Gabriel kept his gaze on his e-mail. “If you thought you saw a cruiser, it’s only Marg Wilson’s black sedan.”

“That’s . . . not it.”

He looked over, frowning at my tone.

“That billboard there,” I said. “What do you see on it?”

He looked from the billboard to me.

“What do you see on it?” he asked.

“I asked—”

“Olivia . . .”

I swallowed and adjusted my grip on the wheel. My fingers stuck to the leather, making popping sounds as I pulled them off.

“Poppies,” I said. “A bouquet of poppies.”

“They’re roses,” he said quietly.

I tried to see roses, but we were less than a hundred feet from the billboard, the car creeping along, and the flowers were at least ten feet tall. I couldn’t mistake them for anything but poppies.

“Pull over,” he said.

I shook my head and adjusted my sweaty hands again. “I’m fine. Just . . .” I tried for a laugh. “It’s an omen about my driving. Keep going that speed and we’ll know what Rose’s warning meant.”

Gabriel didn’t crack a smile. “Pull over, Olivia.”

I started to shake my head. Then I saw something else, just past the billboard. I rolled the car onto the shoulder and kept going until I was close enough to be sure.

“Olivia?”

“Do you see the fence there? The wire one with wooden posts?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see the bird on the corner post?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“A crow?” He put on his sunglasses and looked again. “No, it seems large for a crow. A raven?”

“Is the tail wedge-shaped or rounded?”

“Wedge. A raven then. Does that mean something?”

“Just that . . . they’re practically unheard of around here. And I keep seeing them.”

“Maybe it’s the same one?”

I thought of the raven outside Niles Gunderson’s apartment. I shivered before I could stop myself. Then I started to put the car into drive again. Gabriel pushed the button to turn off the engine.

“I think we should speak to Rose,” he said.

“Of course not. I’m just—”

My gaze caught the raven’s. It hunched its head down between its shoulders and looked right at me. The words dried up in my throat.

Gabriel opened the door. “Wait here.”

I leaned over to stop him, but he was already out of the car, slamming the door behind him. The sound was loud enough that it should have sent the bird flying, but the raven just sat there, staring at me.

My heart pounded so hard my breath caught. I clenched my fists, told myself I was being silly. It was a bird. Just a bird.

“Ewch i ffwrdd, bran.”

I whispered the words without thinking. My gaze stayed fixed on Gabriel as he bore down on the raven. I wanted to leap from the car. Tell him to come back. Tell him to forget the bird. Just come back. Please come back.

Don’t make a fool of yourself, Olivia.

The raven fixed its beady eyes on Gabriel. It lifted its wings. Not preparing for flight. Flexing. Crouching. Ready to attack.

I grabbed the door handle. The lock was still engaged, and I had to yank twice. I pushed, ready to call a warning. But Gabriel was already shouting. Telling the bird to scram, waving his arms, and for a second, I saw the little girl in the ruined garden.

“Ewch i ffwrdd, bran,” I whispered. “You don’t belong here.”

The bird lifted off. It didn’t make a sound, just flapped its wings and started to rise. As it did, something dropped from its talons. Something red. Floating to the ground.

Gabriel bent as I walked over. He picked up what the raven dropped.

“What is it?” I asked. But I already knew. And when I got there and he put out his hand, I saw what I expected—crushed poppy petals.

“We should speak to Rose,” he said.

“About what?” I said, harsher than I intended. “What is she going to tell us?”

He let the petals flutter down. “I don’t know.” He shook it off, shoulders straightening as he drew himself up. “You said the poppy is a death omen. I might know what it means.” He took out his phone and showed it to me. “This is what I was reading when you saw the billboard. It came from a search alert.”

It was a news article dated today. The police were searching for Josh Gray following a tip left by his girlfriend, Desiree . . . who’d jumped off a neighboring apartment roof yesterday evening, leaving a suicide note confessing to Gray’s murder.

“Desiree?” I said. “That . . . that’s not poss—” I stopped as I remembered the drop of blood on her shirt.

“Admittedly, it does seem unlikely,” Gabriel said. “She certainly gave no sign that she knew he was dead, much less had murdered him. To maintain that front when she was high would be extremely difficult. But as to why she would confess if she didn’t do it . . .” He shrugged. “I have no explanation. It would appear, though, that this does explain the death omen.”

No, it doesn’t.

I knew that. Felt that. The omen was not about Gray or Desiree. But there was something there, an answer I wasn’t seeing.

I remembered Gabriel telling me about Niles Gunderson. I’d asked him if it seemed strange—Niles’s neighbor poisoning him over a poker game.

I’d found two bodies. Two men who might have had answers I needed. Both dead. Both murdered by people completely unconnected to anything I was investigating. For reasons presumably just as unconnected.

It made no sense.

Yes, it does, the little voice whispered.

But no matter how hard I racked my brain for a connection, I saw none. I glanced at the poppies again.

What are you trying to tell me?

My phone blipped, seeming so loud I jumped. I pulled it from my pocket. There was a voice mail.

“Evans,” I said. I lifted the phone and played his message.

“Olivia.” Evans’s voice was tight, almost breathy. “I just received your text message. I don’t think you understand the urgency of the situation. I absolutely must speak to you immediately. Please call me as soon as you receive this message.”

I replayed the message on speaker for Gabriel. As I did, I stared at the poppies. When the message ended, I said to Gabriel, “I need to go there. Now.”