"Bridge, maybe you should go home early," Hector said.

"Yeah, Liu. I don't think anyone's going to give you static after . . . well . . ." Brad's eyes darted to the empty seat next to Bridget. "You know."

She had history, show choir-which had been temporarily moved out of the church and into the gym-and Latin left for the day. She didn't really want to spend an hour in a classroom with Father Santos or see Alexa in show choir, and the thought of sitting through Latin was about as appealing as a Jersey Shore marathon.

"Maybe you're right." She grabbed her untouched lunch tray. "I'll go see Mrs. Freely. Talk to you guys later."

"Went home early," Bridget typed into her phone. "Call me l8r." She hit send, and the text to Matt Quinn sped off into the cellular unknown.

She rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. A nap. A nap would be perfect right about now. If only she could turn her damn brain off.

Which, of course, she couldn't. There were too many elements swirling around up there to let her sleep. Peter Kim. Watchers. Alexa's eyes. Matt's lips. Gah! Matt's lips were not a part of the puzzle. She needed to focus. She needed to find that missing file.

There had to be something she'd overlooked, some connecting clue that her dumb, stubborn eye hadn't picked up on.

"Where is it, Dad?" she called out loud. "Where is the file?"

Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat.

Phantom paws padded across her bedroom floor. Bridget sat up in bed. Almost immediately, the scratching commenced at the door in the back of her closet.

Always the same pattern: Bridget heard the animal's paws pattering down the hall or across her room, ending with the scratching in her closet. She fell back against her pillow. If she waited long enough, maybe it would go away.

CREAK! Bridget sat up again. That was new. That was different. She crawled to the edge of her bed and peeked into her closet. A thin sliver of light shone through the darkness. The door into her dad's study was ajar.

Weird. Matt must not have closed it all the way when they rushed through, and whatever had been making the scratching noise was able to push the door open.

Bridget slipped out of bed and into her closet. Her dad's study was tiny: one open door and no place to hide. If a real animal came that way, it was trapped.

Bridget peered into the study. It was exactly how she and Matt had left it-wardrobe angled away from the door, coffee table with its grime-encrusted magazines, single bookcase, single chair. No cat-real or supernatural-anywhere to be seen.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

Not at the door this time. From inside the room.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

Bridget's eye caught a flurry of dust from the far corner, as if something was clawing at a spot on the floor, disturbing the layer of fine dust. It billowed upward, thousands of tiny specks illuminated in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a crack in the blinds. The scratching continued, and as the cloud of dust thickened, it began to condense, contorting itself into a definite shape. Bridget's mouth went dry. A figure formed before her eyes: bushy tail and squat legs, furry head and lopsided ears. The dust cloud looked exactly like Mr. Moppet.

She crouched in the closet, terrified of disturbing the ghost cat's frantic digging. Digging, yeah, that's what it was. Mr. Moppet's ghost was trying to dig its way into the floor of her dad's study.

What had she said just before Mr. Moppet scurried across her bedroom floor? "Where is it, Dad? Where is the file?"

Bridget sucked in a breath. It couldn't be, could it?

"Dad?"

The undulating figure of the cat stopped clawing at the floor and craned its neck around until it stared right at her. Tears welled up in Bridget's eyes. Staring back at her from the ethereal dust cloud of the phantom cat were the soft, almond-shaped eyes of her father.

Those eyes held her gaze for what felt like an eternity as heavy drops spilled uncontrollably down Bridget's cheeks.

The cat gave the floor one last scratch with his paw. Then the force holding the dust cloud together vanished in an instant, and the individual particles drifted upward into a shapeless blob.

"Dad!" Bridget cried. She scrambled into the study. The dust hung in the air, no longer her father. Just dust. Just nothingness.

He'd been there all along, trying to help her. He was trying to show her something.

Bridget knelt on the floor. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was gone, that she'd been left with all this. The ache in her heart was back, sharp and cold like she'd just been stabbed with an icicle. She'd hidden the grief for so long, but she'd never really escaped from it, and now the full force of her father's death engulfed her. Bridget hung her head in her hands and wept.

Bridget wasn't sure how long she sat there, her chest heaving with each wretched sob, her eyes clenched tight against the raw, searing pain of loss. As her breath slowed, she felt a warm, furry body brush against her legs. It rubbed its face against her knee, then turned and pressed its whole body into her, just like Mr. Moppet used to do with Sammy.

Without opening her eyes, Bridget reached down and felt the soft fur of a cat. She stroked her hand down its back and up through the bushy tail, and she felt Mr. Moppet's throaty purr. In her memory, no cat had ever voluntarily been that close to her.

"I miss you, Dad." Bridget squeezed her eyes closed as she continued to run her fingers through the cat's velvety fur. "I miss you so much."

The cat let out a single meow, then the firm body faded to nothingness. Bridget was alone.

She sat with her eyes closed for a few moments. Her tears had stopped, her breath came calm and easy, and the tightness in her chest that had been with her for the last year evaporated. Her dad was dead, that would never change, but she'd gotten a second chance to say good-bye.

Bridget blinked her eyes open and realized she was staring directly at the spot at which the phantom cat had been clawing. The dust had settled back onto the floor, coating the wooden beams and gathering in the crevices to form little gray channels between the planks. But a few of them looked as if they had been broken. A horizontal line of dust bisected several of the wooden planks. Odd. Bridget leaned forward, drawing her nose to within a few inches of the beams. Something wasn't right: The broken line looked like it had been cut through with some sort of power tool.

She slipped a fingernail into the crevice and wiggled the board. The entire corner of wooden floor shifted.

Bridget dashed to her closet and grabbed a wire coat hanger, then unbent the hook and shoved it down into the crevice. It easily poked down several inches into a compartment beneath. Twisting the hanger so the curved end rotated beneath the broken floorboards, she carefully pulled up and out. The flooring popped up just enough for her to get her fingers beneath it, and she pried the compartment open.

It was a small space, no bigger than a shoebox, and it held a large yellow envelope.

Thirty-One.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, BRIDGET SAT cross-legged on her bed. The envelope lay unopened before her, but she was ready to see what it held. Her laptop was powered up so she could listen to any recordings; she had a pen and paper for notes. All she had to do was open it.

Bridget picked up the yellow envelope gingerly, felt its weight in her hand, turned it over, and examined the seal. Just a simple piece of Scotch tape held the flap closed, and there was no writing on the outside to give a hint as to who placed it there or why. Not that Bridget needed a hint. There could be only one reason.

She slipped a finger beneath the flap, then stopped. What was she doing? Trusting the advice of a bunch of demons trapped in the body of a man who may or may not have murdered her dad? Or a demon cat that may or may not have been the incarnation of her dead father? Had she totally and completely lost her mind?

Rule Number Three: Do not engage.

Rule Number Four: Do not let your guard down.

Rule Number Five: They lie.

Fail, fail, fail. Not only had she engaged the demons, she'd purposefully sought them out at Sonoma State Hospital. She'd let her guard down when she tried to release the entities from Undermeyer's body. And now she was trusting what they told her to do. Trusting a demon, a minion of evil, instead of Monsignor Renault.

Exorcist-fail.

Maybe she should call Monsignor and ask his advice?

Bridget shook her head. She'd come this far on her own. She had to see what her dad had left hidden. She had to do it alone.

Bridget took a deep breath and broke the seal.

January 7 Patient: Milton Undermeyer Session 1 Duplicate File Severe case of demonic possession. Sensing anywhere from four to six entities. Repentants, I believe. Patient and his entities refuse to disclose why they broke into the sanctuary at St. Michael's. Something tells me this is no ordinary crime. Not there. Contacting J from OSM for further instructions.

January 14 Patient: Milton Undermeyer Session 2 Duplicate File Patient's entities say they have a message for the Watchers, but there seems to be a disagreement among them in regards to sharing. Want to make sure they will be released afterward. Will decide once I hear their message. Still no answer about the break-in at St. Michael's.

January 21 Patient: Milton Undermeyer Session 3 Duplicate File Entities extremely agitated. Something spooked them. Possible they've had contact with the Emim. A threat of some kind. Which would mean the Emim are aware that the entities are attempting to pass a message to the Watchers. Unsure how Emim came by this information. J calling emergency meeting of the OSM. Awaiting word.

January 28 Patient: Milton Undermeyer Session 4 Duplicate File Stephen called. Undermeyer attempted suicide in his cell this morning. Had him brought to the house while Annie and the kids are at her mom's. Change of scenery made a difference. Entities have conveyed the following message: Amaymon calling his servants. Attempting to regain the mortal world. Must not let him. Stop the priest. The Emim cannot conjure Amaymon without him. They need the priest. The priest wielding the sword.

Unsure if sword is physical or not. J researching. Suggested I contact Monsignor Renault at St. Michael's. Turns out the OSM was right in sending me to this parish after all.

Bridget's hand shook. It was true, it was all true, staring at her from the notebook pages in her dad's very own handwriting. He had been a Watcher, an ancient relative of a bunch of horny angels banished from Heaven. And she was too.

But she was no closer to discovering who killed her dad. The message Undermeyer had delivered to him was the same one they'd given her. Points for consistency at least, but there was nothing here that would prove who actually killed him.

The last entry, January 28. A week later her dad was dead.

She read through the notes again, looking for a hint she may have missed. The spooked entities looked promising, but she had no way of knowing why. Another dead end? It couldn't be.

Bridget's hand rested on the envelope, and she noticed there was something else inside, something hard and circular.

She dumped the contents out onto her sheets. A CD. The missing audio? She slid the disk into her laptop and pulled on her headphones.

"All right, Mr. Undermeyer," Dr. Liu said. "I have stopped the recording."

"Not safe. Not safe. We are not safe here." Bridget heard several thumps, accompanied by frantic grunts from Milton Undermeyer. He must have been restrained and was attempting to get out of his chair.

"You're perfectly safe here, Mr. Undermeyer. And whoever else may be in there with you."

Undermeyer sucked in a breath. "He knows. The Watcher knows. Of course he knows."

"Yes, I do." Bridget could hear her dad's frustration bubbling below the surface. "I know who you are and I know why you're here."

"Liar!" Undermeyer taunted. "Liar, liar, liar."

"I know you have a message for me."

"Yesssss," Undermeyer hissed. "But they know it too. They know it too."

"Who is they?" Dr. Liu asked. "The Emim?"

More thumping.

"Do not say it!" Undermeyer's voice was twisted, distorted like it was coming through a bad loudspeaker. "Do not say it. Not safe. We are not safe here. Not safe. We are not safe here."

"I have dominion over the Emim," Dr. Liu said. "I will protect you."

"Not safe. Not safe here," Undermeyer muttered to himself over and over again.

Bridget heard her dad sigh, that sigh of exasperation she knew only too well. She couldn't help but smile: It was nice to know that she wasn't the only one who could make her dad sigh like that. Of course Dr. Liu was dealing with a demonically possessed madman, so maybe the comparison wasn't so great.

"I can't help you, Mr. Undermeyer, unless you help me. Tell me why you were in the Church of St. Michael. Tell what this message is you-"

A knock at the door.

"Come in," Dr. Liu said.

"Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Liu." Bridget knew that voice.

"No problem, Hugh. Is there something I can do for you?"

A shriek maxed out the treble on the record, and Bridget scrambled to turn down the volume. "Not safe!" Undermeyer screamed. "Not safe! Not safe! Not safe!"

The recording went silent.

It made perfect sense that her dad had hidden the duplicate files and the secret recordings, both of which exposed his abilities as a Watcher. Bridget almost laughed at the thought of Sergeant Quinn going over those materials. Would he have thought her dad was crazy? Probably. It's what Bridget would have thought herself if she didn't, unfortunately, know better.

"Contacting J from OSM for further instructions." Who the hell was that? A company? A religious organization? Whoever "J from OSM" was, her dad obviously had contact with him long before Undermeyer arrived on his doorstep. The OSM must be involved somehow with the Watchers.

Bridget hopped out of bed and shuffled down the hall to get a soda. She was wide awake now, antsy and anxious to find answers to new questions.

She pulled a can of Diet 7Up out of the fridge and popped it open. J from OSM. That was the key to the mystery. She had to figure out who or what it was. But how? She needed a database devoted to this kind of stuff . . .

She stopped midsip. Father Santos. Father Santos had a personal library in his office "borrowed" straight from the Vatican. That was as good as it got, right? The freaking Vatican library? Father Santos would let her look for whatever she wanted.

Don't trust the priest. The words came back to her like a punch in the chest. She didn't know who "the priest" was yet, but whoever he was, he was working for the Emim, working to raise Amaymon from the legions of Hell. Could it be Father Santos? Bridget laughed as she pictured the clumsy, stuttering Father Santos in league with the Emim.

Still, there was something about Father Santos she didn't like and didn't trust. The freak-out over her bracelet, for starters. At the doll shop, he "forgot" to finish securing the room by laying salt across the front door. Could it have been on purpose? And he was the one who suggested she directly engage the demons, inciting the doll riot. Was it intentional? Was he trying to get her killed?

Bridget trudged back to her room. No, she couldn't risk it, couldn't risk trusting anyone at this point. If she wanted to get a look in Father Santos's office, she'd have to do it on her own.

Her cell phone ring snapped Bridget back to reality. "Douchebag Quinn" was the incoming caller.

"Hello?"

"Is everything okay?" Matt asked.

"Matt." Bridget could barely keep her voice even. "I found it."

"You found it?"