Cody shrugged. “Chief wants us to work together, and it doesn’t hurt to have a pretty girl on hand when you’re questioning bartenders. They’re going to be paranoid, afraid we’re after them for overserving those kids.”

“Maybe we should be.”

“Maybe.” He rasped one hand over his stubbled chin. “But we did find an empty bottle of Macallan at the scene, so that part of their story checks out. They kept drinking after last call.”

“Yeah, but did the bottle come from the Vanderheis’ bar?” I asked.

“Good question.” Cody gave me an approving look, which faded quickly. “Not one I look forward to asking the bereaved parents.”

“No,” I murmured. “I wouldn’t think so.”

After that exchange, we worked together in silence. I took the opportunity to write up a quick report on the milkweed fairy encounter for the Pemkowet X-Files, which is where I keep records of incidents that are eldritch in nature and don’t exactly fit into the mundane criminal-justice code. That one already seemed as if it had taken place ages ago. By the time we had finished, it was nearly seven in the morning. The rumor mill was in motion and the phone had begun to ring. I felt sorry for the night clerk, and even sorrier for Patty Rogan, the day clerk coming in to replace him in an hour. It was going to be a long, unpleasant day.

At seven o’clock sharp, the chief lumbered in to conference with us and draft an official statement for the press. He looked haggard and drawn, and I felt sorry for him, too. I wished we had something concrete to tell him, but we didn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

It was broad daylight when I left the station. I was tired and my eyes felt gritty. I walked the four blocks to my apartment. Most of the retail shops were still closed, but the bakery was already open, a buzz of speculation spilling through the screen door.

Speaking of buzzing, my phone was doing just that. As soon as I closed my apartment door behind me, I fished it out of my purse. “Hi, Mom.”

“Daisy, baby!” Her voice was strained. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mrs. Browne said you ran out of the apartment at four in the morning.”

I managed a tired smile. “Do you have her keeping tabs on me?”

“She cares about you.” A gently chiding note. “A lot of people in the community do. Is this about what happened?”

“What’s that?”

Mom lowered her voice. “Sandra Sweddon told me a boy drowned in the river last night.”

Thad Vanderhei’s lifeless face flashed behind my eyes, his skin blue-gray and mottled. “I can’t talk about it. But I’m fine; I promise. I just need a little sleep.”

That made her solicitous. “Be careful, sweetheart. Take care of yourself.”