I remembered the shovel under the bed. Maybe I could still find my evidence.

I knelt to peer into the shadows, and my eyes found the shimmer of metal. My reaching hand grasped the handle and pulled the shovel slowly out. Its blade slid, a giant fingernail against the wooden floor.

I stood up again, the weapon in my hands.

The bad man hadn’t moved, but I couldn’t hear his snoring anymore.

Was he lying conscious beneath his blanket, wondering at the sounds that had awoken him? Or had he only come halfway out of sleep, stirring a little before he slipped back into dreams?

I waited to find out, watching him.

Then I noticed the eyes staring back at me through the bottom of the bedroom windows. The curtains hung a bit too short, maybe so the bad man could peek out at his trees, his trophies. Lined up across this sliver of glass were five pairs of eyes, all of them peering at me, wondering what I was going to do next.

A shudder went through me, the realization that I wasn’t here just for Mindy. It was so these little girls could fade at last, unremembered. With those eyes on me, I didn’t have a choice anymore. Digging up their bones wasn’t enough.

The sharp sound of a breath went through the room.

It was the bad man, peeking out from beneath the covers. Not at me, but through the gap under the curtains. He was staring out at his precious trees.

And he had seen the hole.

In the moonlight, it would be easy to spot that black opening, crude and dug by hand, as if something had scrabbled its way out from the cold ground.

“I’m here for you,” I hissed.

He spun around, tangling himself in his bedclothes, staring at me with wide eyes, like a little kid seeing a monster in his room.

Fair enough. I was a valkyrie, after all.

“Why?” I asked him.

He stared up at me, shook his head a little, as if he didn’t understand. Or maybe he didn’t believe in me.

“Why do things to other people? We aren’t your toys.”

He didn’t answer. The cold place was in my voice now. It didn’t sound like me.

“We aren’t here to be played with, or kidnapped, or shot at in airports because you have some f**king death wish!”

The bad man turned away from me. A pale hand emerged from beneath the blankets, reaching for the pill bottles next to his bed.

I raised the shovel at last, and brought its blade down flat on the bedside table. Wood and plastic shattered with a beautiful crack, and pills shot in all directions, skittering into the shadows like insects in a sudden light.

The bad man’s pale hand hung there in midair, trembling, searching for the pill bottles, as if he still couldn’t believe that any of this was happening. Then from his lips came a sound, a series of short little gasps.

I climbed up onto his bed, straddling the bad man, trapping him under the blankets. With both hands on the shovel, I pressed it down hard against his chest. The gasps grew sharper, until his whole body shook, shock waves traveling beneath me.

Through the bottom of the window, the little girls’ eyes gleamed.

I could feel what was happening to the bad man. I could sense it in the air, the smell of rust and blood.

After a few minutes, his shaking and shuddering passed.

“Mr. Hamlyn, I need you,” I said.

CHAPTER 33

“YOU HAVE FAILED TO TEXT me enough,” Nisha said sternly. “The purpose of this call is to inquire why.”

“I text you every day!” Darcy put in earbuds and tucked her phone into her pocket. She’d been hanging up laundry to dry when Nisha called, an activity that made the big room look unwriterly. But bringing home wet laundry saved quarters, and at least now she had a distraction.

“You text with budgetary concerns, Patel, but not with all the gossip.”

Darcy laughed. “What? So you can spill the beans to Mom?”

“I do not spill the beans, Patel. I manage them, selecting only the choicest for the parental palette. I am the mistress of beans.”

“You are the mistress of bullshit,” Darcy said.

“Only when I need to be. Now spill.”

Darcy sighed, hanging one of Imogen’s T-shirts over a chair. Her little sister wasn’t going to stop until she got gossip. And really, Darcy should have told Nisha about Imogen ages ago. “Okay. But this information is for verbal discussion only. No texting.”

“I’m aware of the security issues.”

Darcy lowered her voice, though her parents were a hundred miles away. “I’m with someone.”

“I knew that,” Nisha said.

“You did not!”

“You hooked up, like, five months ago.”

Darcy only glared at a set of her own soggy pajamas.

“Let us review the evidence,” Nisha said. “One: you haven’t mentioned anyone. I mean, you live all alone for the first time ever, and you encounter no cuties? No one crushworthy in all of New York City? That’s weird, Patel, even for you.”

“Um, I guess.”

“Two: you never come back and visit. Which means you aren’t missing my shining wit, the only thing better than which is . . . ?”

“True love?” Darcy ventured.

“Precisely. And three: when I asked Carla if you liked anyone, she said, ‘No comment.’ ”

“You asked Carla? Isn’t that kind of cheating?”

“It’s not cheating if you already know the answer. So I ask myself, why the secrecy? Why are we almost whispering?”

Darcy sighed. “You must have theories.”

“Two of them. This person is older than you, right? Old enough to squick the elder Patels.”

“Wrong! Well, maybe a little bit. But she’s only— Oh, f**k!”

Nisha’s laughter poured down the line. “She? So both my theories are correct. Is there a German word for always being right?”

“I think it’s obnoxobratten.”

“This was so easy. You complete me, Patel.”

Darcy lowered her voice again. “You haven’t shared these theories, have you?”

“No, but you know they won’t care, right? Or has Imogen not come out?”

“She’s totally out, but . . .” Darcy groaned. “Stop doing that!”

“Can a shark stop swimming?”

“Yes, when it is killed. How did you know?”

“Pfft. Figuring out who was the easy part, since you never shut up about her. So was that tour thing with her real? Not just . . .” Nisha made a suggestive noise.

“It was publisher approved!” Darcy cried, then realized that her parents would be wondering the same thing, once they found out. “Shit. I was going to tell you guys at Thanksgiving. But it never came up.”

“Um, I think you have to bring it up, Patel. You think Mom’s just going to ask if you’re g*y?”

“I was going to, but Lalana was in Hawaii, and she kind of wanted to be there too.”

“Wait. Aunt Lalana knows? You told her first?” A stormy silence filled the line, and Darcy realized that she’d made a terrible mistake.

“It’s just, when she cosigned my lease, she made me promise to tell her everything!”

“This is a serious betrayal, Patel. There will be consequences.”

“Sorry.” Darcy lowered her voice still further. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, something Lalana doesn’t know. It has to do with Imogen’s name.”

“Her name?” Nisha said with a snort. “No one in the family cares that she’s not Gujarati. Well, except Grandma P., and she’ll probably be more worried about the not-having-a-penis thing.”

“No, not that. The thing is, she wasn’t born Imogen Gray. It’s a pen name, and she never tells anyone her real one.”

“That’s weird. Why not?”

“Because of stuff she wrote when she was in college. She doesn’t want her readers finding it online. I guess she didn’t want me finding it either.”

“So you don’t know your girlfriend’s actual name?”

“No, she told me. But I haven’t looked online yet. Just in case it’s . . . weird.”

“Aren’t you scared she’s a murderer or something?”

“Um, I think they would have arrested her. She uses her real name to fly and stuff. Also, she didn’t have to tell me any of this.”

“So why did she?” Nisha’s voice dropped to a whisper again. “Her fake name is Gray! What if that secretly means Graybeard!”

“What?”

“Like in that fairy tale, the pirate who gives his new wife all those keys to the house. But there’s one she can’t use, because it’s for the room where all his murdered wives are! What if this is like that?”

“That’s Bluebeard, stupid. Greybeard is Gandalf ’s last name. Are you going to tell me she’s a wizard now?”

“No. But you should totally turn that key.” Nisha sounded dead serious. “And you should probably do it before you come out to the parents. You know, just in case.”

Darcy considered this. She’d thought she was being virtuous, not snooping on whatever Imogen had put behind her. But what if she was just being a chickenshit again?

Maybe Nisha was right, and it was better to get it out of the way.

“Okay, I’m going to look at it now. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

* * *

In the end, there weren’t that many hits for “Audrey Flinderson.”

Most of the results were from Imogen’s blog in college. Darcy read a handful, and the only striking thing was how boring they were. She could see glimmers of Imogen’s future style, but the sentences were shapeless, the stories rambling and uncertain.

Nearer the top of the first page were Imogen’s movie reviews, more recent and better composed, and funny in a way that Pyromancer never tried to be. They were full of profanity, but nothing Imogen hadn’t said in front of bookstore audiences. Darcy would’ve been mystified why Imogen had hidden her old self, except for the essay sitting at the very top of the search results. It was for a shared blog, and had the title “Unpopular Opinion: My Ex-Girlfriend Is a Bitch.”

Darcy saved it for last. She read it slowly and carefully, with her heart beating slantwise in her chest.

It was brilliant, in a way. Scathing and caustic, witty and droll. The essay was about an unnamed ex in college, someone jealous and selfish and jaw-droppingly vile. It was a deft and savage portrait, dripping poison from every word. The essay was full of obvious exaggerations, but somehow it made Darcy believe the unbelievable about its subject.

It was horrifying but, like a bloody accident on the side of the road, Darcy couldn’t look away. She was too wrapped up in the guilty pleasure of watching a stranger shredded in public. An awful person, who deserved it, and who somehow Imogen had loved for a while.

When Darcy was finished, she leaned back from the screen, a tremor in her breathing. The scary thing was, she’d seen hints of Imogen in every sentence—her passion, her intensity. She had even imagined the motions of her hands as the rant unfolded. This was essential Imogen, distilled by anger and betrayal.

And she’d been rewarded for it. The essay had over a thousand comments, and had been shared countless times. It would probably always be the first result for a search on “Audrey Flinderson.”

Darcy tried to imagine reading this five months ago, the day after she and Imogen had first kissed. It was searing enough now. Back then, it would have been boiling oil poured on na**d skin.

At least the secrecy made sense now. As Darcy sat there, she murmured Imogen’s warning from the other night. “The things we write, they aren’t always really us.”

That was true, wasn’t it? Maybe this essay was partly in character. Maybe Imogen had only been playing at being this wounded, vicious person, like when Darcy imagined herself as Mr. Hamlyn. All writing had some element of fiction in it, after all.