THIRTY-TWO

MY MOTHER’S MAKEUP was smeared down her face, and she was lying in bed on a mound of crumpled Kleenex, but thankfully, not sipping alcohol. I lowered onto the corner of her mattress.

“Mom, I know you hate talking about anything related to your past, but please, I need you to help me make sense of something. Lives are on the line.”

She raised her eyebrows but nodded.

I summarized the bizarre situation, asking if she understood how someone associated with the occult could be helpful and hurtful at the same time, using two different names.

“It’s simple.”

“It is?” I scooted closer to her. “Tell me.”

She closed her eyes and spoke robotically, like emotions weren’t allowed. “The abuse children suffer in the occult is so unbearable, so totally overwhelming, they often dissociate—invent an imaginary personality that can survive the pain that would otherwise crush them. They may create numerous personalities, each designed to protect them from specific threats. It’s a desperate form of denial and escape. And it’s not uncommon to give the personalities names.”

“That’s insane.”

She opened her eyes. “Owen, I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but if someone in the occult has befriended you, end the relationship immediately. And don’t believe a single word they tell you. Not one thing.”

It was surreal having such a candid talk with my mother on a topic that had been forbidden all my life. I saw it as my one chance to ask her, “You know your ‘friend’ Dr. Bradford was in the occult—do you honestly believe he got out?”

I expected her to launch into a lengthy defense of him. Instead, her eyes pooled. “Of course I question it at times. But for once in my life, I’m trying to trust that people can change.” She clutched a wad of tissues. “I have to believe that.”

In order to believe she could change.

I wasn’t suddenly infused with any new confidence in Brody Bradford, but for my mom’s sake, I found myself hoping I was wrong and he truly was a transformed man. She had suffered more than enough betrayal.

She closed her weary eyes, and I politely left the room. I shut myself in my old bedroom and sank to the floor, needing to sort through the traffic jam now gridlocked in my mind.

I’d heard of dissociative identity disorder but never understood it, much less thought I’d come face-to-face with someone who actually had the condition. The way I now understood it, “Veronica” was truly done with the occult and genuinely trying to help me, but “Eva” was as committed as ever—intentionally plotting against me, taking orders from her handler.

One person with two opposing personalities that had never met. Maybe more than two.

Then there was Zella, also being raised in the occult. Could I trust the details of her story tonight? Her motives? Her sanity?

And how in the world was she marked as a defender?

I gnashed my teeth, loathing the mounting uncertainty, enduring the physical symptoms of fight or flight. I was tempted all over again to take off—run away with Ray Anne and Jackson and never look back. Instead, I rose to my knees.

“God, I want to intervene and save these students’ lives—you know I do. And I want to stop the evil in this town and see your will come to pass here. But as usual, I don’t understand who’s for me or against me—who’s lying or telling the truth. But I do know tomorrow night will make or break everything, so please, Lord, show me what to do.”

I collapsed onto the bed, seriously missing my dog but grateful that the wailing baby and unseen stalker had left me—at least for now. “Whatever you say, Lord, I’ll do it.”

There was the rapid sound of tapping on the window. At first I was sure it was the witches, but when my eyelids sprang open, I saw raindrops pelting the farmhouse glass. The scarce morning light had turned the white walls a bleak gray. The seriousness of the day’s objective weighed so heavily on me, it hurt my chest to inhale. But I wasn’t willing to lie there cowering.

I sat up, and Ray Anne’s face consumed my thoughts. I felt like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t get to see her this morning. And hopefully hold her.

I wanted—really needed—her with me for tonight’s mission, but I knew the odds of her being strong enough weren’t good. Plus, her mom probably wouldn’t allow her out of the house for long, if at all. As of now, my only plan was to show up at the Mary statue and beg the students not to kill themselves. I held out hope I’d piece together a better strategy.

The old man had warned me not to go alone, but what choice did I have?

A knock on the front door jarred me out of bed.

Elle. Dressed to impress. High heels and all.

I welcomed her into the living room, and she held a gold iPhone out to me. “I figured you might could use my old cell after the fire.”

Of course she did.

“Thanks.”

“Is your mom home?” she whispered.

I nodded toward the stairs, and Elle spoke softer. “I located the boarding school Veronica Snow attended. It’s in New Mexico. It took a lot of digging, but I found a certain signature on the visitation log.”

Finally, physical evidence that Detective Benny was Veronica’s handler—a child abuser and leader in Masonville’s underground crime ring. McFarland’s killer. Also the one inciting witches and warlocks from coast-to-coast to war against those of us committed to peace.

“Is it enough proof to expose the detective?” I asked.

She crinkled her nose. “The detective?” She leaned and spoke in my ear. “The name was ‘B. Bradford.’ I compared it with the doctor’s signature—it’s a match.”

I sank to the sofa, reacclimating to reality.

My instincts had been right about Dr. Bradford’s unredeemed motives, yet it hadn’t dawned on me he could be evil’s point man. Even worse than a dirty cop.

“And no, I need more evidence before coming forward,” Elle said. “In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone, and don’t get near him.” She searched my face. “What are you thinking?”

I was sitting there contemplating whether or not my mom could handle the news that her faith in Bradford was a huge mistake after all. I was also weighing the rewards versus risks of telling Elle about tonight’s group suicide. On the one hand, if anyone had my back and was willing to help, it was Elle. But as a reporter, she might feel a sense of responsibility to go public with the story, even knowing it could provoke evil forces and the human masterminds to retaliate.

“I just have some decisions to make.” I left it at that.

“I understand, but don’t wallow in uncertainty.” Elle had never been much of a nurturer. She hurried toward the door, looking down at her phone, then glanced back. “How’s Ray Anne?”

“Not so great. I’m about to go check on her. Why?”

Elle shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, especially coming from Elle.

She left, and I drove my motorcycle in the drizzle to Ray Anne’s. There was nothing but a soggy, empty diaper box in the bushes outside her apartment now.

Her dad answered the door.

“How’s Ray Anne? May I please see her?”

Mr. Greiner looked at me differently today, his eyes not narrowed for once, like he’d finally grown fond of me. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Why? Because she’s still mad at me for telling?”

“Because she’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

He smiled, but I could tell it was 100 percent forced. “She’s getting the treatment she needs.”

Ray’s mom came to the door, her pink-tinted eyes and nose bearing the signs of a tear fest. “Owen, difficult as it was, we committed Ray Anne to the hospital last night.”

I couldn’t catch my breath. “Like . . . a psych ward?”

Ray’s mom started sobbing and stepped away. Eventually, Mr. Greiner nodded.

“Are you serious?”

“Owen, we—”

“Where is she—what hospital?”

“She can’t have any visitors.”

“For how long?”

“Five days. Maybe longer depending on her progress.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Mr. Greiner stepped outside, his chest inflated like a bodyguard. “We weren’t willing to sit back and lose another child to suicide, Owen. I’m sorry if you don’t understand, but my wife and I stand by our decision.”

I understood his decision; I just hated that I couldn’t get to her. And nothing about her treatment plan would take the spiritual battle into consideration—how frustrating would that be for Ray Anne?

I dug my fingers into my scalp, resisting punching the brick house. “Where’s Jackson?”

Mrs. Greiner stepped outside and stood beside her husband, still weeping. “Jackson’s grandfather asked to see him. We thought now would be a good time, while Ray Anne is away. Dr. Bradford picked him up this morning.”

The earth might as well have quit spinning. My world came to a standstill.

I wanted to say something. To tear into both of them, even though they had no idea they’d done anything wrong. Terribly wrong. But my jaw was clenched too tight to mouth the words.

Mrs. Greiner hugged me. My arms hung heavy at my sides. “We can’t lose heart, Owen. We’re hopeful Ray Anne will recover quickly from this and be back home soon. She’s a remarkable young lady. A radiant person.”

And just like that, it came back to me . . .

The chilling question Molek’s bats had posed to Mother Punishment and the indwelling Rulers last night: “You disabled the radiant one?”

“Under lock and key,” they had replied.

Ray Anne . . .