By the time I finally emerged from the tunnel, covered in dirt and bone tired, the sun had almost completed its escape below the horizon. Scene processing was a slow and tedious job. The next time, I’d find myself someone to slave with me.

Stefan rose from the steel drum on which he was sitting. “Done?”

“Yes. Any news from Raphael?”

“No.”

Either the cops had held him up or he was going to great lengths to avoid me.

“Stefan, that stuff in the vault is very old. We have no way of knowing if any of it is magic or not. You guys need to keep away from it. Don’t touch it, don’t sniff it, don’t try to transport it. I’ll ask someone with magical knowledge to come down with the Keep. They will move it and quarantine it.”

Stefan squinted at me. “I get what you’re saying, but you’ll have to talk to Raphael about it. He’ll probably come by here after the cops let him go. You want to leave him a note?”

Good idea. “Got something to write with?” I shook my exhausted pen. “Mine is all out.”

“Sure, in the tent.”

I glanced at the work tent sitting a few yards away. “Thanks.”

I walked to the tent, pushed the entrance flap aside, and stepped into it.

It smelled like Raphael.

His scent permeated every inch of the space, from the tent walls, to the foldout desk and chair, to the papers neatly stacked on the desk. Every object pulsed with it, calling to me, singing, “Raphael…Raphael…Mate…” The scent enveloped me, warm, welcoming, mine, and every inch of me screamed in frustration. I stumbled back out and nearly fell over a rock.

“Are you okay?” Stefan called.

“Yes.” I had to get out of there.

I turned and marched away.

“What about the note?” Stefan asked.

“I’ll leave a message on his phone.”

I kept walking, trying to put distance between me and that cursed tent. If someone had barred my way, I might have shot him.

I stopped by Cutting Edge’s office—it was locked, Kate absent—deposited my trace evidence into our office vault, and drove home. I climbed the stairs, which turned out to be web-free and singed with dark soot from the PAD flamethrowers, and stopped by the Haffeys’ apartment. Nobody answered my knocking. Hopefully Mr. Haffey had made it through.

I walked to my apartment, got inside, and leaned against the door, afraid that the world outside would somehow bust in and get me.