"So what if he did?"

"Ah," Monsignor said as if he'd just discovered the cure for the common cold. "Of course. The killer was harvesting Peter's rage."

Bridget thought of the thirty-seven text messages sitting unanswered on her phone. "His rage?"

"Yes, his anger and jealousy." Father Santos spoke quickly with obvious excitement. "In some of the medieval grimoires, the process of conjuring a demon and creating a dominance over one involves a great deal of raw emotion. A talented conjuror could summon a lesser demon and hold it prisoner for a short length of time, using raw emotion such as anger or jealousy as a means of controlling the demon."

Anger and jealousy. The demons in the church had said as much. "Not enough hatred for the Master." Judging by the text messages on her phone, Peter was chock full of enough anger and jealousy to conjure a whole fleet of demons. Was that it? The killer was trying to use Peter's emotions in some sort of ceremony?

Monsignor rose from his chair and came around to the front of his desk. "I think we have missed something. Some clue as to who our killer is and what he wants."

Clue? This wasn't exactly Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the revolver.

"Bridget, is there anything you overheard, anything you didn't tell us?"

Why was she hiding anything from Monsignor Renault? Wasn't he the only person she'd been able to talk to about her new abilities? Hadn't he spent his time helping her, guiding her, showing her how to banish these demons?

"Do you think," she began tentatively. "Do you think there's anyone who can hear the same things I hear?"

Monsignor looked taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I just was wondering." Bridget thought of Alexa and how she seemed to hear those voices in the church during choir practice. "I thought, maybe, someone else might have heard what I did."

Monsignor raised his left eyebrow. "Really? Who?"

Bridget swallowed hard. "Alexa Darlington."

"No," Monsignor shook his head. "That's impossible."

Was he serious? "It's impossible for her but not for me?"

"Bridget, the Darlingtons are one of the oldest families in this parish. I've known Alexa since she was born. If there was anything out of the ordinary about Alexa, I would have noticed it by now."

"Oh." Bridget sighed. Of course he would have noticed. Maybe she'd just been imagining things?

Silence. Monsignor didn't move, and Bridget felt both his and Father Santos's eyes on her. They were waiting for her to say something else, but Bridget bit her lips closed. Don't trust the priest. She had nothing to say. Not to them.

"Very well," Monsignor said.

Bridget slid forward in her chair, sensing that the interview was coming to an end. Her body ached, and as the adrenaline wore off, a chill had settled over her. The goose pimples and chattering were for real now.

"Go home, Bridget," Monsignor said. "Go home and spend time with your mom and your little brother."

Sammy. God, how was she going to explain Peter's death to Sammy? "Yeah."

"Good." Monsignor patted her hand. "If you think of anything, remember anything, let me know. Promise?"

Bridget met his eye. She wanted to cry at the thought of keeping a secret from him, but somehow she knew that she needed to tackle Milton Undermeyer on her own.

"Promise," she lied.

Bridget was numb as she got out of her chair and shuffled toward the door. Her feet hurt from those stupid heels, and her body felt like she'd been hit by a truck. But she barely registered her pain, she was so focused on what she needed to do next. Milton Undermeyer. It was time to talk.

"Bridget!"

Matt was waiting for her, sitting on the rectory steps with Bridget's clutch purse in his lap. As soon as she came through the door, he scrambled to his feet and rushed toward her.

"Are you okay?"

Matt's clothes were wrinkled. His sandy blond hair stuck straight up from his head as if he'd been running his hands through it incessantly for the better part of an hour. His tie hung limp and loose on either side of his neck, and his vest flapped open, completely unbuttoned.

"Yeah," she said, lying for the second time in as many minutes.

They stood for a moment staring at each other. Then Matt's eyes drifted to her bare, goosefleshy arms. His hands flew to his chest before he remembered that he wasn't wearing a jacket.

He took her hand and pulled her across the courtyard. "Come on."

Bridget was too tired to argue. She allowed him to tow her through the damp, frigid courtyard and out to the front of the school. There were three squad cars and a coroner's van parked out front.

"Hey, Officer Terry," Matt said, flashing a smile.

"Matt," Office Terry said. "What are you-" His eyes drifted to Bridget. "The dance?"

"Yeah. Hey, do you have an extra jacket in the squad car?"

"Sure, man." Officer Terry reached through the open passenger side window and pulled a heavy black jacket off the floor of the squad car. "Anything for a Quinn."

Matt smiled. "Thanks. I'll have my dad bring it back tomorrow."

Officer Terry winked and strode back toward the crime scene. Bridget didn't watch him go, trying hard to keep the image of Peter's mangled body out of her mind.

"Better?" Matt said, draping the coat around her shoulders. The thing practically reached her knees and it reeked of stale cigarettes, but it was warm.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Bridget," Matt started. She could tell by the sound of his voice-all deep and parental-that something weighed on his mind. "Bridget, what's going on?"

"How would I know?" Wow, who knew lying could be so easy once you got the hang of it?

"I don't . . . I mean." He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. The long bits in the front hung vertical for a moment, then flopped over his forehead. "Look, I'm sorry about your friend and all, but how did you know? How did you know there'd be a murder?"

Bridget dropped her eyes to the ground. How was she supposed to explain this?

"I heard you with Detective Paulson. You didn't tell her about the voices you heard."

Bridget tried to look like she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Please, I saw you. In the gym, in the courtyard. You heard . . . something."

"Something" didn't even begin to cover it.

"And then you got hauled into Monsignor's office with that other priest. Those were the ones you were with after school on Thursday, right?

Bridget nodded. She was so tired of keeping secrets. She felt hopeless and powerless against the misery around her. Her dad was dead. Peter was dead. Bridget was the link between them, and Matt was slowly putting the pieces together. There was just no point in denying any of it.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"Well, it's . . . weird."

Bridget pulled the police jacket up over her ears. Weird was an understatement.

Matt waited, no doubt hoping Bridget would chime in and save him from whatever bizarre ideas were running through his mind, but she just didn't have the energy to do it. He reached out and found her fingertips with his own, grazing against them lightly before pulling his hand away.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that, well, I know you don't like me very much, but if you want to talk or you need anything . . . anything at all."

Need anything? There was one thing she needed desperately.

"Take me to Geyserville tomorrow," she blurted out.

"Huh?"

"You said what do I need? I need to go to Geyserville."

Matt cocked his head. "Why?"

She needed to say it, to trust someone, anyone with her secret. He might not have been her first choice, but at that moment Bridget needed to trust Matt Quinn.

"I need you to take me to Sonoma State Hospital. To see Milton Undermeyer."

Matt's eyes grew wide as he realized exactly what she was asking. It wasn't just a quaint Sunday drive into the wine country; she was asking him to take her to see the man who had killed her dad.

"Please," she said softly.

Matt looked her straight in the eye as if he were searching for some reason to say yes. He must have found it. "I'll pick you up at ten."

Twenty-Three.

MATT IDLED THE TRUCK WHILE Bridget plodded up the stairs to her front door. Her legs felt like they were made of cement. The staircase was interminable-she might as well have been climbing Everest-and just when she thought she was going to sink down onto a step and crawl her way to the top, her feet met the soft cushy doormat. Phew.

She half turned and waved a lank good-bye at Matt as she fumbled for her keys. She had been dreading this moment, dreading the idea of having to tell her family what had happened in the church that night, dreading the memories of her dad's murder that would inevitably bubble to the surface.

The door swung open before Bridget got her key in the lock. Her mother stood in the entryway, her eyes red and puffy. Bridget realized she wouldn't have to explain anything.

"Bridget!"

"Mom."

Mrs. Liu pulled Bridget to her with a force so desperate in its need, so violent in its panic that it knocked the breath right out of her. "My baby girl. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bridget let her body sag into the embrace. Once again the release felt so good. She wanted to tell her mom everything, to relinquish control of her life, to let someone else make all her decisions. It would feel so wonderful. . . .

"Annie?" Hugh Darlington's voice made Bridget's stomach drop. "Is she all right?"

Her mom broke away. "Yes. Yes, Hugh." Bridget's guard was instantly back in place. "She's just fine."

"Wonderful." Hugh Darlington moved languidly out of the darkened living room into the light of the entryway. "We were worried about you, Bridget."

"Hugh came over to tell me what happened."

Bridget wanted to hate the big douchebag who always seemed to be in her house at the most inopportune moments, but she couldn't. One look at her mom's face told Bridget that the news of Peter's murder, and the memories of her dad's, had been broken to her kindly, thoughtfully. There had been tears, but they were gone. Bridget had been spared the worst of it and for that, she was thankful.

"Monsignor Renault called to let me know what happened at St. Michael's tonight." Mr. Darlington stood behind her mom and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I came right over. I wanted Annie to hear the news from a friend."

Mr. Darlington gave Bridget a small smile, and Bridget surprised herself by smiling back. Monsignor must have called before he came and rescued her from the police questioning, which was really very sweet. He was looking out for her, just like Mr. Darlington-as much as she might not always like it-was looking out for her mom. It was a comforting thought, and Bridget felt a twinge of guilt about keeping the secret of Penemuel's message from her mentor. She was being silly, influenced by the horror of Peter's murder, and she vowed to call Monsignor in the morning and tell him everything.

Mr. Darlington nodded. "I'll leave you two alone, then."

Bridget stuck her hand out to Mr. Darlington. "Thank you. For coming over and all."

He looked at her outstretched hand for half a second but didn't take it. Instead he leaned in and gave Mrs. Liu a kiss on the cheek. "Good night, Annie."

That was rude. Did he hold a grudge because she'd punched his daughter in the face a few years ago?

Mrs. Liu escorted Mr. Darlington to the door. "I appreciate tonight more than you know, Hugh."

He squeezed her mom's hand. "I'm always here, whenever you need me." His eyes shifted to Bridget, and he smiled. "Always."

Bridget was wide awake when Sammy tapped on her bedroom door.

"Bridge?" He popped his head into her room. "Are you asleep?"

"Yes."

Apparently Sammy hadn't gotten the memo. He padded over to the edge of her bed. When Bridget made no move to pull the covers back for him, he yanked the duvet half off the bed.

"Not tonight, Sammy. Please?"

He started to climb in. "Nightmare."