I run a red light and come to a screeching halt in front of Daphne’s building. As I’m rushing up the walk, I see her door open.
“Daph!” I yell, catching her attention.
She blinks and then frowns at me. “What are you doing here?”
I run up the stairs to her balcony and see the envelope on the stoop.
Before she can look down and grab it, I snatch it up.
“What’s that? Jack, this isn’t funny.”
“I had a vision.” I’m panting like crazy from the adrenaline and running up the stairs. “Shit, Daph, I came all the way from Miss Sophia’s.”
I back her into her apartment.
“Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” she says. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”
The envelope pulses in my grasp as if it has a heartbeat.
“Give me the envelope.” Her voice is perfectly calm. Her face clear of distress. She holds her hand out. “It’s okay, Jack.”
“I’m right next to you,” I remind her. “I’m right here.”
“Okay. We’ve got this.”
I pass it to her, and she immediately scowls.
“Heartbeat?” I ask her.
“So weird,” she mutters. “But everything about this is ridiculously weird.”
On the back of the envelope, written in a chicken scratch that looks like something a six-year-old wrote, is one word: DAPHNE.
“I’m putting fingerprints all over this,” she mutters. “Cash’ll be pissed.”
“Well, you have to see what’s inside,” I remind her.
She pulls out a photo.
A Polaroid.
In black and white, it’s a picture of a woman staring straight into the camera—only her shoulders and head visible in the frame.
And her eyes are missing.
“Oh, my goddess,” Daphne mutters and puts the photo facedown.
“There’s a timestamp on it,” I say and slip the image from her hands to study it. “Two-oh-eight in the afternoon. Today.”
We look at each other.
“Today?” she asks. “It’s only like seven in the morning.”
“I think this means he’s going to kill her this afternoon.”
“But who is she?” Daphne takes the photo back from me. “Without her eyes, it’s almost impossible to tell.”
“Or the camera is broken. Or set on the wrong time.”
“It’s set on the wrong time,” she confirms. “But on purpose. He’s messing with me now, Jack. It’s started.”
I blow out a breath and reach for my phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Your sisters. If you think we’re not telling them about this—”
“I don’t think that. I know we are.” She sets the photo and envelope on the table in front of her, watching them as if they might jump up and bite her. “I need to get dressed.”
“Do that. I’ll make the calls.”
“Thanks.” She stands to walk into her bedroom but stops and looks back at me with haunted eyes. “Thank you. I mean that.”
“No need to thank me, sweets.” I wink at her and toss her the arrogant grin I know she likes, just to lighten the mood and give her a second of normalcy.
But when she’s out of the room, and Brielle answers her phone, I get serious again.
“Jack?” Brielle asks. “Are you okay?”
“It’s started,” I reply. “Everyone needs to come to Daphne’s.”
“We’re on our way.”
“What happened?” Millie demands, the first in line as the four of them march into Daphne’s apartment. Millie has a huge paper sack, and Lucien comes in right behind her with a tray of coffees.
Brielle has another tray.
“You brought breakfast?” Daphne asks in surprise.
“We have to eat,” Cash says and bites into an apple fritter. “And you know she put all kinds of woo-woo protection stuff in all of this.”
“It’s a two-for,” Brielle agrees. “Now, talk.”
I explain my visit to Miss Sophia—the vision and racing over to Daph’s.
“How did you know that it hadn’t happened yet? Or that it wasn’t happening as you saw it?” Cash asks.
“Because that’s not how it works with me,” I reply. “It’s always precognition. I don’t know how I knew it was about to happen right away. I just knew I had to get here.”
“Then we found the envelope,” Daphne says, picking up the story. “Brought it inside and opened it.”
“Did both of you touch it?” Cash asks.
“Yeah.” Daphne winces when Cash’s eyes narrow.
“Have I taught you nothing?” he demands.
“I had to open it,” Daphne replies. “And let me just say, I could have gone my whole life without seeing what was inside.”
Cash puts on some gloves—ignoring the snickers from the rest of us at the sight of him carrying gloves around—and then reaches over to the table to pick up the envelope.
When he pulls out the photo, his face goes stone-cold.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Oh, damn,” Brielle mutters.
Millie and Lucien look at each other and seem to have some unspoken conversation.
“The timestamp,” I point out.
Cash scowls again. “It hasn’t happened yet.”
“Wait, what?” Millie asks. “What do you mean?”
“Just that,” Cash says. “The time on this photo is later today.”
“He hasn’t killed her yet,” Lucien says.
“But she’s missing her eyes,” Daphne puts in.
“We’re dealing with a supernatural entity,” Millie reminds us all. “He can manipulate technology. But how is he doing this? Has he inhabited another body?”
“Has anyone spoken with Dahlia lately?” Brielle asks.
“Who’s Dahlia?” I blink at the others, still feeling like I didn’t do my homework.
It’s damn frustrating.
“Dahlia was the witch Hor—he inhabited last time,” Millie says with sadness in her blue eyes. “She sold her flower shop and moved to Miami. She’s long gone.”
“I don’t blame her,” Brielle mutters. “After what she went through, I’d move far away, too.”
“I don’t think he’s possessed someone else,” Lucien says, thinking it over. “I could be wrong, but that didn’t exactly work out well for him the last time.”
“How else can he kill people?” I demand. “How can he take pictures and drop them off here?”
“Good question,” Millie says. “That’s a damn good question. I need to consult the grimoires.”
“I think we need to know who this woman is first. How do we get to her before he kills her?” Cash wonders.
“You won’t find her,” Lucien says, sorrow heavy in his voice. “If we’ve learned anything from the past year, it’s that killing is what he does best. Better, even, than taunting our girls. It’s his passion, the way gardening or painting is for others. Murder is his hobby, and he’s damn good at it.”