"Does that mean we can order pizza for dinner?" Savannah called from the living room.

"You got the fifty bucks for a tip?" I yelled back. "Ain't no pizza boy coming through that mob for less than a Ulysses S. Grant."

Savannah let out a cry, half shriek, half shout. As I raced into the living room, she said something I couldn't make out. A man's body flew across the rear hall. He struck the wall headfirst. There was a sharp crack, then a thud as he collapsed in a heap on the carpet. Savannah stepped from her bedroom doorway as Cortez and I arrived. He dropped to the man's side.

"Out cold," Cortez said. "Do you know him?"

I looked at the man, middle-aged, receding hairline, pinched face, and shook my head. My gaze traveled up the wall to a four-inch hole with cracks radiating from every side, like a giant spider.

"Leah," I said. "She's here-"

"I don't believe Leah did this," Cortez said.

There was a moment of silence, then I turned to look at Savannah.

"He surprised me," she said.

"You knocked him out?" I said.

"She has excellent reflexes," Cortez said, fingers moving to the back of the man's head. "A possible concussion. A definite goose egg. Nothing serious. Shall we see who we have?"

Cortez reached around and pulled the man's wallet from his slacks. When I looked toward Savannah, she retreated into her room. I was about to follow when Cortez lifted a card for my inspection.

As I took the card, the phone rang. I jumped, every frayed nerve springing to life. With an oath, I closed my eyes and waited for the ringing to stop. The machine picked up.

"Ms. Winterbourne? This is Peggy Dare from the Massachusetts Department of Social Services…"

My eyes flew open.

"We'd like to speak to you regarding Savannah Levine. We have some concerns…"

I ran for the phone. Cortez tried to grab me as I passed and I dimly heard him say something about preparing and phoning back, but I couldn't listen. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed the receiver, and whacked the stop button on the answering machine.

"This is Paige Winterbourne," I said. "Sorry about that. I've been screening my calls."

"I can well imagine." The voice on the other end was pleasant, sympathetic, like that of a kindly neighbor. "There seems to be a bit of excitement at your place these days."

"You could say that."

A mild chuckle, then she sobered. "I do apologize for adding to what must be a very difficult time for you, Ms. Winterbourne, but we have some concerns about Savannah's well-being. I understand you're undergoing a custody challenge."

"Yes, but-"

"Normally, we don't interfere in such matters unless there is a serious threat of harm to the child. While no one is alleging Savannah has been mistreated, we are concerned about the currentclimate in which she is living. It must be very confusing for Savannah, having her mother disappear, then once she's settled in with you, this happens."

"I'm trying to keep her out of it as much as possible."

"Is there anyplace Savannah could go? Temporarily? Perhaps a more… stable environment? I believe there is an aunt in town."

"Her great-aunt. Margaret Levine. I thought of letting Savannah stay there until this is over." Yeah, right.

"Please do. As well, I've been asked to pay you a visit. The board is anxious to assess the situation. A home visit is usually best. Is two o'clock tomorrow afternoon convenient?"

"Absolutely." That gave me less than twenty-four hours to clear the circus outside.

I signed off, then turned to Cortez. "The Department of Social Services is paying a home visit tomorrow afternoon."

"Social Services? That is the last thing-" He stopped, pushed up his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right. We should expect they'll take an interest. A minor concern. Tomorrow afternoon, you said? What time?"

"Two."

He pulled out his DayTimer and made the note, then handed me the card I'd dropped while running for the phone. I looked at it blankly for a second, then saw the unconscious man lying in the hallway and groaned.

"Back to crisis number twenty-one," I said.

"I believe this is twenty-two. The angry mob was twenty-one. Or, given that they show no signs of leaving, I should say they are twenty-one."

I moaned and collapsed onto a kitchen chair, then lifted the card. The unlucky B amp;E artist's name was Ted Morton. If anyone had told me a week ago that I'd be sitting at my table, collaborating with a sorcerer about how best to dispose of a stranger that Savannah had knocked out cold, I'd have… well, I don't know what I would have done. It was too ludicrous. Yet, considering all that had happened in the past week, this really wasn't so bad. It certainly ranked a few rungs below watching a man hurtle to his death or seeing his shattered corpse come to life before his family and friends.

Mr. Morton was a so-called paranormal investigator. I have no patience with these guys. I've never met one who wasn't in serious need of a real life. Maybe I'm being intolerant, but these guys are a bigger nuisance than cockroaches in a Florida flophouse. They poke around, inventing stories, attracting con artists and, once in a while, stumbling onto a bit of truth.

All through high school I worked at a computer store where my boss was head of the Massachusetts Society for Explaining the Unexplained. Did she ever explain how I vanished every time she came looking for someone to make a fast-food run? She'd walk into the back office, I'd cast a cover spell, she'd murmur, "Gee, I could have sworn I saw Paige come back here," and go in search of another victim.