“You say it like this: ‘Your beauty shatters the mirror,’” she deadpanned.

“N-o-o-o,” Jupe groaned. “In Cantonese.”

“Does this look like Hong Kong to you? No. It’s central California. I didn’t travel halfway across the globe to speak Cantonese.”

“Why did you move here, then? Hong Kong seems cooler than Morella, that’s for sure.”

“My father is American. He moved to Hong Kong and became a permanent resident a few years after marrying my mother. When I turned eighteen, I decided to go to college in Seattle. That’s where I met her.” She tipped her head in my direction. “I liked the States, so I stayed. Cady and I moved down here because it’s sunnier and we wanted to make money. End of story.”

“Your dad was American?” Jupe asked.

“A Jewish lawyer from Seattle.”

“What? Wait a minute . . . is he white?”

“As a snowflake.”

Jupe’s mouth fell open. “You’re biracial? Like me? Cady, you didn’t tell me!” It was too much for him to process. Joy overload. Then his brow furrowed, as if he were checking himself; it was, surely, too good to be true. “You don’t look it.”

She crossed her arms over her middle and held her head high. “I got my mother’s good looks and my father’s knack.”

“Wow,” Jupe raved, his eyes pinwheeling in happiness.

A car door slammed behind us; Lon emerged from the SUV and then stood near it in a manner I can only describe as hulking—I wasn’t sure if he was pissed about being forced to wait, or if he sensed his son’s overactive hormones from the car. Kar Yee watched him as he approached. “So that’s your dad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm-hmph. Better looking than my father,” she observed.

I made introductions between Grunt and Glare, two people with some of the worst social skills on the planet. They eyed each other silently. For several moments. They’d heard all about each other; I wondered what they were thinking. Finally, Kar Yee remarked to Lon, “Your halo is almost as strange as hers.” To me, she simply said, “Good for you.” Then she retreated back down the steps to the bar.

Starry Market wasn’t a chain. It was the largest and oldest independent grocer in the city as well as a hybrid of disjointed ventures—dry-goods liquidator (this summer’s potato chip flavors that went nowhere), gourmet ingredient procurer, and international farmer’s market. Amanda refused to shop there, claiming that all the produce was irradiated. I, on the other hand, had more to worry about than death by radioactive zucchini.

But we weren’t there to buy vegetables. We were there to track down Cindy Brolin. Again. Though we’d failed the first time, we were determined to find out what she was hiding about the original Snatcher.

The market was in the middle of the university quarter. The squat, ugly building occupied a small block that also housed three businesses in a strip of leased storefronts on the sidewalk. The main entrance was inside the attached parking garage. Jupe was wary when we entered, remembering the last time we were in a city parking structure together, but I pointed out that the Starry Market garage contained only half the amount of hobo urine of the Metropark, which I have found to be a surprisingly accurate indicator of lower crime statistics.

Halloween candy, cinnamon brooms, and bins of pumpkins crowded the store entrance. Not many shoppers. Yacht rock from the 1970s floated over the aisles like a bad storm cloud, dumping torrents of Christopher Cross and of the band that gave me sweaty nightmares, Steely Dan. Once we’d meandered past the spicy scents of the seasonal display, the store’s natural oppressive smell reared its head—day-old fish and transpacific shipping containers, dusty and perfumed with petrol.

Lon left me with Jupe while he combed the store looking for Cindy. We wasted time waiting for him while perusing a selection of unusual canned-good delectables from Russia. Jupe was enchanted. “A cartoon squid? What the hell is in here?” Jupe murmured, turning a dented can in his hand and trying to guess the Cyrillic letters. “Is it soup? It says ‘herring’ on the shelf label. That makes no sense. Squid-herring? What is this?” he whispered in wonder.

After he begged me to get a cart so that we could load up on grass jelly, silkworm pupae, and fish balls—which I refused to do—Lon stepped up behind me and spoke over my shoulder.

“Found her.” He grabbed a can of congealed reindeer meat out of Jupe’s hand and set it on the shelf. “Listen,” he said in a low voice, heavy as steel. “This is serious—the first real thing I’ve ever let you do as an adult and not a kid. So stop screwing around.”

Jupe’s mouth scrunched up in embarrassment as he blinked up at Lon. “Okay.”

“I’m having some serious doubts about pulling you into this,” Lon admitted.

So did I, but we were desperate. The fruitless Polaroid had haunted him like a bad dream, while the origin of the strange markings on the seven magical circles I’d photographed in the cannery continued to elude both of us. Lon said Jupe’s knack would probably be less traumatic on Cindy than dosing her with one of my medicinals. I agreed.

“I can handle it, Dad. I swear.”

Lon frowned. “I hope so. This is not something I take lightly. I’ll say it one more time—you’ll only use your knack exactly as we discussed unless one of us tells you otherwise.”