“I don’t know what’s going on here,” I said. “Did someone accuse Paula-?”

“You accused Paula,” Alastair said. “And not only that, you didn’t have the guts to do it to her face. You didn’t even have the guts to make the accusation in person. Or to give it to Chief Bruyn, because God forbid, he might show some mercy.”

“We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Adam said. “But Savannah didn’t accuse anyone of anything. She’s been in a hospital for the last twenty-four—”

“Who was called?” I cut in.

“The state police,” Megan murmured when Alastair wouldn’t answer. “Early this morning. Bruyn arrested Paula a few hours ago and called social services for Kayla.”

forty-one

We went straight to the police station. On the drive, Adam ranted about Alastair’s sudden show of concern for the benefit of the girls watching. I barely listened. Two sheriff’s department cars sat out front. Adam parked behind them and I took off ahead of him, jogging to the door.

I felt the chill as soon as I opened it. Bruyn’s mother and the local officers were crowded in the front room. All three stared at me and none said a word. The old woman pointed to Bruyn’s office, where I could hear him talking.

I threw open the door.

Bruyn turned sharply, and saw me. “Looks like you don’t need to track her down after all. Here’s the source of your information. Savannah Levine.”

Bruyn left me with the two detectives—a man and a woman. They weren’t the officers who’d come to the motel to question me after Michael’s death.

“Come in,” the woman said. “We have some questions for you.”

“Me first. Who told you I accused Paula Thompson?”

The detective looked at her partner. They exchanged a confused frown.

“You did,” the other one said.

“No, I did not. I’ve been in Portland since yesterday afternoon.”

“Ah, that explains the delivery. You sent it from there?”

“If someone sent you something, it wasn’t me, and I know nothing about it. What did you get?”

A package, they explained. Delivered directly to the sheriff’s department first thing this morning. Apparently from me. Inside, they’d found all my supposed case evidence—copies of my notes, my interviews, plus some notes that weren’t mine. All of it led to a single conclusion. Paula Thompson had shot Ginny and Brandi, whom she believed were plotting to kill Kayla. According to the extra notes, though, I’d found no evidence to support that, and personally thought she just wanted a way to get custody of her granddaughter and rid herself of her embarrassment of a daughter.

“We’ve verified most of the details,” the detective said. “We have phone records showing the calls from the Degas home to Paula Thompson, and to Alastair Koppel. We’ve confirmed your DNA findings—he is the girl’s grandfather, which speaks to his motive in helping Thompson. We expect to charge him as an accessory after the fact.”

She beamed at me. “You’re an excellent investigator, Ms. Levine. If you’ve ever considered going legit, we’re always looking for recruits.”

Her partner cleared his throat. “Oh, and this was in the package,” he said, handing me an envelope. “You must have left it in the file by accident.”

I took the envelope. On the front was my name, with Confidential below it. I ripped it open and read.

Hey, kiddo. If you’re reading this, then I guess you won. Good job. I know I should be gracious, but I can’t help it—I’m a sore loser. I want a little payback. And my hell will be a little cozier, knowing I got it. Say hi to little Kayla for me. Tell her she has every right to hate your guts and hate the world and grow up just like Mommy, as every little girl should.

I crumpled the letter, rage filling me.

Adam’s hand tightened on my shoulder and he leaned to my ear, whispering, “We’ll fix this.”

How could we? The damage was done. My own work, used to do exactly what I’d tried to avoid.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Adam said. “Savannah’s been ill and she’s very tired. If you need to speak to her, can we do this another time?” He passed them his card. “I’m going to get her home.”

THE FIRST THING I saw when I barreled out of the police station was Cody Radu’s house. Empty now, every window dark, a swing on the front lawn swaying forlornly in the wind. I thought of their three little girls. Orphans now. I don’t know what kind of father Cody had been, but I knew one thing—three young witches were going to grow up thinking they were the daughters of a serial killer. Being treated like the daughters of a serial killer.

I turned away. As Adam fumbled to get my door open, I noticed Kayla down the street, coming out of a building. I blinked, sure I was seeing wrong. A woman in a business suit stepped out behind her. A social worker.

I saw the backpack over Kayla’s thin shoulders and the battered suitcase the woman carried. With her free hand, she guided Kayla to a sedan idling in front of the building. Kayla walked with her head down, gaze fixed on the sidewalk.

“Kayla!” I shouted as I ran toward her.

She glanced up. Then she looked away, opened the back door to the car, and got in. When I called again, the social worker shielded her eyes and squinted at me.

“This is a mistake,” I said as the woman put Kayla’s suitcase in the trunk.

“Are you a relative?” the woman asked.

“No, but it’s a mistake. You don’t need to take her. Paula will get out on bail and it’ll all be cleared up—”

“Paula Thompson has been charged with her daughter’s murder. Bail or not, the girl can hardly stay with her, can she?” The woman handed me a card. “You can contact my agency if you have any concerns. Right now, I need to get this little girl to a home.”

“You have a placement for her already?”

“I meant a residential facility.”

She brushed past me and got into the car.

“Savannah,” Adam called.

I glanced over to see him a few yards away. I hurried to Kayla’s door. She sat rigid, staring forward, backpack on her lap.

I rapped on the window. She ignored me.