There were mornings, like that one, when I was cutting it close on time and rushed through the whispering part. But the thought of getting lazy about the amount of intent I applied terrified me. Ever since Mischa had e-mailed me back at the beginning of February talking about her newly discovered powers with tarot cards, I’d been terrified that the evil spirits who had originally tormented Violet until she delivered souls to them had refocused their attention on Mischa.

Violet had told me that when she’d refused to take orders from those spirits at first, they’d threatened her mother’s life. I knew that Mischa was strong-willed and that I could count on her to resist their threats, but I also knew that Mischa was a survivor. She was the most determined person I’d ever met. If she were made to feel like she had no choice but to deliver souls or have terrible things happen to her family, Mischa would do whatever it took to protect herself and her loved ones.

In that way, she was even scarier than Violet. In my experience, Violet was selfish and manipulative. But Mischa was fearless, physically strong, and stubborn. I didn’t want to have to find out what it might be like to challenge her.

Luckily, two new moons had passed since we’d lifted the curse from Violet, and I hadn’t heard any news out of Willow, Wisconsin, about tragic or unexpected deaths yet. Which suggested to me that my protection spell routine was working, and that Mischa had been keeping her promise about staying away from tarot. She’d sworn that she’d never actually given a full reading to anyone after discovering her uncanny ability to always pull the Tower card out of the deck, and I reluctantly believed her.

I blew out my candles, swept the salt into the trash can per Kirsten’s instructions, and got dressed, hoping—as I did every day—that I’d just safeguarded the lives of Mischa, Amanda, Elena, and Adam Portnoy for the next twenty-four hours.

“Just in time for the last cup of coffee,” Dad said when I finally stepped into the kitchen. He poured the last of the pot into a mug for me as I grabbed a banana off the counter. He was dressed for work, although to anyone other than me and Rhonda, it might have been hard to tell. Dad’s work outfits were T-shirts or polos with USF Bulls logos on them instead of just plain T-shirts or polos, and khaki shorts instead of his usual running shorts. He was a professor in the psychiatry and neurosciences department at the University of South Florida’s medical school, and from the handful of times I’d accompanied him to campus, his super-casual attire was not uncommon among faculty.

“Don’t forget. I won’t be home until seven thirty tonight,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t forget. Text Rhonda when you’re ready for a ride home and she’ll pick you up,” he told me.

I quickly replied, “I can take the bus.” A huge part of why I’d wanted to get a job was to gain some independence. Since moving down to Florida, I felt like I was always being watched. Even when I disappeared to the gym in my dad’s condominium complex at night after dinner, Rhonda often joined me. She insisted that it was to fire up her metabolism, but I knew the real reason: She and Dad were terrified that I was going to vanish the first chance I got.