Max felt insulted for Vera. Legions of Sunshine Crew followers flocked to the home of the family that blew up the town, yet they thought her house was cursed. In seventh grade, on Mischief Night, the ultimate act of bravery was to run onto Vera’s front porch and ring the doorbell. That was it. That’s how scared their classmates were of her family. Given the fact that Max now knew there were actual demonic artifacts filling the Martinez basement, maybe his classmates had a point. But still, the Durand house had launched a demonic cult.

Max stepped out of his truck, Vera slamming her door shut in time with his own.

“If we get caught…” Her voice trailed off like she didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“We won’t,” he insisted, with enough conviction he almost believed himself.

They started up the driveway, and a seagull shrieked from the rooftop. The windows were dim, the inhabitants busy across town brainwashing new members. That was the basis for his plan. They had time. Maybe they could find evidence to tie the Sunshine Crew to the Angel of Tears, and the Angel of Tears to criminal activity, and then bring it to the cops. They could shut it all down legally. The odds of success were flimsy, but it was better than sitting on their hands waiting for a flight from Barcelona to arrive tomorrow.

Father Chuck called earlier. He said the “prayer circle” was still in effect outside of Max’s house, near his mother’s bedroom window. Max didn’t know what the prayers were accomplishing, but he appreciated knowing his mother was still inside. She was safe—at least her body was. She wasn’t in the town square morphing into a beast for all of Roaring Creek to see. She wasn’t hurting anyone, aside from her children. As long as she was there, they had time to wait for Vera’s parents to save her soul. And maybe they might find something inside of the Durands’ house that could help them save her.

They reached the front door and Max peered through a long, slender side window. The living room could have been his own—plaid navy sofa, brick fireplace with a brass-trimmed screen, silk purple tulips on the mantel, and a remote on a Target coffee table. It was so normal.

Vera turned the knob and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She squatted down to search beneath the gritty welcome mat. No key. He didn’t think it would be that easy.

“Follow me.” Max moved with purpose around the edge of the home, eyes flicking toward the neighbors. Not a curtain swished, not a shadow moved. He crept toward a rickety, handmade wooden deck in need of a new coat of stain that led to what was likely the kitchen. He moved carefully up the splintered steps, Vera close enough that he could hear her nervous breathing.

“Is this a good idea?” she whispered.

Probably not, but the house looked about as old as his own, with the exact same style of windows—screens on the outside of original wood-trimmed glass panes. Growing up, Max’s parents were constantly at the restaurant, meaning he frequently returned from school to an empty house. More than once he forgot his keys and had to break in, achieving expert status years ago.