“Afghanistan?” She looked at Lena, her eyes glassy with tears. “I don’t . . . what did he do? Did Charles take my son?” Tears broke free, running down her cheeks, but her words were flat.

“We just need to ask him some questions,” Lena reassured her.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” I asked. Margie looked up at me, her face blank, then nodded. I retreated down the hall into a bathroom decorated in orange and black, the colors of the local high school. I sat down and pulled out a paperback copy of The Odyssey.

When I returned, Margie seemed calmer. She was describing the disappearance of her son Mike. “We had gone to see a Tigers game. We went to the first home game every year. Mike always brought his glove. He wanted to catch a home run ball, but he never did.”

She shuddered and dabbed her eyes. “He had gone ahead to start the car. The police found no evidence of foul play.”

“You let a twelve-year-old boy run off by himself?” I asked.

Lena glared at me.

“We wouldn’t—we didn’t . . .” She trailed off, staring into the distance.

“What happened to Mike wasn’t your fault,” said Lena.

I leaned over, holding a sprig of Moly in one hand. “I found this on the floor. From one of your crafts?”

The moment she touched the magical herb, her entire demeanor changed. “He wasn’t alone. Charles had just gotten his driver’s permit. He and Mike—” Her eyes went round, and the white petals began to wilt as they battled whatever spell had rewritten her memories. She stared at me. “Who . . . what did you do to me? Where is Charles?”

“You remember him now?” I asked.

“Of course I remember him! I—” She clutched her head. “Who are you people? I want you to leave. Get out of my house!”

Lena touched her arm. “Margie, you’re safe. We’re trying to help you.”

Margie didn’t shake her off, but she glared at me like I was the devil come to take her soul.

I retreated toward the door. “I’ll be in the car.”

Back in the Triumph, I let Smudge out of his cage. He scurried up to the windshield, then turned around to look at me as if waiting impatiently for the drive to start.

“Charles Hubert comes back from Afghanistan with magic,” I said slowly, trying to fit the pieces together. “He overdoes it and ends up possessed. That much makes sense. An amateur libriomancer with nobody to guide him . . . but why was he alone? Why didn’t the Porters find him?”