please, stop walking. I need to say something."

Another sigh, but he did what she asked.

In a rare show of shyness, Harriet fumbled for her words. "I thought ... I would say that ... well, I owe you an apology." She might have practiced this hesitant delivery, but she sounded sincere. "I've been unfair to you. You had the right to leave me, of course. But I don't think that girl understands who you are, not the way I do."