Vera wiped her nose once more. “But Maxwell’s mom, she didn’t intend for this to happen. She didn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t have. She was just hurting.”

“You’re probably right, which is why Satan, the Angel of Tears, cult leaders, seek out the most desperate and seduce them with magical solutions and impossible promises.”

“And we’re supposed to compete with that? There’s all this evil in the world, and only Mom and Dad fighting it? That’s ridiculously crappy odds.” Vera slapped the mattress. Her aunt grabbed her hand, holding it flat between both of her own.

“There are a lot more than just your parents.” Aunt Tilda’s gray braid slid over her shoulder. “Sometimes people choose evil, but they can also choose to be heroes, like you, and Father Chuck, and Maxwell. That’s how good prevails.”

“You sound like that cheesy quote.” Vera strained to remember her eighth-grade social studies teacher. She had a poster on the wall. The only way for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.

“Exactly.” Aunt Tilda squeezed Vera’s hand, her warmth spreading. “People sometimes face horrible choices, and it’s not easy to choose the brave thing.”

So exactly what was Vera’s choice here? She wasn’t an exorcist like her father, and she didn’t have superpowers like her mother, but maybe she could get through to Samantha? If she could somehow show her, and everyone like her, that they were worshipping a demon, and not a guru, maybe Vera could halt the damage. She could prevent someone else from losing themself like Mrs. Oliver or becoming murderous like Seth Durand.

Vera was about to voice this idea to her aunt, when the slam of a storm door grabbed her attention. Her head whipped toward the window in time with her aunt’s. It was nearly one in the morning, but she knew that sound, a metallic crash they heard five times a day, whenever Mr. Zanger let out his dog.

Vera rose from the four-poster bed and ambled to the curtains, swishing back the ivory lace. Her aunt pressed beside her in a fuzzy sea-green robe.

A motion sensor flicked on, casting a too-bright beam on Mr. Zanger and his tiny white puff. He rested the dog on the grass, and its twiggy legs immediately kicked backward.

“Seriously, he needs to get that thing a litter box,” Vera muttered, and it was as if the dog heard her through the double-paned glass. Its head shot up, cocked to the side, white fluffy ear hanging down as its black eyes peered straight inside her. It started yapping. Not its normal bark, not even its I-want-to-eat-your-ankles bark. The pooch began spinning in circles, rapidly chasing its tail. Its high-pitched yaps bordered on squeals as it turned faster and faster.

“Snowball! Heel!” yelled Mr. Zanger. “Sit!”

The dog paused, then yipped and squealed once more, its round eyes pointed directly at Vera. It bounced on its tiny legs.

“What is wrong with that thing?” asked Vera.