Marsden started with Miss Baird.

“I’ve been teaching here for two weeks,” she told him, her feathers still ruffled. “Probationary period. I was informed this morning that they would be terminating my contract because there had been too many incidents in my room and parents were complaining.”

“Fourteen in two weeks,” Ms. Edison said. “Our average is about once a month for the whole school.” She gave Miss Baird a half smile. “We need to revisit that decision, I think. All of those complaints revolved around Amethyst and for some reason none of us, myself and our board members, even thought twice about that. And I assure you that is something we normally do. If one student causes more than three incidents in a month, he is on probation and the next time he is gone. Under normal circumstances Amethyst would have been served notice and then asked to leave.”

“Your name is?” Marsden asked. His partner, evidently satisfied that he’d gotten Marsden on the right track, was back to examining the bundle of sticks.

“Farrah Edison,” Ms. Edison said. “I run this lunatic asylum. I stayed because what I know might help. Cathy, Miss Baird, has only been here for a short time.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been sitting in this room for going on four hours, and every hour it feels like my head clears a little more. Amethyst used to be a cheerful, gregarious girl, and she came back from Christmas break totally different. I intended to call her home, but Sara, her mom, came in to talk to me before I managed it. She told me that she and her husband were thinking of divorce. Then they—I’m sorry, Sara—they started to have some loud altercations when they would come to pick up or drop off Amethyst. I decided that was an adequate cause for Amethyst’s sudden change in personality.”

Marsden nodded. “Okay. Thanks. And you are Amethyst’s parents, right? Names, please?”

Amethyst’s parents were Sara and Brent Miller. She was a bank administrator, he was a doctor. No, they hadn’t noticed anything different about their daughter. Not when she’d had the fight with Henry. Not any time.

“When did you two begin to fight?” asked Anna, her eyes on their clasped hands.

Sara looked up and just blinked at Anna, but her husband’s eyes sharpened. “It was just before Christmas,” he said slowly. “We were going to go visit my parents, it was their turn. But the day before we were supposed to go, Amethyst said she didn’t want to go. Then Sara was adamant that she didn’t want to go, either. My parents aren’t always kind to her. But over the years she’s always just dealt with them. But not this time.” He cleared his throat. “I’m babbling.”

The slowest babbling Anna had ever heard, though maybe he was talking about coherence and not speed.

“They’re not so bad,” said Sara suddenly. “Your parents. I like your dad. He’s funny when your mom isn’t in the room.”

Marsden was watching Anna but typing on his notebook as fast as he could anyway.

Charles stepped in then. He didn’t ask a question so much as make a statement. “Dr. Miller, you’ve had a run of bad luck since Christmas.”

Miller opened his mouth, then nodded abruptly. “Two car wrecks—the second totaled my car. Our six-year-old cat died. It seems like we can’t keep an appliance up and running longer than a week.” He gave a half laugh and a shrug.

“I can’t bake bread,” said his wife. “Not since Christmas. The dough just won’t rise.”

“Most of it is centered in your home?” Charles asked. “It hasn’t followed you to the office, right?”

The Millers nodded.

“That’s right,” Sara Miller said. “Just at home.”

Marsden looked Charles in the eye and said, harshly, “Okay, buddy. Just who are you?”

Anna felt Charles stiffen against her at the challenge, but he kept his voice steady when he replied. “I am Charles and this is my wife, Anna.”

“Smith,” said Marsden.

“That will do,” Anna said. “We were asked to come and talk to the teachers here on a related matter, having some experience with the fae. We expected to find a renegade fae who had escaped from the Nevada reservation. If that had been so, we’d have been in and out with none the wiser. This”—she indicated the bundle on the ground—“was unexpected.”

“A related matter?” Marsden asked.

“A friend of ours gave us reason to believe that there was a fae problem here,” she said.

Ms. Edison smiled thinly. “Was that the friend of a friend of your sister-in law? No wonder you wished to speak to Miss Baird even though I told you she was only temporary.” She looked at Marsden, effectively dismissing Anna. “So you believe a fae stole the real Amethyst and replaced her with a … simulacrum?”

“Correct,” said Marsden grimly.

“So what happened to our daughter?” asked Dr. Miller. He didn’t sound like he thought it would be good. A doctor would know all about not good, Anna thought.

“That depends on what kind of fae we’re dealing with.” A lean, muscular black woman dressed sharply in a dove gray suit stepped into the room. “Special Agent Leslie Fisher, FBI. Sorry I’m late.”

CHAPTER

8

So that was who Charles had been waiting for. Anna frowned at him. How had he known? He smiled at her, just a crinkle at the corner of his eye. He hadn’t known, just made a very good guess. She was almost sure.

“Leslie,” said Anna. “It’s very good to see you. Tell me you didn’t fly all the way over here from Boston.”

Leslie smiled. “Hey, Anna. Charles. Not from Boston, thank goodness. I’m stationed in Nevada now, in a town of two hundred that just happens to be the closest town to the James Earl Carter Jr. Fae Reservation. Apparently our little run-in made me one of the FBI’s experts in fae relations, so they moved me out there.”

“I’m sorry,” Anna apologized. That’s how Charles had known. He’d kept track of Leslie. Knowing that she was living nearby, he’d have figured she’d be brought in.

“Yeah, well.” Leslie shrugged without losing her smile. “That’s what it means to be FBI. We go where we’re needed.”

“How did Jude take that?” She had liked Leslie’s husband, a huge man with a sense of humor and a backbone of steel. He’d been a linebacker in college headed for the pros when an injury had changed the direction of his life. He taught elementary school.

“He was torn up about leaving his kids.” Leslie smiled, a private smile. “But he got a job right off. Apparently there aren’t a lot of teachers willing to live where it gets to be a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade and the nearest restaurant I would consider eating at is a four-hour drive. The kids out here need him a lot more than the kids in Boston did. Once he saw that, he was okay. Moving him out of there when the time comes is going to be harder than moving him in was.”

“I take it you both know Agent Fisher?” Marsden interrupted.

“Yes,” Leslie agreed. “We’ve worked together before. I haven’t met you, though.”

“Agent Jim Marsden, Cantrip, and this is my partner, Hollister Leeds. This is our investigation. What is the FBI’s interest here? We’re not even sure if we have a kidnapping.”

Leslie gave a quick, professional smile that was remarkable in the amount of information it imparted: I’m sorry, I respect you and the job you do, but I am competent, too, and this time you have to back me. It was such a good expression that the words felt like an afterthought.

She used them anyway. “Sorry, gentlemen. The DOJ has determined that this is part of a larger terrorist operation, and that puts me in the driver’s seat. I would be overjoyed to have your assistance.”

Marsden paused and looked at Leeds, who was still on his knees by the bundle of sticks. He’d taken out a sketchbook and was drawing it.

“Terrorists?” Marsden asked. “How do you figure?”

She smiled at the civilians in the room. “Did these gentlemen already take your statement?”