“Sure,” she says, a bewildered look on her face. “Can’t you?”

“No,” I say, and part of me almost wants to laugh. I’ve been desperate to decipher Dracula for decades, and here he goes, giving himself away to the first girl with a heartbeat who puts her hands on him.

She waits for me to explain it, why the urn’s speaking to her, but when I don’t, she doesn’t seem too bothered. “I’m Daisy,” she says brightly, as though she’s expecting me to return the favor.

“That’s nice,” I say, and climb back into the Buick, pretending not to see her, even though I’m sitting in a convertible and she’s loitering two feet away.

“I’m headed to San Francisco.” She smiles at me, and she looks so impossibly sweet. Like a little lost lamb headed for the slaughter. “Any way I could hitch a ride with you two?”

I shake my head. I hate everything about this. Her trusting face, her impeccable hearing, her gentle heartbeat that won’t stop thrumming inside me. I could break her in two in an instant, and she wouldn’t even have time to whimper.

The man finishes pumping our gas, his eyes still wandering over all of us. I pass Bee the car key, and Daisy’s face starts to crumble, because she knows she’s losing her chance.

“You’re looking for… Jane, aren’t you?”

Bee’s head snaps toward her. “How did you know that?”

Daisy gives her a sheepish shrug. “I can still hear that bottle whispering.”

I roll my eyes. Of course she can. More foreplay from Dracula, him spilling all our secrets to strangers. I cover the urn with both hands as if that might keep it quiet.

“I know a lot of Janes.” Daisy gnaws her bottom lip. “I could introduce you to all of them if you’d like.”

The offer lingers in the air, the possibility of it.

“No thanks,” I say, and the engine sputters to life.

As we pull away, the man at the pump gives Daisy an ugly grin, and I don’t like anything about it. Neither does Bee. The Buick gets to the edge of the parking lot but stops suddenly there.

I hesitate. “You’re wondering if she could help us?”

“Maybe,” Bee says. “If nothing else, she could show us around the city.” A long, strained moment before she adds, “And she can tell us what those urns are saying.”

“If he tells us the truth,” I say. Dracula could always whisper lies instead, throwing us off his trail. Either way, I’m not too eager to take on another passenger. Look how well things turned out the last time we welcomed a new guest. A broken urn, a broken heart, a burned-down house. Honestly, when we find Jane, she should probably pay us restitution.