“I can’t say for sure that Claire was sleeping with him, but Megan figured it was only a matter of time.” She leaned over. “Let’s just say we’re all really happy that the new girl isn’t exactly gorgeous. When Megan’s not getting any, we all pay the price.”

“And Claire was one of those times.”

“Oh, yeah. Alastair liked Claire. She wasn’t as pretty as Megan, but she was just as smart, without the bitch-itude. Claire and Alastair had private sessions all the time. It was supposedly therapy but ...” She waggled her brows. “It was a lot of sessions and—”

“Deirdre?” Megan called from the kitchen. “Where are you? These cookies are still baking on this hot sheet. I’ve told you to take them off—”

I backed up, but not fast enough to get around the corner. Megan glared at me as Deirdre slipped inside. I caught the screen door and followed her in.

“Sorry,” I said, lifting my half-eaten cookie. “I smelled them and couldn’t resist. I was just buying a box.” I waved at the one on the counter.

Megan handed me the box and pointed at the door. I pulled a twenty from my pocket. She shook her head and kept pointing.

“Now, let’s grab a couple of cookies while they’re warm ...” a man’s voice said.

Megan moved in for the block, swinging the kitchen door partially closed. I caught only a glimpse of a man with silvery hair and an angular, patrician face. I got a better look at the girl walking beside him. She was, as Deirdre put it, not gorgeous. Her broad face and pug nose would have been framed better by a short, bouncy haircut. Long, straight dirty-blond hair didn’t help. Neither did her frown as she looked at me, squinting slightly, like she’d left her glasses at home.

“I’m—” I began.

“We’ll bring cookies for you and Amy into the dining room, Alastair,” Megan said. “Deirdre has spilled some sugar and I don’t want it tracked all over the house.”

If Alastair noticed me, he gave no sign, just saying “all right,” and leading the girl—Amy—away.

Megan turned to me and wordlessly pointed at the door. I left. She trailed until I was outside the gate, then stood on the lawn, watching.

As I was passing the gate, something caught my eye. A smear of dark blood on the wooden post.

I bent to fuss with my pant leg in order to get a better look. Someone had drawn what looked like a talisman. In blood. Sure it might have been red paint, but my money was on blood. When I glanced back, Megan was still watching. I waved. As she turned away, I surreptitiously snapped a picture of the red mark with my phone. Then I got on my bike and rode back to town.

NEXT STOP: THAT building where the trucker said his buddy had seen a satanic ritual. I doubted there’d be anything left after eight months, but it was worth a look.

As I walked, I was checking out Main Street, mentally constructing a map of Columbus. Maybe I was just in a more hopeful mood than I’d been earlier, but the town seemed brighter now.

I still saw the For Rent signs on the shops, but I also noticed optimistic Opening Soon! signs on a couple. A banner over Main Street announced the annual strawberry social. Another in front of the library congratulated “Steve and Dawn” on their wedding. A shop-keeper helped an elderly woman load groceries into her car. I saw the pregnant teenage girl again, too, this time coming out of the diner, smiling, hand-in-hand with a boy carrying a steel lunchbox, and realized she hadn’t been waiting to leave, just waiting for someone to come home.

Columbus might be a dying town, but not everyone was willing to give up the fight so easily. I admired that, and I was still looking around when a silver SUV pulled up in front of the post office. Cody Radu. He ignored the No Stopping signs. Hell, he didn’t even bother pulling to the curb. Just stopped, slammed her into park, and hopped out.

I swung my gaze away. I’d get around to Cody eventually. Until then, I’d take no interest in the guy. Make him wonder why I was taking no interest. Make him sweat.

From the corner of my eye, I could see him checking me out. It wasn’t the furtive interest of Michael Kennedy or even the lascivious ogle of the knuckle-dragger in the pickup. This was a cold, hard once-over, like I was an item on a menu, his to order if he decided I looked tasty. I kept walking.

I found the store—an empty furniture shop, sign announcing all inventory at 20 percent off, then 50 percent, then in final, desperate handwritten red strokes, 75 percent off, final sale.

I went around back, presuming that was where the trucker entered, and found a huge double door for the furniture place, a sign with foot-high letters announcing Deliveries.

The delivery door was dented so badly I was surprised it still closed. Kicked in by someone looking for a private place to conduct rituals? That might explain the shiny big padlock on it now.

An unlock spell cleared the way. Inside, I cast a sensing spell that came back clean. There were two doors off the loading dock. One led to an empty room with enough electrical outlets and phone jacks to tell me it had once held desks. The other was a bathroom. At the end, the hall opened into the display gallery.

The place had been stripped bare and kept reasonably clean, the owner still apparently optimistic about its resale value. A thin layer of dust said that optimism was waning, but the unit was still tidy enough to be shown. Too tidy to be an ideal place for anyone to practice the dark arts.

As I walked into the gallery, though, I could see a circle of black on the floor. I knelt and ran my finger over the ring. Wax. A black candle had sat here, dripping, for hours. I looked at the front and frowned. Big display windows. Not even boarded up. Who would conduct a ritual when anyone walking past could see the candle burning?

Near the candle wax, I noticed red smears on the linoleum. I bent and touched them. Long dried and faint, as if someone had mopped them up. I licked my finger and smudged some. Definitely red. Too red to be blood?

I took a picture and compared it with the one from the commune gate. The resolution was crap, though. I needed to see both on a laptop screen and zoom in.

The trucker’s buddy said he’d seen a dead cat, too. You couldn’t have a black mass without a dead cat. Or so said common wisdom. The truth was that cats—or sacrifice of any kind—had nothing to do with a real satanic black mass.

I searched the room, but found no sign of cats. I did, however, find a pile of rags in the corner. Black rags.