I looked at him quizzically, but it was Quentin who asked, “Do you people ever throw anything away?”

Elliot shrugged. “Not really.”

“That’s everything but the juniper berries and the mandrake root,” I said. “Is there an herbal specialty shop or a New Age supply store near here?”

“I didn’t see one,” Quentin said.

Elliot looked at us for a moment, expression unreadable, and then turned to the door. “Come with me.” Quentin and I followed, exchanging a bemused look.

We walked through a series of short hallways, stopping at a row of dark, closed offices. The nearest was marked with a small brass nameplate reading “Y. Hyouden.” I glanced at Elliot. “This is Yui’s office,” I said. “We couldn’t find it earlier. We were looking.”

“It’s hard to get here if you don’t know the way,” he said, pressing his palm against the door. “She liked her privacy.”

“Jan mentioned that. She said you could lead me here.”

“And I have,” he said, voice soft.

“Why are we here?” Quentin asked. “I mean, other than the hunting for clues part.”

“Because she always said she could stock an occult store out of her desk.” Elliot closed his hand into a fist, leaving it against the door. “She was so smart . . . but she couldn’t stop whatever it was that took her away.” His voice was full of raw, angry longing.

I blinked, startled. I shouldn’t have been: in any community as insular as ALH, some ties would be bound to run deeper than “coworkers.” “Elliot?” I said. “Are you all right?”

“We were going to be married this fall,” he said, like I hadn’t spoken. “We were waiting for the leaves to turn. She wanted . . . she wanted to be married when the world was on fire.”

The blows just keep coming. “I’m sorry.” The words weren’t enough. Words are never enough.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s gone, and you’re going to find out who took her from me.” He shrugged and opened the door, motioning us inside. I studied him, and then nodded, walking into the room. Quentin followed a few steps behind me, and Elliot brought up the rear, turning on the lights as he came.

Quentin stopped as the lights came on, eyes widening. “Neat . . .”

The office was neat, in an eclectic sort of way. It was decorated in a mix of “modern electronics” and “traditional Japanese,” with red walls and soft lighting. The computer was on a raised platform surrounded by cushions, and a more standard drafting desk with deep, wide drawers was centered on one wall. Framed prints occupied three of the four walls; the fourth was dominated by a corkboard covered in glossy photographs.

“Toby, look,” said Quentin, pointing toward the photo at the center of the display. It was the largest picture there, obviously situated in a place of honor, surrounded by smaller, more careless snapshots.