It’s an unsettling insight for me. I call myself religious and go to church from time to time, but I know deep down, I’m not really a believer. Although I keep trying.

“Haven’t found the right one?” asks Knoll, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“One?”

“Partner,” he replies, using the politically correct term. Does he think I might be a lesbian? Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Not yet.” I should be thinking about Terrence. He’s probably no more than five miles from here. But when Knoll said “partner,” the person who comes to my mind isn’t one I’d like to admit. It’s Damian.

Forensics is about to move Claire’s body. They’ve picked up the feathers and placed white chalk marks around the ones close to her.

“So how did she get here?” Knoll says, turning his mind back to the present.

I knew this question was coming the moment I saw the still image on the live feed back at Quantico. “She was dumped by one of the cars that passed by. Maybe a hole cut in the trunk.” It’s my only theory at the moment. I know it’s weak. But it’s all I’ve got.

Knoll nods as he tries to puzzle out what I just said.

The glittering lights are surreal. Broadway marquees, corporate logos, giant video screens and, in the middle of it all, a naked angel who appears to have fallen to earth. I shake my head as the news ticker rolls by, describing what just happened. Then I notice something new. They attribute it to “the Angel Killer.”

I ask Knoll, “Angel Killer?”

“Our choice of words. Dr. Chisholm decided it’s time we shifted the narrative away from the Warlock and take control of the message. We’ve never officially called him ‘the Warlock.’ I think this is better.”

I like it a lot. “I agree. It puts a face on the victims. Maybe it adds to the mystery if we call her an angel, but I like the idea of making all the victims angels.” I catch another headline out of the corner of my eye. I try to read it again before it changes.

I turn to Knoll, confused.

His voice is apologetic. “The tabloids decided to run with that. We’ve asked them not to. But it’s too late. I’m sorry. The press got some pretty good photos of you when we arrived here. People have already made the connection.”

There goes any hope of anonymity. There are thousands of people around us in Times Square. It feels as if half of them are looking up at us on our platform. I see the long lenses of professional cameras taking photographs of me. I want to shrink and hide. I know it’s too late. It was too late before I even got here.

The ticker crawls by again. “FBI Agent Hunting Angel Killer Revealed to be Jessica Blackstar. Daughter of the Famous Magic Dynasty. Will the Witch Catch the Warlock?”

So that is how they’re going to describe this game? Me versus him? My stomach wrenches. This is not the kind of attention I wanted, nor the responsibility it puts on me in the eyes of everyone watching.