Danielle gets out her flashlight and scans the interior. There are a few benches and tables. Tool chests and machinery lie around, but there’s nothing else inside the cavernous space.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, a giant mechanical tyrannosaur? I wriggle myself into the warehouse. Shannon is about to protest but stops himself short.

I use my flashlight to illuminate the inside. I splash the light around looking for any kind of clue. There’s a small box of a building in the corner, probably an office. I walk over and shine my light inside through a window. There’s a desk, a chair, an outdated calendar on the wall and an unplugged mini fridge in the corner.

Danielle has made her way over to me. “Not the smoking gun we were hoping for?”

I shake my head. “Not enough. No. Not really.”

We walk across the interior of the warehouse while Shannon keeps watch at the door. Danielle looks down at a workbench. Pliers, hammers and drills sit on top of it among piles of metal shavings.

“This could be his workshop,” says Danielle. She spins her beam around, hoping it hits something. “What were we expecting?” she asks rhetorically.

I aim my light at the floor and walk toward the back, searching. For what? Blood? Photographs of Times Square? A wall covered with clues and pieces of string linking all the crimes together?

“Five minutes,” comes Ailes’s voice over my earpiece. We have five minutes until the blackout ends and the Warlock knows we’re here—assuming this is really his place. But is it?

We’re only here because of the clue Damian sent me. Everything outside is suspicious, but not conclusive. Did he send us down a blind alley? On the surface it was a pretty good guess, but that’s the extent of it.

“Has your mystery friend ever been wrong?” asks Danielle.

“No. Never.” My voice is defensive.

“I don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s right in front of us and we’re too dumb to see . . .”

I turn around. Danielle is staring at the concrete floor.

“Well, aren’t we two silly geese. Walking all over it,” she replies.

It’s the markings. Stripes of white paint for crosswalks and streets. Gray outlines. Even the manhole cover has been painted in.

We’re standing in the middle of Times Square.

49

MY GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE in the Hollywood Hills had a theater in the basement. He would put on private shows there occasionally, but its real purpose was for rehearsing. The entire back wall was covered with curtains; when you lowered them, they revealed a wall of mirrors in which you could watch yourself performing.

When my father and I would drive there from our Venice Beach apartment to visit Grandfather several times a week, I would leave them in the library and sneak down into the theater to play. The whole place smelled of dust and cigar smoke.

Without the lights on, the only illumination came from an ancient exit sign powered by a dim bulb. I’d push the musty crimson velvet curtains back and stand in the middle of the stage. If I gazed out across the upholstered seats I could see a faraway girl who looked just like me.