A pause. Then her voice came, tense, as if she was struggling not to snap a reply. “No, I do not. I like Ricky.”

“You’ve never met Ricky.”

“I like what he’s done for you. He makes you happy.”

So did James, once upon a time. So does Gabriel, in his way. I didn’t say that. After a while, no matter how valid the reasons, arguing starts to feel like petty bickering. So I told her to just get on with it, and she did. The summary? She’d heard about Ricky and had information. Critical information.

“Really, Pamela? Is that the best you can do?”

I hung up before she could answer. Then I turned off my phone, jogged across the road, and rapped on the door of the drop-in center. It creaked open at my touch.

I backed up and looked around, checking for omens the way other people dip their toes into water. And there it was: a dead crow behind a trash bin. Dead bird equals trouble. A dead crow ups the ante.

I took out my gun, and called, “Hello?” I eased through the doorway.

The room was lit by a single bulb, the light wavering. There were posters on the walls. Not cutesy motivational ones, like that damned cat exhorting you to just “hang in there.” These were portraits of girls on the street. Half of them were accompanied by later photos of the same girls—one in a graduation cap, one laughing with a toddler, another behind a desk, another in an art studio. Before-and-after shots. Some of the pictures had no second portrait, the girls still on the streets. Two had a different sort of follow-up—a tattered Missing poster for one and a gravestone for the other. Yet even those were beautiful shots, respectful and haunting, reminders of the fates that could befall lost girls.

Lost girls never matter.

As I heard the lamia’s words, my gaze fell on one of the portraits. It was the older girl I’d seen die. The photographer had caught her in motion, turning away, wide-eyed, like a rabbit that had thought it was hidden if it stayed perfectly still. A fitting portrait for a kid on the streets, feeling invisible, startled when someone notices her. Equally fitting for a fae, and in that portrait I swore I could see a shimmering glimpse of something not quite human.

“I knew you’d come back,” a voice said.

I turned. It was a woman. Tiny—maybe five-two and a hundred pounds. A few years older than me, she wore a cropped leather jacket, faded jeans, and sneakers, her black hair gathered in a ponytail.

“Aunika Madole,” I said, tucking my gun into my back pocket. “Yes, I—”

She threw water at me.

I looked down at my dripping jacket and up at her. I thought she mistook me for an intruder and had thrown the only thing she had on hand—a glass or bottle of water. Except she held what looked like an antique metal flask. And she wasn’t grabbing her cell phone to call 911. She was staring at me, intently, as if expecting to see something.

“Holy water?” I plucked at my damp shirt. “Seriously? You threw holy water at me? Sure, I’ve heard the demon-spawn jokes, given who my parents are—”

She ran through the doorway. I went after her. In the middle of the room she spun, with a gun in her hand now … only to see me holding mine on her. Her gaze dropped to the threshold, and I followed it to see an odd metal plate.

I backed up, crouched, and put my hand on the metal. It felt abnormally chilled, and the tingle ran down my arm. Cold-forged iron. It wouldn’t kill faeries on contact, but they’d be unable to cross it. I looked at the metal bottle in her hand. Not holy water. Some other kind of liquid detection.

I took out my switchblade, flicked the penlight part, and shone the beam on my face. “Does better lighting help?”

She went still. Then she backed to the light switch and turned it on. I put away the knife and flipped open my wallet. “Olivia Taylor-Jones.”

“Taylor …” Her eyes widened. “You’re …”

“Yeah, hence the demon-spawn jokes. Totally groundless. I’m working as an investigator for Gabriel Walsh.”

Her head shot up, her eyes narrowing.

“You know his name, then.”

“He’s the son of a bitch who defended—”

“—some scumbag you think didn’t deserve a defense. Yep, that’s my boss. Which is not why I’m here. I was going to give you a story about how I was visiting the prison with him and heard some chatter about a guy killing teen prostitutes, but apparently we can cut through that bullshit. You thought I was fae.”

“What?”

“Fae. Faeries. You thought—”

She forced a laugh. “A faery? Really?”

“Right, and that”—I pointed at the metal inset under the door—“isn’t cold-forged iron. Nor is that flask. You just happen to be throwing water at strangers and seeing if they can cross an iron plate. I passed. I’m not fae. However, those girls who went missing are another story. It’s also why you have the plate at the back room and not the front door. Because you don’t want to keep them out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I sighed and put away my wallet. “So much for cutting through the bullshit. Do you want me to keep pretending I’m investigating these missing girls on a whim?”

“I want you to get the hell out.”

“Nope. Sorry. Can we lower the weapons, at least? Please? I suspect you’re better at shooting a camera than a revolver.”

“Want to test me?”