“How bad?”

“Not bad at all. I think you’ll be pleased. My apologies for calling so early, but I have court today and I know you’re on the day shift. I’ve e-mailed you the article. I thought you’d want to take a look as soon as possible.”

“Thanks.”

“Also, you’ll be getting a delivery at my aunt’s. You can pick it up there after work.”

“Files?”

“No, a laptop. I recently replaced mine, and I still had the old one.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t want—”

“—charity. I know. And if I’m not inclined to give it to a homeless man on the corner, I’m certainly not giving it to someone with a multimillion-dollar trust fund. Twenty-five dollars a week seems a reasonable rental fee for a used laptop. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, but I’ll still need to find Internet—”

“My aunt has wireless. I’m sure I can persuade her to part with the password if you promise not to download movies.”

“I don’t have time to watch movies. Thank you. That will make research much easier.”

“Which is the point, so gratitude is not required. I despise online research, and I’m happy to delegate all of it to you.”

“So happy that you’ll reduce the rental to twenty bucks?”

“No, but I’ll persuade my aunt not to charge you for the Internet.”

• • •

The article was fine. There was nothing to link me to Cainsville. No speculation over what I was doing visiting Pamela Larsen. It was all in my words—or an edited version of them that I was satisfied with. As for the photo, because it was black and white, you couldn’t see the leftover red in my hair or that my makeup wasn’t the right shade for my skin tone. Martin Lores had treated me fairly and gotten his scoop—the first words from the long-lost daughter of Illinois’s most notorious killers. I was old news now. At last.

• • •

After work, I went over to Rose’s to collect my laptop. I’d intended to just grab it and go, but walking into her appointment room was like stepping into a candy store.

“I’ll make tea,” she said.

“No.” I yanked my gaze from a spirit photograph. “I mean, thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

“I’m making tea.” She waved to the room. “Poke around.”

When she came back, I was leafing through an old book.

“Which one is that?” she asked as she set down the tea service.

I showed her the cover.

“A Magician Among the Spiritualists. Do you know what it is?”

“Harry Houdini’s accounts of his attempts to debunk spiritualists.” I waved the book. “This cost him his friendship with Conan Doyle.”

She smiled. “It did. Have you read it?”

I shook my head. “I’ve read The Edge of the Unknown, Conan Doyle’s response. Wisely published after Houdini’s death.”

“Indeed. Borrow that if you like. It’s interesting reading.”

I hesitated, then nodded. As I approached the table, I saw the flower arrangement in the middle and stutter-stepped.

“Hawthorn blossoms?” I said.

“Yes. I stole them from Grace’s tree.”

“No, but . . . It’s May.” When I saw her expression, I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. Old wives’ tale. Bringing hawthorn into the house in May is bad luck.”

“Is it?” She stood and pulled the flowers from the vase, water droplets spraying.

“No, I didn’t mean—It’s just a superstition.”

She walked to the window, opened it, and tossed them out. “Yes, and while I’m sure Houdini would be appalled, I prefer to hedge my bets.” She came back to the table. “I also keep a sprig in the rafters to ward off bogarts. I wonder if that’s allowed in May?”

“Bogarts?”

“Brownies gone bad.”

“You keep hawthorn in your attic so your cakes don’t go stale? Freezing them would be much easier.”

She gave me a look. “I mean brownies of the wee folk variety. Bogarts are a particularly nasty form. Troublemakers. Not to be confused with bogan, which are just as troublesome but less maliciously so.”

“Bogan . . . ?”

“Bogan, hobgoblin, bòcan, whatever you wish to call them.”

“Goblins, I know. They’re like trolls.”

Her brows shot up, in a look very much like her nephew’s. “My dear girl, you may know your superstitions, and you may know your fake fairy photography, but your knowledge of the wee folk is woefully inadequate. Hobgoblins are not trolls.”

“Troll-like creatures?”

A slow, sad shake of her head. “I take it you’ve seen A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Sure. At the Shakespeare Theater out on Navy Pier.”

“Do you recall the character of Puck?”

I nodded.

“He’s a hobgoblin.”

I frowned. “Are you sure?”

An exasperated sigh. She tapped my laptop. “Look it up when you get home.” She poured the tea. “Now, about Houdini and Conan Doyle. What do you know?”

We fell into a long, nicely distracting chat about spiritualism.

As I finished my third cup of tea, I said, “Before I go, I have a question for you.”

“Ah.” A smug smile. “I knew you would eventually.”

“Not that kind of question. It’s about Gabriel.”

Her smile evaporated as she said, carefully, “Yes . . .”

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Is he seeing anyone? ’Cause I think he’s totally hot.”

“Can’t even finish that one with a straight face, can you?”

I choked back my laughter. “Sorry. But the way you were looking at me, that’s what you were expecting, and I hate to disappoint.”

“Actually, no, it wasn’t. I’ve just learned to dread any sentence that contains the phrase ‘question about Gabriel.’”

“Well, don’t worry. It’s strictly business. Yesterday he suggested I do a media interview. I refused, because I wasn’t ready. We got ambushed by a reporter and he helped me through it. I want to say thank you.”