The return of the voice in my head made my hands sweat, my heart jerk against my ribs. I buried my fear under the wall of scripture Mordechai had constantly been chanting, pulling a few of my favorites together in the mantra that had become my constant companion.
“You—are not—sovereign,” I gritted out beneath my breath as I hurried toward Mordechai’s backyard office. Saying the words aloud gave them form and strength, and the pain that raked through me felt like vindication, not abuse. It was proof I was pissing off the thing inside me. Proof I could win.
The main house looked empty. No mourners roamed around, and there probably wouldn’t be many people here today, given the rules for shiva on a Saturday. So there was no one to hear my desperate, fiercely muttered rebuke.
“You are not many. You are not God. You are a slithering, disgusting parasite. The Lord is One.”
The thing inside me hissed and writhed, retreating as I stalked up to Mordechai’s backyard office, but I knew mere words wouldn’t keep it at bay forever. I unlocked the door and slipped inside, then paused, savoring all the familiar scents, the memories. Tomato soup, basil, crackers. Warm shawls and the faint hum of the air conditioner—Mordechai. The room felt like he’d just stepped out, and I sagged a little, grief washing through me.
The last few days had been hell. The pressure inside me had changed—expanded, as if Mordechai’s passing had allowed it to grow bigger, fuller, more intrusive—poking into parts of my brain and body that before had been strictly off limits.
For the most part, I fought it successfully, punching it back with loud, delirious music I played through headphones borrowed from Steve, drowning it with prayers that scraped against my throat with every word.
But sometimes, when I wasn’t paying attention, it would find something new to entertain it. My hand would drift over my skin without me consciously directing it. My nerves would prickle in a long, intimate shiver down my spine. I’d huff short, panicked breaths for no reason, catching the attention of anyone around me. And my eyes were darker, deeper and more crazed looking, every time I caught sight of them in a passing mirror.
I couldn’t run away from it, I knew. I’d spent over half my life with a fuckingexorcist. Whatever this thing was, however it had gotten inside me, it couldn’t have been there long—Mordechai would have seen it. He’d noticed something was wrong only days before he died. Which meant I was still me. Mostly me. I could fight this using the same tools he had.
I could get this thing out of me.
I blew out a long, shaky breath, going immediately to Mordechai’s desk and snagging his copy of the Sefer Tehillim. The slim book of psalms made my skin itch, and I grimacedagainst the spurt of pain as I shoved it in my backpack. Touching holy things was starting to seriously suck. The book felt heavier than it should, like it was resisting me. Or I was resisting it, which seemed worse. This sort of reaction was only going to get more intense, I suspected. I didn’t have much time.
I scanned the room a second time, because I wasn’t just here for my own personal demon. If I wanted to take on Max’s job and score his ten grand, I needed a lot more details on his case than I had glimpsed during Mordechai’s hasty re-filing job. I needed everything I could get.
Unfortunately, the Graham file wasn’t on Mordechai’s desk. It wasn’t in the usual paper stacks, either. I finally found it in the front of the file cabinet, like he’d meant to put it away and couldn’t quite do it. Why file it at all if Max was coming back?
I spread everything on the table, poring over each page. Money showed in the photos—hair, clothes, posture, horses. Nobody looked possessed, though. They looked rich. I mean, the grandma was a little rough around the edges, but that was how ancient grandmas looked: startled by mortality, frozen in mid-wtf face. A teen girl vanished from later photos. Max showed up off and on, earnest and more competent-looking the older he got. No grandpa, though. There was never a grandpa. Unless he was behind the camera?
Mordechai’s “notes” were his usual chaos, of course: underlines, circles, symbols. Unfortunately, there was no accompanying Rosetta Stone, which I seriously could have used. Still, it was a fair amount of information. There was a lot I could use here. I copied Max’s letter and a few photos, lingering over the flat-roof house and the smiling older couple with windburned cheeks. Staff, I decided. Not family.
“Desperate straits,” I murmured, remembering Max’s phrasing. Who talked like that? Rich people. Also, this housewas rocking six separate demons, according to Mordechai. What did you do to roll out a welcome mat for six?
The copier thunked to life. Several hasty pages later, I tucked my new copies in my back pocket and started shoving the original sheets back into the drawer…then saw another file folder directly three tabs back.
DELIA THOMPSON.
My name. Mordechai’s block letters. Stark and official.
With hands that were shaking for no good reason, I pulled the folder out. It was newer than the ones behind it, its crisp edges folded short and squat, like it was meant to hold a crapload more documents than normal.
Only there wasn’t a single scrap of paper in it.
“What the?—”
The exterior door to Mordechai’s office rattled loudly, making me jump. I shoved the empty folder under a paper stack, slid the drawer shut, and shot around the desk as the door opened.
We both froze.
Because, for one thing, I was technically trespassing. And for the second, the woman in front of me was a cop.
“Are you Delia Thompson?” she asked, smiling. Not a sneaky smile, or even a stern one. Just steady. Five-eight, compact, tight bun, scuffed shoes. TV-ready uniform, real-world eyes.
“Yes, I am. I have a key,” I said hastily. “I’m a friend of—was a friend of—wait. How do you know who I am?”
“Rabbi Mordechai’s nephew mentioned you. He didn’t know you had a key, though.” She smiled, smelling faintly of paperwork and deli wraps. “I’m Officer Hernandez, and I’m following up on the rabbi’s passing.”
“Why?” I blurted, hating how sharp it came out. “What happened to him? The news said it was a heart attack.”
“May I come in?” she asked, never mind that this wasn’t my place.
