“No, no matter what the DNA testing says, you’re not ordinary. I always find out what I want to know. You’re going to tell me why you murdered the Poindexters. You’re going to tell me who you are and what you are.”

Then he struck me again and again with the ruler, repeating dispassionately, “Who are you? What are you?” until his arm got tired.

I hurt so badly that I was sobbing, but I could and would endure his blows rather than give up the people I loved, or anyone else for that matter.

The Professor breathed heavily with his exertions. He leaned forward, looking like a depressed middle manager. I imagined that his blood would taste thin and unsatisfying, of salads with no-fat bottled dressing, frozen fish, and intellect.

I spit out a mouthful of blood and said, “Do you want to know who I am? I am a Miracle of the Saints and if you don’t let me go, you will pay for it, I promise you, you crazy mad scientist. Did I mention crazy?”

The Professor went to the door and spoke to the beefy guards outside. Their blood would be deliciously thick and salty, like the greasy burgers and fries they ate every day.

He told them, “Do whatever you have to do to find out who she is. And what she is.”

It was at times like these that I wish I’d exhibited a little more self-control. Some judicious restraint and diplomacy. And yet I never did. Which brings us back to hindsight.

one

Love to Blood You, Baby

It was a marvelously sunny April day and I took a minute to admire the dignified bumblebees hovering like stripy zeppelins over the lavender hedge, and inhale the scent of freesia and narcissus before I packed my gardening gear into the back of my small green pickup. Since no one was around, I tossed a thirty-five-gallon bin of green recycling into the truck bed without my usual pretense of effort.

The garden had once been formal and restrained, with perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges; the sort of landscape my father, who had a landscaping company, installed. I’d transformed it into a place bursting with color and texture by adding interesting plant varieties and flowering shrubs.

As I swept the debris from the path, my brown dog, Rosemary, tap-danced by my side, and I told him, “We’ll go in a minute. Thank you for your patience.”

I leaned on the handle of my broom and looked up to see Gigi Barton, my client and friend, coming toward me. The heiress to the Barton tissue fortune (“It’s not worth sneezing at if it isn’t Barton’s!”) was dressed in a bold geometric print wrap dress over skinny pants and heels with a dozen tiny buckles. She worked the path like a runway and held out one arm to display a small silver package.

“Milagro, are you talking to that dog?”