The second Vernon focused on that vacant, basement-level hallway of doors, his whole brain lit up with pain.

“Keep going,” he groaned. “I want to see the footage from when I was down there.”

As the headache intensified, he had to fight to keep his eyes on the glowing image—

The feed clicked out: Just as he emerged from the stairwell, stepping out of the fire door and into the corridor, the images went black.

“What the hell,” Buddy muttered as he ran it back.

Buddy might have been a whiny codependent with his mommy, but he wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t doing anything wrong with the technology. The file, for some reason or another, was corrupted to the point where it provided no visuals whatsoever.

Eleven minutes.

Eleven missing minutes.

“I give up,” Vernon said as he let his head fall back.

“It happens. And hey, the alarms are off. So it’s all done with whatever it was.”

“Yeah.”

Still, there was this nearly undeniable urge to probe his memories. Something had happened down in that basement. From the time when he’d left this office and decided to take the stairs to the—

Vernon let it all go as the agony ramped up again. It was such a strange headache, like he’d eaten three ice cream cones, one after another, a kind of sharp, cold spear right in the front of his skull.

“You want to call in?” Buddy asked in a voice that seemed worried. “You don’t look too hot.”

“Motrin’ll kick in in a few.” Vernon cleared his throat. “Tell me about the cat again, would ya?”

Buddy immediately went back into his drama. “Yeah, so my mom says he was a present from Aunt Rose, but I don’t think he was. I think she needs an excuse to kick me out—”

So bizarre. As Vernon concentrated on the feline drama, the headache completely disappeared—and it couldn’t be the Motrin. There was no way they were this effective this quickly.

But as if he were going to argue with what worked?

“And you can’t get allergy shots?” Vernon said when there was a pause for breath in Buddy’s reporting.

The kid frowned. “What are you—wait, you can do that?”

Vernon nodded and started to shrug out of his uniform jacket.

“Yeah. Sure. You go in and they give you shots and then you’re not allergic.”

“Oh, my God, that’s exactly what I’m going to do! Thanks, man.”

With another incline of his at-the-moment-not-hurting head, Vernon decided to glance at the console. When the lights didn’t hurt his eyes or bring the pain back, he relaxed. Who the hell knew what it was. Maybe that pinched nerve in his neck was acting up again.

Yeah, that had to be it.

Man, he was so ready to retire, he really was.

Inside the storage unit full of designer clothes, Mae lowered the flaming purse from the sprinkler head’s vicinity. The red light was no longer blinking.

”No, no . . . no . . .”

She turned back to the door. The reinforced panel was still shut and totally secured, but someone had been close by. She had scented them. She had heard their voice. They had been so close—

There it was again. Her instincts pricking as if she were no longer alone.

Mae looked to the sprinkler with all kinds of hope—the light was still solid.

“Shit.”

As she got off the chair, she thought maybe she was just losing her mind, all fried on desperation and the terror that came with knowing your murderer wasn’t going to stay away forever. And as she stared at the door again, the wave of emotion that came over her was totally not helpful: No longer scared for her life and focused on getting free, she was beyond sad. Near to the point of tears.

Mae breathed in deep—

At first, the scent did not make sense. And then she was convinced she’d imagined it because more than anything, it had been what she had prayed for.

“Sahvage!” she yelled. “I’m here! Sahvage!”

Through the connection of her having fed him, she could sense him clear as if he were standing in front of her. He was here. He somehow had found her.

Throwing the bag to the floor, she bolted across the space, shoving racks aside. Curling up fists, she pounded on the door.

“I’m here! I’m here! Help!”

As she struck the steel panel over and over again, something in the back of her mind registered—and it took some further yelling to figure out what it was. Abruptly, she stopped striking the steel, stopped hollering. Calming herself down, Mae knocked lightly.

Knocked more loudly.

Pounded again.

There was no sound.

As she made contact with the door, there was no reverberation back to her, nothing entering her ears . . . nothing that would register to anybody else, either.

Trying not to panic, she knocked on the white-painted Sheetrock by the jamb.

Nothing, either.

And even though there was smoke curling around the racks of clothes, and a stench in her nostrils, she feared, for no reason that made any logic, that no one else could smell any of it.

That Sahvage couldn’t scent it.

Mae put her hands to her mouth and wheeled around to the racks and displays. This was an illusion, she realized. This whole . . . all of the clothes and the accessories, the furniture and the kitchen, that tub over there . . . it all didn’t exist in the normal sense.

Which meant she didn’t exist in the normal sense.

“Sahvage,” she whispered. “Help me . . .”

How the hell was she going to breach the divide that separated wherever she was from where everyone else existed . . .

. . . before the demon returned?

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, if the brunette came back, Sahvage was now in danger, too.

Full-blown panic jammed up her brain, and she paced back and forth. Then an idea came to her.

Mae broke into a scramble, and as she skidded into the kitchen area, she started ripping open cabinets.

White vinegar. Thank God. Salt—yes. Lemons . . . lemons . . .

Mae tried the refrigerator. “Come on, there has to be—”

No lemons, but there was a honey-lemon vinaigrette. Turning the bottle around, she shook her head. The third ingredient was lemon. It was going to have to do.

“Candles . . .”

She opened drawers. Found pink, yellow, and blue birthday candles in one.

“Sterling silver. I need . . .”

Over on the display table, where the purses were, she nailed that one by pouring out a shiny dish that held a dozen pairs of earrings.

“Knife.”

She dumped the growing pile by the door. Went back to a wooden block full of Henckels sitting on the counter by the stove. Snagged the flaming purse on the way back to her supplies.

Sitting down cross-legged, she tried to remember what Tallah had told her. What the measurements were, how much of the one and the other of ingredients. Oh, and as for the lemon-delivery system of that salad dressing? Who knew how to weigh that.

Your intention matters.

As she heard Tallah’s voice in her head, she inspected what she’d put into the silver basin—as if she was going to know what was right or wrong? Then she popped the top on the birthday candles and took out a blue one. ’Cuz true blue, and all that.

What the hell was she doing? It wasn’t like this had worked with the Book.