Another snort. “E-mail me those pictures. I’ll find your ritual.”

THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn’t. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.

I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael’s death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn’t handle that.

So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.

“Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast.”

When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.

“Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house.”

I struggled for an excuse. None came.

When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael’s body, I was the lead story.

No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.

I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not “So what happened last night?” but “Are you okay?” and “I’m sorry about Detective Kennedy.” They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn’t right to ask, so I told them.

When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics—local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael’s death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I’d ever said about small-town folks.

I’d ordered steak and eggs, and was complimenting Lorraine on her hash browns when her gaze moved to the front window. I looked out to see a young woman locking up a bike at the rack. She took an insulated bag from the carrier.

“One of the commune girls,” Lorraine said. “We get our eggs and milk from them. This girl has come the last couple of days. She asked about you yesterday, whether you ate breakfast here.”

It was the girl who’d seemed like she wanted to talk to me yesterday. Blue-streaked hair cut short and spiky. Studs in her nose and brow. A look that screamed attitude. Her face didn’t, though. Soft features and anxious eyes said the tough-girl look was a desperate attempt to find something she lacked.

The girl ignored me as she unloaded the bag for Lorraine and took the money.

“Do you have a minute?” I said. “I’d love to buy you a coffee. Megan said it was okay to talk to me, but I still don’t want to get you in trouble.”

It was the right thing to say. The tough girl inside her squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I’m not afraid of Megan. Alastair said we can talk to you or that detective.”

I could tell by the way she said “that detective” that she didn’t know Michael was dead. News didn’t travel as fast when you lived up on Commune Hill. I didn’t see any reason to tell her, so I nodded and sipped my coffee. She did the same, her courage melting again.

“So Alastair said it was okay?” I prodded.

She nodded. “He said if someone’s preying on the girls of this town, he wants the guy caught.”

“He thinks it’s a guy?”

She frowned. “It always is, isn’t it?” Her gaze and voice dropped in a way that told me everything I needed to know about this girl’s damage.

I asked her name.

“Sylvia,” she said. “But I go by Vee.”

“Okay, Vee. How long have you been with the group?”

“Just over a year.”

Meaning she’d known Tamara, the friend of Claire’s who’d left in a hurry. Good.

“Did you know Ginny or Brandi?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“They never came up to the house?” I said. “Talked to Alastair, maybe?”

Her shoulders tightened. “Alastair’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot. And, no, I’m not sleeping with him. He wouldn’t let me even if I asked. I’ve—I’ve had problems. With that ... kind of thing.” She cleared her throat. “His place, it’s not what people think. Not what my parents think, that’s for sure. Every couple of months they have this cult deprogrammer chick sneak into town to try to talk me out. It’s bullshit. No one’s holding me against my will. My folks blame Alastair because, otherwise, they’d have to admit that I’ve got a problem they can’t shove under the carpet like they’ve done all my—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“No reason to be. It’s good to know what the members think of the group and Alastair.”

“Alastair’s great. Really great.”

But I noticed she hadn’t answered my original question. Had Ginny gone up to visit him at the house? I broached the subject again with Vee, but she was quick with her denials. Too quick. I filed it and let it go.

“Is there anything about the group that does worry you?” I asked.

She chewed her lip enough to flake the skin, then said, “Kind of. It’s Megan. She—” She took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t like Megan, okay? No one does. She’s a bitch. The only reason she’s still around is because she runs the business. And because Alastair ... well, he’s kind of attached to her, you know. But I don’t like her and I’d be happy to see her tossed out on her skinny ass. I’m telling you that now, because if you find out later that I don’t like her, it’ll sound like I was making this up.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t go on right away. Drank half her coffee first, and I struggled not to fidget. Sitting for so long reminded me that I’d been up all night, and I found myself swallowing a yawn with every third breath until she finally blurted it out.

“Megan’s a voodoo priestess.”

I tried to look shocked. Probably did a decent job of it too, because while I knew someone up there was practicing Santeria, Megan was at the bottom of my list. If there’s a type of person who picks up a religion like that, Megan definitely didn’t fit it. Alastair did, though—he might seem distinguished, but he was nothing more than an old hippie, the kind of person who’d be attracted to a mystical religion.