Wren studied Lawrence for a moment. “I don’t ever limit the scope of an investigation by offering conditions,” he said quietly. “But I can also say that I have never based a report on anything that wasn’t backed up by solid facts. It won’t be any different here.”

The other man held his gaze a moment longer. “See you tomorrow, Andrew.”

He walked out the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wren alone in his office. Wren sat where he was and finished his latte, then stood up and walked over to the window again. He admired the Wiz, admired the work he had done with the homeless. He hoped he wouldn’t find anything bad to write about. He hoped the phone calls and letters were baseless—sour grapes from a former employee or an errant shot at troublemaking from an extremist group of “real Americans.” He’d read the letters and listened to the tapes of the phone calls. It was possible there was nothing to them.

But his instincts told him otherwise. And he had learned from twenty-five years of experience that his instincts were seldom wrong.

The demon gave Andrew Wren the better part of an hour with the foundation’s financial records, waiting patiently, allowing the reporter enough time to familiarize himself with the overall record of donations to Fresh Start and Pass/Go, then checked to make certain the hallway was empty and slipped into the room behind him. Wren never heard the demon approach, his back to the door, his head lowered to the open books as he ran his finger across the notations. The demon stood looking at him for a moment, thinking how easy it would be to kill him, feeling the familiar hunger begin to build.

But now was not the time and Wren had not been lured to Seattle to satisfy the demon’s hunger. There were plenty of others for that.

The demon moved up behind Andrew Wren and placed its fingers on the back of the man’s exposed neck. Wren did not move, did not turn, did not feel anything as the dark magic entered him. His eyes locked on the pages before him, and his mind froze. The demon probed his thoughts, drew his attention, and then whispered the words that were needed to manipulate him.

I won’t find what I’m looking for here. Simon Lawrence is much too clever for that. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to let me look at these books if he thought they were incriminating. I have to be patient. I have to wait for my source to contact me.

The demon spoke in Andrew Wren’s voice, in Andrew Wren’s mind, in Andrew Wren’s thoughts, and it would seem to the reporter as if the words were his own. He would do as the demon wanted without ever realizing it; he would be the demon’s tool. He would think that the ideas the demon gave him were his own and that the conclusions the demon reached for him were his. It was easy enough to arrange. Andrew Wren was an investigative reporter, and investigative reporters believed that everyone was covering up something. Why should Simon Lawrence be different?