“Cheaper? Definitely?” I stripped rosemary; the bruised needles left their scent on my fingertips. “But DuPage Behavioral isn’t about cheaper. They’re like . . . a luxury provider. I don’t know if that makes sense. They focus on behavioral health, but that means they mostly handle substance abuse and what they call ‘distressed executives.’ In other words, rich white guys who throw temper tantrums or sexually assault employees, and their companies can’t get rid of them, so they send them to Richard. And then you’ve got people like me. PTSD that affects everyday living.”

  “Is that how you met Richard?”

  “No. Other way, actually. I met him, and when we started dating, he suggested I see Zahra.”

  “Is that, you know, ethical?”

  “It was my choice, and I like Zahra.”

  “Did you know David was a patient there too?”

  I shook my head as I stuffed the chicken with lemon, onion, and herbs. “But it makes sense, kind of. The support group is Zahra’s baby. It’s a volunteer project, but I’m not surprised she refers her patients to it. That’s how I started going to it.”

  “How many other people in the group came from DuPage Behavioral?”

  I crushed a clove of garlic with the flat of the knife. “I don’t know.”

  Dag opened David’s laptop, powered it up, and said, “No password.”

  “Are you kidding? That thing looks like it’s from the Stone Age. Big surprise.”

  “It’s definitely, um, not fast.”

  I glanced over and saw the Windows 7 screen loading. “If it’s a cycle, where does it start?”

  “What?” Dag asked, his attention mostly on the laptop as he dragged a finger across the trackpad.

  “You said it’s a cycle of violence. Where does it start? It should have a single starting point and then move out from there, right? It gets bigger and bigger.”

  “I guess.” Dag glanced over at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “If I tell you something, will you promise not to think I’m crazy? Even though I told you I used to be on anti-psych meds. Even though I told you I stopped taking all my meds.”

  “We’re investigating a monster that can turn into a blue firefly and a million other weird things. Yes, I’ll hold off on the judgment.”

  “I think maybe I saw a blue light in Gard’s eyes the night he, you know.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t know. I have these dreams still. And lately, in the dreams, I see blue. The clock was blue, even though it was really green. Blue in Gard’s eyes, even though in life they’d been brown. I don’t know if it’s just my brain trying to make sense of everything or—”

  “Or if you’re actually remembering something?”

  Working butter under the chicken skin, I nodded without looking up.

  “It could be both, actually,” Dag said. “Now can I ask you something, no judgment?”

  “Yes, I think you have earned lifetime immunity for any questions you want to ask.”

  “You said Gard wasn’t well. Did he see a therapist? A psychiatrist?”

  I grabbed garlic and rosemary and worked it under the skin. “You’re asking if he was a patient at DuPage Behavioral.”

  “Right now, I’m just asking if he was seeing a therapist or a psychiatrist.”

  “Yes. He was.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “I’ll check.” I washed my hands, put the chicken in the oven to roast, and headed for the garage. “Be right back.”

  After my parents and Gard had died, when I had to handle cleaning out the house and selling it and all the logistical nightmares that follow a tragedy, I’d reached a breaking point. I managed to unload the house, and I managed to collect the insurance and handle the pressing emergencies. I got rid of their stuff. And all the paperwork that I figured I should go through and shred or save, I boxed up and put in storage. When I moved in with Richard, he let me move it into the garage. I flipped on the lights, glad that even the garage was climate controlled, and worked my way through the boxes until I found the insurance paperwork. I stared at the page in my hand, and then I carried it back into the kitchen.

  Dag was clicking through files on the computer.

  I laid the paper down in front of him.

  He glanced at it, and then his eyes flicked up to me. “Is Rodney Gutierrez . . .”

  “Yes. He’s a partner at DuPage Behavioral.”

  “Ok,” Dag said. “Well, you’re not going to like this. Look at these pictures; David had them in a folder on the computer’s desktop.”

  On the screen, Dag scrolled through a series of pictures. They were all taken at close to the same angle: a view of the medical complex where DuPage Behavioral had their offices. Each photograph showed people I knew either entering the building or leaving. Tamika, Kenny, Ray, Willie, Stephanie, Danielle, Leola. Almost the entire support group.

  “That’s really, really weird,” I said. What was David doing?”

  “He was hunting it. The hashok. He was doing what we’re doing.”

  I thought about that, not sure if I agreed. “Where’s Mason?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s the whole support group except Mason. Where’s Mason?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know who his doctor was?” I asked.

  “No. He was really private.”

  “Who would know? His parents?”

  “His parents aren’t going to talk to me. They think I killed him.”

  “His girlfriend?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. They broke up, but I don’t know how long ago. Mason was lying to me about that. And she and I never really got along.”

  “Do you have her number?”

  “Yes.”

  “So call her.”

  “It’s going to be the same thing,” Dag said, ducking his head. “She’s going to blame me for what happened to him; I don’t want to get into it.”

  “Ok, give me the number.”

  “She won’t talk to you. She doesn’t even know you.”

  “Dag, I’m trying really hard not to be a bitch right now. Just give me the number.”

  He read it off his phone, and I placed the call on speakerphone.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mary Ann Pounds?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Alex Jones. I’m with the Department of Health. I’m finishing up the coroner’s report on Mr. Mason Comeaux, and I just needed some information I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t even really dating—”

  “I know, ma’am, and I’m sorry to trouble you. It’s just part of the job.”

  “Isn’t it late for this kind of thing?”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “A herd of cows walked into a helicopter, and we’ve been cleaning it up all day. I’m trying to finish this before I head out.”

  “No, I mean—wait, into a helicopter?”

  “I really just need your help with one question, Ms. Pounds.”

  “But I thought this was all finished. We had Mason’s funeral and everything. I don’t understand.”

  “This is an amended form 1199C, so it’s still working its way through the system.”

  That was as far as I was willing to push; anything else would send her into automatic refusal, I guessed.

  “Ok,” she said. “I mean, if I know the answer.”

  “Did Mr. Comeaux have any unusual injuries? Anything that happened around the same time as the shooting or shortly thereafter?”

  She was silent for a moment. “It was months ago.”

  “Anything with his hands or feet?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a matter of possible bacterial infection. Similar to tetanus.”

  “He cut his hand, yes. On the lawnmower blade. He told me he’d been trying to fix it. I don’t remember—I think it was after the shooting, but honestly, I’m not sure. He was in such bad shape, and it seems strange now. He was barely leaving the house. He definitely wasn’t doing yardwork.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “We’ll check into that. We can’t get the insurance company to confirm that Mr. Comeaux was seeing a mental health professional. Do you happen to know if he was?”

  “Yes. Sometimes twice a week. I don’t know at the end because we’d separated, but he was seeing a psychiatrist regularly.”

  “Do you happen to know the name?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She made an apologetic noise.

  “All right,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jones, wait. It was York. Like the peppermint patty.”

  I must have found a way of ending the call because I disconnected and stared at Dag.

  “That’s Richard,” I finally managed to say.

  “I remember when he cut his hand,” Dag said, his face dark. I was surprised to realize I was seeing Dag angry, really angry, for the first time. “He told me he’d grabbed the fishing line right before a catfish took off. That fucking monster did something to him. It messed with his head.”

  I just nodded.

  Grimacing, Dag pointed to the laptop’s screen. It was a picture of Zahra. A recent picture. David had zoomed in and taken a picture of her from a distance, her expression unreadable as she watched the group. More pictures of Zahra. More.

  “He obviously thought she has something to do with it,” Dag said. “The pictures go on and on like this. He’d been doing research. He’d learned enough to suspect her, although I wonder how much he had figured out about the hashok.”

  “She’s ranching her own fucking food,” I said. “She’s picking up clients from DuPage Behavioral. She made the support group into a feeding trough.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” Then Dag frowned. “But if she was doing that, and if she knew you looked like Noah—”

  “Who’s Noah?”

  “The guy who shot Mason. If she knew you looked like him, and she knew how it would affect Mason, it would explain why she kept you and Mason in the same group. The responsible thing to do, once she noticed that Mason had some sort of issue with you, would have been to separate you.”

  My phone buzzed, and I jumped. Richard’s name showed on the screen.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when I answered.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard about Tamika. I’m so sorry. How are you?”

  “Fine. Ok.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Having dinner with a friend.”

  Richard didn’t answer right away; his silence said everything. He didn’t think I had friends.

  “I was going to stay in the city tonight,” he said. “We’ve got a panel first thing in the morning, and Zahra booked a room. I’m driving home right now, though.”

  “No,” I said. “Stay.”

  “I can’t stand the thought of you by yourself right now.”

  “Richard, I’m fine. I’m sad, but I’m fine. Stay. You don’t need to do that drive twice. I’ll see you tomorrow, though, right?”

  It took a little bit longer to get him to agree, but then the call ended.

  “Zahra’s staying in New Orleans tonight,” I said to Dag.

  “Eli, let’s think this through rationally.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll think it through rationally. We’ll eat some delicious roast chicken and potatoes. And then we’re going to search that bitch’s house and find some evidence.”

  DAG (14)

  I parked the Escort two blocks down from Zahra’s house. She lived in a tony section of La Grange, which was the tony section of Bragg: McMansions on quarter-acre lots, all of them painted by exterior lights, like the whole neighborhood was staged instead of a real place real people lived. It had been easy to get her address off a white-page lookup online; it hadn’t been quite as easy to convince Elien to let me take the lead.

  “You’re going to stay here,” I said when I turned off the car.

  He leveled a look at me.

  “I’m just reminding you.”

  “Consider me reminded.”

  “I will come back and get you if it looks like the house is empty.”

  He gave me a mock salute. The green in his hazel eyes glinted in the ambient light.

  “Can you please be good for five minutes?” I asked.

  “One time I went a solid three and a half,” he said.

  “Let’s try to break that record.”

  I slipped out of the Escort, jogged back the two blocks, and cut up along the side of Zahra’s house. It was a monstrosity with a sweeping slate roof, gray brick, and mullioned windows. The front flower beds held columbine and foxglove; at the back of the house, jessamine climbed a trellis. I kept going, making a circuit of the house, checking the windows, and then I jogged back to the car.

  Elien was standing on the curb, leaning against the car door, every long, lean inch of him on display. The night air had ruffled his hair more than usual.

  “Lights on timers,” I said. “Nobody’s home.”

  “Did you ring the doorbell?”

  “I did not.”

  “I would have rung the doorbell, just to see if anyone came to the door.”

  “She’s got one of those video doorbell things,” I said. “It would have sent my picture to her phone.”

  “Oh,” Elien said.

  “I’m not totally bad at my job.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Elien said, frowning. “Why do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Say bad things about yourself.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Before the neighborhood watch calls in this piece of shit.”

  His frown got deeper; I headed back to Zahra’s house.

  We went around back again. French doors opened onto the patio, and Elien approached them and touched the handle. Then he stopped.

  “What about an alarm?”

  I pointed up, where two of the second-story windows were open. “Doesn’t look like she’s worried.”

  “I guess if you’re the monster, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Elien rattled the handle. “Should I break a window?”

  Nudging him aside, I drew out the neoprene case from my back pocket. I had a few smaller tools in there, including a nice, thin length of stainless steel that I worked between the doors until the latch slipped free. The door popped open, and from inside came a breath of something foul.

  “Last chance,” I whispered.

  Elien shook his head. I passed him a pair of disposable gloves and pulled on my own.

  I pulled open the door and stepped inside. A few lamps laid down pools of light amidst the expensive furniture: a chesterfield with brass nailhead trim; a chaise with its wood painted white and houndstooth upholstery; built-in shelves that featured books and trinkets: a marble piece decorated with dyed feathers, a folio volume open to an antique world map, a textile square dominated by scarlet and cobalt.

  The stink grew stronger as I moved into the kitchen.

  “What is that?” Elien asked.

  When I checked the trash, I pointed to a foam tray, the kind that was used to package chicken at the supermarket.

  “God, it’s awful,” Elien said.

  “Guess she hasn’t been home for a few days.”

  I checked the refrigerator, in case she was keeping some sort of monster equivalent of a snack: preserved intestines or severed limbs, or maybe something really horrific like gluten-free bread. I just found eggs and a block of Muenster that was getting a little hairy, milk that had gone over, a few apples at the back of the crisper that were still firm.

  “Do you need a snack?” Elien asked.

  “Maybe after.”

  We worked our way through the downstairs and, aside from more reminders that Zahra made a lot of money, we didn’t find anything.

  “No paintings,” I said.

  “She’s Muslim,” Elien said. “I don’t know how devout, but she is.”

  “So?”

  “So no images. At least, no images of people.”

  “Huh.”

  “See? Sometimes I know things.”

  “I think you’re very smart.”

  “You think I’m a brat.”

  “You can be a brat and be smart,” I said. “And don’t try to pick a fight.”

  Elien laughed as he followed me upstairs.

  The search upstairs didn’t reveal anything either: the bedroom, the master bath, the guest room, the office. Elien spent a while going through Zahra’s papers; when I’d finished with the other rooms, I came back, and he said, “Nothing.”

  “Ok,” I said.

  “No, it’s not ok. This is bullshit. We know she’s behind this. We know she’s feeding on people who are patients at DuPage Behavioral. We know she created her own . . . her own fucking herd to feed on. So where’s the proof?”

  “Well, what kind of proof would she leave behind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if she’s really our monster, let’s say. We know she’s got at least this other shape, that big, pale, long-faced thing that attacked us in the woods. And we know she can turn into that will o’ the wisp thing. She gets inside people’s heads. She can even . . . possess them, I guess, for lack of a better word. She feeds on them, but she feeds on suffering. So what’s she going to leave behind as evidence?”

  Elien shrugged. “There’s got to be something.”

  “Well, we didn’t find it.”

  “There’s something. There’s got to be something.”

  “Ok.”

  “I know there’s something.”

  “Ok. But where is it?”

  Before Elien could answer, a thump came from downstairs.

  “What was—” Elien began.

  I hushed him.

  A moment later, something scuffed on the stairs.

  Grabbing Elien by the arm, I shoved him toward the door. He didn’t protest; his face was pale, and in the instant before I flipped off the lights, I saw his eyes wide with fear. I kept shoving, forcing him toward the bedroom, where Zahra had left the windows open. From the office to the bedroom was probably fifteen feet, but we had to go past the stairs. The muscles in Elien’s arm were like steel cables; his breathing was shallow and fast.