If Sean thought I should have been included, though, he was going to make sure I got my share. So he’d set up a trust fund for me with part of his own inheritance. Until I was twenty-five, it only paid an allowance-five thousand a month—but I reinvested most of that. My salary covered my daily expenses, and it didn’t feel right, blowing my inheritance when it had come out of Sean’s money.

I supposed when I got access to the funds, I’d buy a condo or something. I didn’t have any firm plans. That applied to most of my life right now. I liked where I was. Occasionally, I got the feeling I should be leaving home and setting out on my own, but it never happened. I’d go when I was ready, I guess.

AFTER SAYING GOOD-BYE to Jaime, I read the reports, which could be summed up as “three young women were murdered.”

The coroner’s report did mention the object in Claire’s hand. A pewter bead. A note on the file speculated it came from something she’d been wearing, but no one had found a necklace or bracelet. Had it been yanked off her killer? That was a possibility. A plain piece of pewter, though, was more likely symbolic.

I searched the reports for Ginny and Brandi. No mention of anything found in their hands or of any pewter in the vicinity. I could ask Bruyn, but if it was supernatural in origin, I didn’t want him to know it might be significant.

I moved on to Internet searches. As I expected by now, the motel didn’t offer Internet service. Luckily, Paige showed me how to tether my laptop to my iPhone, which was a relief, because as cool as that little browser app is, it’s a bitch for doing serious Web work.

The first person I looked up was Michael Kennedy. With a name like that, can you imagine how many hits I got? Even knowing he was from Texas didn’t help.

Eventually, I found a newspaper article about a case he’d worked. Being a photogenic guy, his picture was included—one of him turning away, unimpressed with the prospect of being captured on film. It was clearly him, though, so his story was legit.

Next on my list: Cody Radu, a name that was much easier to search. The first hit I got was Facebook. One look at the picture and I had my guy, and a read through his profile gave me more information on him than I cared to know. That alone suggested the diner folks were right about Cody. He was one of those people who pretends to be an open book, putting every bit of minutiae about himself into the public domain, as if to say “See, I’m not holding anything back,” which tells you that he is.

I tried pairing up Cody with search terms like drugs, sex, gambling, everything I could think of that might link to illegal activity. Nothing. If it were that easy, though, Bruyn would have nabbed him by now.

So I switched to Alastair Koppel. Plenty of hits for him. There was a Facebook group and a Web site run by the parents of girls who’d joined his commune. Neither were exactly flattering to the old guy.

He wasn’t that old, though. Midforties. Decent enough looking. Dignified. The kind of guy whom lost little girls would flock to.

Flock they did. Megan hadn’t been lying about that. I found a dozen message boards with young women asking how to get into the commune, and more from young women agonizing over why they hadn’t been accepted.

Megan hadn’t been lying about the cookies either. The small business had been written up in a handful of magazines as a model of entrepreneurship. Of course, they glossed over the commune part, preferring to praise the company’s “unique and philanthropic” model, which combined rehabilitation with enterprise.

As Megan had said, Alastair was a therapist, though the sites run by the girls’ parents were quick to point out he had a bachelor’s degree, not a doctorate. They also noted his work history, which showed that the guy liked to move around. And he changed wives as fast as he did jobs. Four ex-wives, the dates of the weddings running close enough to the divorce decrees that you knew he hadn’t finished with one before starting on the next. Each divorce petition charged infidelity. Alastair liked variety. Surprise, surprise.

That was all very interesting, but nothing more than I’d have expected. A guy who had made a very nice life for himself, surrounded by girls half his age, who when they weren’t fighting to share his bed, were raking in some serious cookie dough for his coffers.

What interested me was that talisman painted on the gate. It looked like a simple protective symbol, though I couldn’t identify it. Maybe one of the girls was a practicing Wiccan. Nothing wrong with that, but considering I was investigating possible occult-linked killings, it was a lot more interesting than Alastair’s ex-wives.

I ran a bunch of searches on his name and the company name, combining them with everything from “satanic” to “occult” to “ritual.” The closest thing to a hit I got was a deeply buried post on a message board where someone joked that Taste of Heaven cookies had more than just organic flour in them, explaining their popularity.

I was pretty sure you couldn’t get drug-laced cookies past the FDA, but was it possible to enchant them? I always said that Paige did something with her cookies—they never turned out the same for me—but she just rolled her eyes and said that the only “magic” was that she actually followed the recipe and measured the ingredients.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of “lost” spells and rituals floating around. Most likely, though, they were simply good cookies.

My alarm rang then, reminding me of my non-date with Michael. I showered and dressed, grateful that Paige always insisted we pack an outfit for every undercover eventuality, including cocktail parties.

As I got ready, I racked my brain for more things to research. I was doing my makeup when an idea hit. I returned to my laptop and combined the occult keywords with Cody’s name. Bingo. On Facebook no less, in a frat buddy’s photo album. A picture of Cody Radu conducting an occult ritual.

It was tucked into a section from rush week—old photos of guys making jackasses of themselves and, ten years later, thinking it was cool to post evidence of their youthful stupidity online for the world to see.

There were two pictures conveniently labeled “Awesome Occult Ritual.” The first showed a bunch of guys standing around a young Cody, who was kneeling, drawing with chalk on the floor. The caption read “Cody shows us how it’s done.” The second was too dark to make out, but was obviously the ritual in progress, captioned “Cody leads the way.”