“She picked you well,” he says, smiling. “You already know who did it. You’re asking if I was the vessel. No, sorry, chief. Wasn’t me. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I kind of wish it was. Then you could kill me and get some closure. Stop holding on. It’s not doing you any favors.”

I’m too tired to get a good rage going. Everything feels distant, drained. When I think of Lucy now I feel a cold, dull ache, an unshakeable exhaustion. The anger’s been burned out of me. He’s wrong about closure. There are some things you move on from. This isn’t one of them.

“If I find out you did it, I’m coming for you.”

“If I find out I did it,” he says, “I’ll hand you the knife. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t,” I say, and step through the curtain.

It’s like going from a Willy Wonka funhouse to a Goth’s wet dream. White Christmas lights are strung along the black painted walls, casting everything in a hazy glow. The wrought iron candelabras spaced every few feet are the same as last time, but the folding table and plastic benches that were here before have been replaced with an intricately carved altar and short wooden pews.

And then there’s her. A life-size Santa Muerte. A skeleton in a white wedding dress, scythe in one hand, a globe in the other. Bottles of tequila, packs of cigarettes, half-smoked cigars, bunches of roses all lie at her skeletal feet.

Last time I was here I made an idiot of myself and actually prayed to the damned thing trying to get her attention. Then I got sick of it, drank her tequila, smoked a cigar, and put it out in one of her eye sockets.

This time I sit in one of the pews. She’ll either show up or not. I don’t really care beyond hoping she can give me some insight on what her cousin might be up to.

No. That’s a lie. I want a lot more than that. I want to know what happened in Mictlan. Did Santa Muerte take Tabitha, or did I get to her in time? Is she alive? Is that a concept that even applies anymore?

A thick scent of smoke and roses fills the air. “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” I say.

“Funny,” Tabitha says, sliding into the pew next to me. “I was wondering the same thing.”

Chapter 18