“Lots of people. I get asked for it all the time.”

“Could you provide us with some names and contact information?”

“Isn’t that your job?” he says snarkily.

“What?” I ask.

“Finding this guy?”

“Mr. Reynolds, this is how we find people. We ask people like you to help us.”

He waves a hand in the air. “And if we don’t, you violate our rights and throw us away in some hole.”

I don’t know if there’s a hole big enough for this jerk. I reply calmly, “Has anyone from the FBI made a threat to you about that? If they did, I’ll report them. Short of a court order, your cooperation is voluntary and nobody should be coercing you.”

Reynolds scoffs. “I get it. You’re the good cop. That other . . . woman was the bad one. This is how it works.”

He’s a sad little man who wants to play an important role in all of this. He thinks he’s another Edward Snowden, standing up to the man, when all he’s doing is stopping us from getting a killer. It’s a game for him.

I set the questionnaire aside and pull a photo from my bag and drop it on the table. It’s a crime scene photo of Chloe. “We’re all good cops. We want to get the guy that killed her and the other man and stop him from doing it again.”

Reynolds ignores the photo. “What makes you so sure anybody was murdered? I’m not convinced that this guy has done anything wrong.”

His eyes are fierce, as if he’s being personally challenged. He’s much more obsessed with this case than I think we realized.

“Mr. Reynolds, do you really think he can raise the dead or make an airplane travel through time?”

“Anything is possible. There’s already a discussion thread on Reddit explaining a quantum universe theory for this. Wormhole bubbles. Maybe that’s what this Warlock is. A scientist who’s showing us what he’s capable of.”

So Reynolds sees his idealized self in this monster—an unrecognized genius who has to show the world how brilliant he is. “Seriously? You believe this?” I can’t hide my surprise. Reynolds should be smarter than this.

“I’ve seen a lot of crazy things. Not everything is a trick, Miss Blackstar. But maybe you can’t see that.” His voice is condescending, like a frat boy who just came down from a hit of LSD and thinks he’s seen the secrets of the universe.

“Maybe. But we’ve got two dead bodies and your website is the only connection. And you’re stopping us from finding out who may be involved.”

Reynolds holds up his hands again. “I’m just protecting my users’ rights. Don’t get all high-and-mighty on me. They have an expectation of privacy. Have you read the Constitution?”

To Reynolds, anyone with a badge is chomping at the bit to violate his civil rights. “Yes. Several times. I even swore an oath on it. That’s how you become an FBI agent.”