Max twisted his neck to peer at Vera, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he pressed an index finger to his lips. He then grabbed his keys and slid one into the seam alongside the grimy screen. It took surprisingly little effort to pop it loose. He gripped it with outstretched arms, placing the screen on the deck, resting it against the brick wall. Vera’s face showed more fear than it did in his mother’s bedroom. He restrained a smile. This was probably the most fun he’d had since he’d met her.

He reached for the mullions of the window, his fingers long and flat against the glass as he pushed up. It slid easily, unlocked. Now his smile stretched wide.

“After you.” He swept his hand toward the now-open cavern—a dining room with birds on the wallpaper.

“What if they have a silent alarm?”

Max’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t Fort Knox. The guy didn’t even lock his windows. I’m surprised the door’s not open.”

Vera didn’t move.

“It’s now or never.” Max placed his hands on the windowsill, the rusty metal tracks cutting into his palms, then he hoisted his head and torso through.

No turning back now, Max thought as he wiggled his legs and landed on the hardwood floor.

He gazed through the opening at Vera, whose doe eyes were wide as the noonday sun backlit her hair, making the dark strands glow. For a girl surrounded by evil, it seemed she hadn’t done much wrong in her life.

He extended his hand. “Let’s see what the Big Bad Wolf is hiding.”

For a moment, Vera’s lips turned up and he caught a flash of excitement in her eyes. That’s the spirit.

She followed him through.

They started with the bedrooms. No one hides criminal evidence in the kitchen pantry. (Actually, maybe they should.)

They tiptoed up the creaky stairs, Vera gripping the back of his black T-shirt as though they were in a haunted house on Halloween and a wicked clown might pop out at any moment.

“Which room do you think is his?” Max whispered as they reached the landing.

Three doors were closed before them, while another was open to a shared bathroom. The hall was small, so much so he could stretch his arms and almost touch every knob.

“That one.” Vera pointed to the room adjacent to the bathroom.

Max didn’t doubt her. He inched closer, a cloud of dust dancing in the light of the bathroom window. Moisture hung in the air from someone having showered recently without running the fan. Max wrinkled his nose, reaching his fingers for the scratched brass knob.

He was entering the room of the devil, or at least the room of the man who summoned the devil.

Max turned the knob and pushed it open, the wooden door scratching against the gray-blue carpet fibers.

The space was small. The walls were painted a cement gray and the full bed sat dead center, no headboard. There was a navy-and-green-plaid comforter rumpled at the foot, its hunter-green sheets twisted and unmade. Two maple nightstands sat on either side of it, mismatching. Atop the one closest to the window, with a bright ray of sun beaming down, was a small marble statue of the Angel. It sat on an ivory place mat that looked hand-embroidered, and it was surrounded by a pack of menthol cigarettes, a set of car keys, a small crystal bowl of what appeared to be sea salt, a conch shell, and a tiny bud vase holding a single bloom—a tangerine lily.