“No, upset is what I’d get from learning that people I trusted aren’t what they seem to be. Pissed off is what I get when my life is in danger, on account of said people not telling me what the hell is going on. Cainsville welcomes me with open arms and I think, ‘Huh, that’s really nice,’ only to discover the town is run by supernatural beings. The reason they’re being so nice to me? Well, I haven’t quite figured that all out yet, but I know I sure as hell can’t trust any explanation you give, so I’ll keep digging. I know my family is connected to Cainsville, on Pamela’s side. I know you two had something to do with getting me adopted by the Taylor-Joneses and making me disappear from the system—and from my birth parents. I know that’s all somehow connected to my parents’ alleged crimes. And I know that, apparently, I’m very, very special.”

“You are special, Olivia,” Ida said.

“I don’t want to be. It is, as Gabriel would say, highly inconvenient. I’ve got you trying to woo me, and the Wild Hunt—sorry, the Cwn Annwn—trying to woo me, and it’s like I’m the top NFL draft pick when I didn’t even realize I knew how to play football. I’m being waylaid everywhere—”

“That’s the Cwn Annwn, not us.”

“No?” I looked around Gabriel’s lobby. “Huh. This certainly feels like waylaying.”

Ida stepped toward me. “Olivia, I can assure you that we have your best interests in mind. The Cwn Annwn do not. Stay away from us if you must, but stay away from them, too.”

“And end your association with the Gallagher boy,” Walter added.

“Ricky? Seriously? After everything, you still need to bitch about me dating a biker?”

“It’s not—” Walter began, but Ida shushed him with a look.

Gabriel cut in. “I believe I know Ricky well enough to vouch for him, but if you have some insight that I don’t, anything that would suggest he’d harm Olivia . . .”

With obvious reluctance, Ida said, “Not intentionally. We simply don’t think it’s wise for her to associate with a known criminal—”

“Ricky Gallagher is not a criminal. He has never even been arrested. He’s an MBA student and a member of a motorcycle club. Neither is a crime. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Olivia and I have work to do.”

—

Once Lydia returned, we headed off to Cook County for our visit. Edgar Chandler had been a psychologist working on MKULTRA, the CIA’s brainwashing experiments in the sixties. MKULTRA was a flop. Yet Chandler had continued working in the pharmaceutical field. With help of the fantastical kind, he’d attained one of MKULTRA’s goals: discovering a way to turn innocent people into unwitting assassins.