“So he’s playing it like that?”

“Yep.” Ricky headed for the bathroom. “Try texting him later. See if anything changes.”

I texted Gabriel three times that day. On the third, I said, Can you answer please? So I know you’re getting these? He replied with I am. I stopped texting.

I spent the day investigating my parents’—my father’s—victims. Ricky helped.

I heard from Tristan twice. The first time, he left a message hinting that he was onto something. I ignored him. The guy had left a girl’s head in my bed. He’d lured me to an abandoned psych hospital in the middle of the night, pretending to have kidnapped the young woman who ultimately tried to kill us. He’d turned James from a sweet former fiancé into a crazed stalker ex. Call me a grudge-holder, but I was having some trouble getting past all that.

And yet . . . Well, as I’d been told—and shown—many times in the last few months, the fae didn’t think like us and couldn’t be expected to act like us. To them, the psych hospital and the James manipulation and even the surprise body parts were cattle prods, guiding this reluctant human in the direction they wanted her to go. We were cattle to them. Useful. Perhaps even necessary for survival. But not terribly clever.

Tristan texted later that afternoon.

Solid lead. Need GW 2 chk P Larsen visitor logs. OK?

I showed the message to Ricky.

“I find fairies with cell phones disconcerting enough. Do they really need to use text talk?” He shook his head. “You going to answer?”

“I am curious—what the hell would he need those logs for? But one, I can’t trust Tristan. Two, I don’t dare ask Gabriel to do anything right now. And three, I don’t trust Tristan.” I put the phone away. “I’ll ask Lydia tomorrow if she can get the logs. I don’t like going behind Gabriel’s back, but . . .”

“One, he’s being a dick. Two, you’re doing this to help him avoid jail time. Three, he’s being a dick.”

I smiled at him. “Exactly.”

Four hours later, we’d just returned from a late dinner when I got another text from Tristan.

Must talk. Big problem. Need privacy. Come 2 place we met 2nd time. Trust no one.

“Seriously?” I said, showing the text to Ricky. “Trust no one. Now fairies are watching X-Files?”

“He just wants you to believe.”

“No shit. Well, he’s officially piqued my curiosity. I’m calling back.”

I did, as we walked up the stairs to Ricky’s apartment. I called twice. Tristan didn’t answer. The first time, it went to voice mail, and I hung up to try again. That time, I got a “number not in service” message. I called a third time, in case my redial had screwed up somehow. It hadn’t. The number was no longer in service.

“Okay. Apparently, his number doesn’t work anymore.”

“So we’re still going?” he said.

“To an abandoned psych hospital? Once was enough. I’m not playing his game again.”

Inside the apartment, I slowly took off my shoes, so lost in thought that I didn’t realize Ricky was gone until I looked up and saw him coming out of the bedroom.

“Okay,” I said. “I know this will sound crazy, but—”

He handed me a new switchblade. “You’re going to need this.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Yes, heading to that psych hospital suggested I might belong in one. I’d like to think I’m not the dumb blonde in a B horror movie, saying, “You’re a supernatural being with an agenda that might involve killing me, and you want me to come to an abandoned psych hospital at night? Well, okay, then!” It was almost certainly a trap, but I couldn’t sit at home, playing it safe, when taking a risk meant answering the question: What was Tristan really up to? Proceed with extreme caution and take what I could from the situation, because if I refused, then maybe next time he tried to trap me, I’d stumble in without realizing it.

I called Gabriel on the walk to Ricky’s bike. That was part of exercising extreme caution. Yes, he’d made it clear he didn’t want to hear from me, but this wasn’t Hey, I’d like to talk. For this, he would answer. I was sure of it.

I called and got his voice mail.

“I need your help,” I said. “Just hear me out, please. Tristan wants me to meet him at the psych hospital. I’m sure it’s a trap, but you know that won’t stop me from going. Ricky and I are on our way. I could really use your advice, though. You’re probably too busy to talk”—meaning that you don’t want to, but I’ll give you an escape route here—“so I’ll e-mail the details. If you can talk, for a minute, I’d appreciate that, but even an e-mail reply will do. Hell, I’ll take a text, Gabriel. Am I making a really dumbass move here? Is there anything I should know? Any advice you can give? Thanks.”

I hung up.

“He’ll answer that,” Ricky said, handing me my helmet. “Guaranteed.”

For once, Ricky was not right.

When I started to worry, Ricky pulled over at a gas station with a graffiti-covered pay phone. I called Gabriel from it. He answered, which took away every possible explanation except the one that hurt the most: I needed him, and he didn’t give a damn. I hung up without a word.

—

The psych hospital. It had a name, I was sure, but I’d never looked it up. I would have preferred never to think of it again.