Max reached into a carton and without a moment of hesitation, unfurled the bubble wrap from a delicate gold-trimmed chalice, and flung it against the butter-yellow cinder-block wall like he was a World Series relief pitcher. Glass sprayed out, the clatter sending a burst of exhilaration through him as glittering dust rained down. He grabbed another, smashing it at his feet, a stray shard ricocheting against his calf. Blood bubbled. He didn’t care.

He lifted another, then another, then another. Each throw harder than the last, his grip so tight one shattered in his hand, slicing his palm. He kept going, his brow slick from exertion. Eventually, he picked up an entire box, warm slimy blood dripping from his palms, spilling down his forearms, as he upended the objects onto the floor and stomped with his sneakered feet. The shattering sang with the pitch of a piccolo. He grabbed another carton, hurling it at the wall, a pool of burgundy blood forming below him.

He kept slamming, box after box, glass after glass.

The racket was deafening. Until he heard the car.

Max inched open the front door and spied a man glaring at Vera. He was only slightly older than them, tall and built, with blond hair in a style not far off from a bowl cut. Beside him was an older woman in a frumpy dress, mustard yellow with bright tropical flowers that mimicked exotic parrots. A van that read Durand Flowers was parked in the driveway.

Shit.

“If you’re interested in learning more about the Sunshine Crew, I wish you would’ve come to our rally,” said Anatole, stepping forward, his shadow cast on Vera. Max’s fists balled, blood dripping. “We’re expanding our reach in the hope that all souls, young and old, will learn to channel their inner wisdom and elevate their thinking to a higher state of authenticity.”

What? Max’s brow furrowed. Are those even words? He zeroed in on Vera, making sure she saw him. She did, but she didn’t give away his position. The Durands had their backs to him.

“That’s spectacular.” Vera kept a straight face. “I’m really looking for a life hack that offers a holistic approach to ideation that would brand me an influencer on a hyperlocal scale.”

Max blinked. Two points for the loner girl with her nose in a book.

“What?” Anatole asked, looking confused.

“Sorry, I was trying to see how many buzzwords I could fit into one sentence. That’s what you do, right? Or are you more focused on the demon side of things? Tell me: what draws in more people, the Sunshine act or the Angel of Tears?” Vera’s voice didn’t waver.

Damn. Max grinned. Turned out her brand of badass wasn’t limited to demonic possession.

“You really want to do this?” Anatole’s words were clipped. Max stepped from the stoop, gently shutting the screen door without so much as a click.

“I’m not going to let you poison a bunch of people and their kids,” Vera blurted.