“Okay.”

“I thought he meant STD tests. I thought—” She swallowed. “I thought he was taking me somewhere for sex, and I was okay with that, which is why I think I must have been drugged.”

“It did seem like it when I met you.”

“It did?” An exhale of relief. “Good. So I thought he was asking if I’d been tested recently. I said I hadn’t . . . been with anyone in a while. He laughed and said that wasn’t what he meant. And then he asked if we’d had other tests, me and my parents, and I was so embarrassed about the STD thing that I figured I was hearing wrong and said no. He said we should.” Macy paused. “Do you know what he meant?”

Yes. And I can’t tell you. Not until I’ve figured it all out, and even then I don’t know if I will. If I can. Despite what a difference it could make to your life.

“No, I don’t know,” I said. “Did he say anything else about it?”

“That was it. I should have asked, but it didn’t seem important.”

“It probably wasn’t. But if I find out what he meant, I’ll let you know.”

“Please.”

—

At the diner, I got a text from Ricky saying he needed to talk as soon as I got a moment. I called him back between orders.

“You know how I mentioned my dad was taking off to Florida for a few days?” Ricky said.

“Miami, on business.”

“He just told me he has other obligations, and I need to take his place.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, huh. Any other time, I’d be thrilled at the chance to prove myself. But this is because I promised him our relationship wasn’t going to interfere with my club duties . . .”

“He’s testing you.”

“Right.”

“Go,” I said.

“I’d rather not. This shit with James . . . I feel like I should be here, in case you need me.”

I hesitated, thinking of what the Huntsman had said about keeping Ricky close. I dismissed it. The man wanted something from me and would say whatever was needed to make me run to him for protection and answers.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Go.”

—

During my shift, I passed a note to Patrick, asking him to meet me after work. He agreed with a smug smile.

He was waiting in the park for me.

“Changelings,” I said as I walked over.

He blinked, then recovered as he smiled and said, “Good evening to you, too.”

“Tell me about changelings.”

“Mmm.” He waved for me to join him on the bench. “That’s a very old piece of folklore, used to explain children who weren’t quite right. A mentally challenged child. A mentally ill child. A wild and uncontrollable child. No parent wants to believe they’ve created such a thing. So according to the folklore—”

“I know the folklore. I want to know how it works in Cainsville.”

He paused, then said slowly, “How it works?”

“How you do it. Why you do it. You and the other elders.”

It took him a moment to find the proper look of confusion and shock, and even when he did, he took no great pains to make it genuine, the expression underneath one of pleasure and pride. Like a parent secretly delighted that their child is clever enough to have deduced there is no Santa Claus.

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Robert Sheehan,” I said, naming the boy from the newspaper. “Ciara Conway. Macy Shaw.”

“Conway . . . That’s the girl whose body you found, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Ciara Conway is alive. Macy Shaw is the one who died. The real Macy Shaw, that is. They were switched at birth. Changelings of a sort.”

“That’s quite a tale. I’ve heard of such mix-ups—”

“The elders got rid of Ciara’s body—the switched Ciara, that is. I don’t know how. As for why—that’s obvious. They were worried the truth would be discovered. They just weren’t savvy enough to realize the techs had already taken DNA samples. Someone advised the Conways to have their DNA tested. Ostensibly to be sure the dead girl was Ciara. Now they know she isn’t their daughter. I know who is—a young woman who was kidnapped and used to lure me to an abandoned mental hospital. She was taken by a man named Tristan. Well, not a man, I’m sure. No more than you are.”

“I don’t know—”

“What are you? Bòcan? Bogart? Some kind of hobgoblin? That’s my guess. Mischievous. Dangerous if you get on his bad side. Helpful if you stay on his good, and if you understand the rules. Tit for tat. Fair trade.”

He opened his mouth, but before he got a word out, I said, “Patrick Rice. Patricia Rees. Patrice Rhys. I can show you the photograph of Patrick Rice. Just for kicks, of course, because I don’t expect you to confirm any of this. What I want from you is another answer. A trade-off. You don’t confirm this, but you do confirm that. Tit for tat.”

A pause. Then, “Perhaps. If I can.” He met my gaze. “You understand that, I hope, Olivia. There are things I cannot do. Things I cannot tell you.”

“Whatever. For now, I have a hypothetical about the changelings, to help me figure out what’s going on, why a girl died and why I’m being targeted in relation to that death.”

“By this Tristan? If you tell me more about him, I might be able to help.”

“Gabriel and I will handle him. For now, hypothetically, if babies were being switched, babies that are connected to a small town populated by fairies—”

“Tylwyth Teg. Hypothetically.”

“What? The word ‘fairies’ offends you?”

“Hypothetically. Fae if you must.”

“Fine. So these babies get switched. Why?”

He seemed to consider this, and I was bracing for him to refuse to answer when he said, “Take a look at the families involved. What do you see?”

“Well, the children don’t resemble the parents—”

“Look deeper, Olivia. There is a very marked difference in the families.”

“They come from different sides of the track, so to speak. One is upper-middle-class. The other is lower. The income level—”

“Deeper.”