Times Square.

The Warlock’s latest victim is a dead angel in Times Square.

Another screen shows headlines from websites and television news. The image is self-explanatory. But the headlines spell out what the Warlock wants us to think anyway: An angel has fallen to earth.

Knoll holds the phone to his chest and quiets the room. “NYPD says almost all the bones in her body appear to be broken. There’s an indentation around her head and shoulder—it looks like from a fall. They’re checking the nearby buildings, but it doesn’t seem possible that she could have jumped that far.” He puts the phone to his ear and listens. “They’ve got some cell phone video from witnesses. They’re going to transmit that to us in a few minutes.”

Someone asks if the feathers match the dove feather from the Avenger. Another person says they appear to match visually, but there’s no chance to do physical tests. We haven’t released that feather clue yet to the public in order to prevent a copycat from spoiling the investigation. I don’t know if there’s much point now.

I step closer to the screen. There’s no sense of terror. Almost peaceful. The feathers in her back are carefully placed. They look organic, like they belong there. I imagine that every devoutly religious person who sees this is calling friends, asking if it’s some kind of sign.

Ailes is trying to take it all in like the rest of us. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. As striking as the image is, there’s nothing supernatural about it. The feathers are well-placed, but for all we know, she could have been dropped from a helicopter. There has to be something else there.

Her right hand is curled under her head. It’s clenched in a fist. I call out to Knoll. Maybe he already knows. “What’s in her hand?”

He sets the phone aside for a moment. “One of our New York forensic people is looking at that right now. We’re going to get an image in a moment.”

We all wait for the image on the screen to change. The Warlock has our full attention and that of everyone in Times Square, plus the millions watching the various Internet feeds being streamed for phones. The image of the fallen angel is horrific but captivating. The blood around her body, the white feathers. It’s like something out of the book of Revelation.

“Claire Nelson,” Gerald says to me. “I’m pretty sure that’s her name. I found her photo in the Faceplaced data. We’re trying to contact her family. We knew this an hour ago. If we’d been faster . . .” His voice breaks up.

I try to console him, “Gerald, he already had her then. I don’t know if there’s anything we could have done. The recent victims were killed hours before we found them.”

I tell myself this is true. I cannot bear to think that while I was sleeping on the couch I could have done something to stop this from happening. It’s a horrible thought. If I’d managed to persuade Liam Reynolds sooner before Damian had to step in. If only I’d noticed things that I’m not seeing yet. If I wasn’t distracted by the illusion. I look at the room full of faces. We’re all thinking the same thing. Maybe if I’d worked through my lunch break. Maybe if I’d taken more time to look at the evidence. It’s the way cops see things.