I glanced down. The end of the board was lifted just a little. Accident, or intention?

I got down on my knees, pulled the store keys from my pocket. There was a flat bottle opener on the key chain. As Liam moved silently beside me, I wedged it into the board, pried it up.

Something jumped out. I screamed, jumped back . . . and watched a tiny mouse scurry across the room.

“They don’t make wraiths that small, Connolly.”

I laughed nervously at the joke. “That scared the crap out of me.”

“So I saw. What else is in there?”

I wasn’t thrilled about sticking my hand in this time, but I bucked up, reached in, and pulled out a purple Crown Royal bag, the kind with the yellow stitching. I opened it into my hand. There was a house key, a small rock, and a driver’s license.

“Hello, Marla Salas,” I said, looking down at the picture of the smiling blond girl. She was twenty-three, and her address was only a few blocks from here.

I looked up at Liam. “She hid this stuff, Liam. She put it together, and she put it somewhere she thought was safe. She was thinking.”

“Yeah,” Liam said, standing up again. “She was. And now we’ve got her address. Let’s go see if anyone’s home.”

•   •   •

The house was a small bungalow with a roofed front porch, dormer windows above it, in a pale pink color. The trim was warm and yellow, and the house was in remarkably good condition. Music was coming from inside. It sounded like Big Band jazz from the 1940s. The music, the cheery paint color, brightened my mood. Someone was making a life there. It was always awesome to see that.

Liam stopped when we reached the porch, stared at the house. “I don’t do this often.”

I looked at him. “This?”

He glanced down at me. “Make notifications. Someone’s in there, probably someone who knew her. That means we’ll have to tell them what’s happened to Marla.”

My mood deflated instantly. I’d been so focused on finding out about her, about the wraiths, that I hadn’t even considered what we’d say to her loved ones.

The music stopped, and the door opened. A woman in her early fifties stood in the doorway. She had short gray hair, wore comfortable pants and a shirt. She put a hand on her chest when she looked at us. “You’re from the department? You’re here about Marla?”

Liam and I looked at each other. The department? Did she mean PCC?

“No, ma’am. We’re not from the department, but we would like to talk to you about your daughter, if you don’t mind. My name is Liam Quinn, and this my friend Claire Connolly.”

“I’m Lorene Salas. I’m Marla’s mother. My husband, Paul, is in the garden. Not a lot of produce this time of year, but you make do with what you can.”

“I’ve gotten some pretty good beets,” I said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. And felt stupid for saying it.

She gave us one more appraising look. “Why don’t you come inside?”

The house was simple, but tidy. A couch, a chair, a hand-cranked record player. That explained where the music had come from. We sat down on the couch.

“Your daughter’s a Sensitive?” Liam asked.

Lorene looked around nervously. “Well, I suppose if you’re here you’d already know that. Yes, yes, she is. And a very good one. She’s actually helped out the PCC from time to time. That’s why you’re here, right? You’re following up?”

“Following up?” Liam asked.

She went a little wan. “With her disappearance. Some of her friends had worked at the PCC. We didn’t talk about it, of course, because her work with them was confidential. But they knew her.” Lorene swallowed, worked to keep her composure. “When they hadn’t seen her in a few days, they got worried. They came to me to ask questions, try to figure out where she was.”