Amanda Brooks emerged from her office. She was one of those whippet-thin older women with clavicle bones that looked sharp enough to cut glass. Actually, she reminded me a bit of Thad Vanderhei’s mother, only instead of brittle fragility, she radiated a tightly wound intensity. Her hair was the same ash-brown hue as her daughter’s, augmented with blond highlights, but like Sue Vanderhei’s it was drawn back in a bun so tight it had to tug on her scalp. Maybe it served as a temporary face-lift. She regarded me through a pair of chunky, retro-chic, expensive-looking glasses, looking me up and down. “Daisy Johanssen?”

You would think that since her daughter was responsible for getting me suspended from school, she might remember me, right? I mean, there were forty-seven people in my graduating class, and the other forty-six were fully human. But I made myself answer politely. “How can I help you, Ms. Brooks?”

Her expression suggested she doubted I could. “Come into my office, won’t you?” She turned toward the cute guy. “I’ll be with you in a short while, Mr. Palmer. Thank you for your patience.”

He shrugged, tapping a fist to his chest and giving her a charming smile. “No haste, mother. All respect.”

Amanda Brooks flushed slightly before ushering me into her office and closing the door behind us. She took a seat behind her desk.

I took a seat opposite her, facing the river. If it were my office, I’d have arranged it to have the river view myself, but I suppose it was all the better to impress visitors. Amanda Brooks was clearly willing to sacrifice on behalf of her job.

She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the desk. “Let me cut to the chase, Daisy. We’re in the midst of a publicity crisis here.”

“I know.”

She gave me a tight, grim smile. “I’m not sure you do. We’ve had cancellations. Bookings are down. Business owners are panicking. There’s a growing perception that Pemkowet isn’t a safe destination for paranormal tourism.”

“That’s because it’s not,” I said. “It never has been.”

“With a little more cooperation, it could be.” With laserlike focus, Amanda Brooks studied me through the lenses of her chic glasses. “According to Chief Bryant, you’re the designated liaison to the eldritch community, and unlikely as it seems, it appears that it’s you I need to talk to.”

For that, I could have throttled the chief. “He may have overstated the case,” I said. “I’m Hel’s liaison. It doesn’t mean I represent the entire eldritch community.”

Her gaze was unblinking. “But you represent Hel’s authority?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you have credentials? A license?”