Two tables over, an elderly man and woman wearing what she vaguely recognized as clothing from decades before appeared to be enjoying their dinner. Then the man turned his head and nodded at her, and Hollis felt a new chill.

He’d been shot in the head. Scarlet colored his gray hair around the awful gaping wound, a thread of it running down his cheek.

Okay, that’s new. Don’t usually see how they died. Damn. Oh, damn.

She forced herself to keep looking around, realizing that she was seeing only the dead, also something new for her. There were perhaps a dozen people besides the elderly couple in the restaurant, most sitting at tables as couples or in small groups, seemingly enjoying a meal. The clothing they wore was from past decades, some from very far back; one woman wore a very long skirt with a simple blouse, both that and her hairstyle telling Hollis she had lived sometime before the twentieth century.

They were all aware of her. As her gaze roamed among them, some nodded politely and returned to their meals; others stared at her as if waiting for something.

Hollis couldn’t tell from looking at them how they had died—except for the elderly man.

That has to mean something. What does it mean? These things are always linked to the case we’re on. Almost always. So who is he and why is how he died important? His clothing . . . he could have passed me on the street today and I wouldn’t have noticed his clothes especially, so . . . recent? I think fairly recent. Men’s clothing doesn’t change as much as women’s. A few decades ago. Less. Maybe.

She fixed her gaze on the elderly man, trying to decide what to ask him. But before she could, an odd sort of hazy shimmer above the empty chair beside the couple caught her attention. And as she stared, a huge crow assumed a solid shape, perching on the back of the chair, and bright black eyes gazed at her. It turned its head to exactly, eerily, match the elderly man’s.

Hollis had the unsettling certainty that the bird was every bit as alive as she was herself.

“Wow,” she murmured.

The crow uttered a soft “Caw.”

She tore her gaze from the bird to look at the elderly man, meeting his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, and oddly pale eyes met hers steadily.

“You have to stop him. He isn’t sick; he’s evil. He’s always been evil.”

—

SIMON CAVENDISH WAS late leaving the bank, which wasn’t all that unusual these days. With Nellie Cavendish having taken over the Cavendish family business interests from her late uncle Duncan, and being not only whip smart but very experienced in finance and having her own ideas about how the business should be run, the last weeks had been busy indeed.

Simon was happy about that. He hadn’t liked Duncan, had profoundly disapproved of his handling of the Cavendish finances, and had been disgusted and appalled by the older man’s other . . . activities.