You’re sending me away…. Maxwell’s words haunted Vera as she trudged past the florist filled with splashes of petal-infused sunshine and a clutter of antiques. It was owned by Seth Durand’s widow, Mary. Despite whatever role her husband may have played in the explosion, no one blamed her. She was caring for a terminally ill child at the time. In fact, many believed that if society, if employers, had been kinder, then her husband would never have been working during such a difficult time. The human error was likely caused by his emotional distress.

If he’d only known his son would live.

Vera ran her hands up and down her icy arms, unable to get warm. She couldn’t shake the image of Maxwell’s pleading face. What would she want someone to do if she was as desperate as he looked today? What might have happened if someone intervened when Seth Durand was at his lowest, too distracted to make good choices?

But I can’t do anything, Vera reasoned. I’m not my mother—I’m not clairvoyant. And I’m not my father—I’m not an exorcist. Even if I feel bad for Maxwell, I can’t help. Not in the way he wants.

Over the years, Vera had watched her mother convulse in fits of uncontrollable “visions.” Her mom could enter a home and tangibly feel spirits, the way others sense tension. She could see them, black shadows clinging to the possessed, or former residents roaming the halls. And her father had an otherworldly strength of body, mind, and spirit, with enough faith to actually drive out inhuman spirits. He and a priest routinely descended into the basement to bless the artifacts they kept locked away from the world. Vera had heard families thank her parents for saving their lives and their souls. Her parents’ work was real.

But Vera wasn’t like them.

She chewed her lip as she neared the end of Main Street, preparing to turn off onto Broadway with its double yellow lines and cars swerving too fast around curves. A man walking a rottweiler approached wearing yet another highlighter-yellow cap. The Sunshine Crew. The book, the hat, it seemed to be everywhere now. Or was Vera just noticing it more?

She met the man’s eyes with a friendly, it’s-dark-and-I-don’t-want-you-to-assault-me smile, and he held her gaze, staring intently, his smile eerie. His gaze never shifted, and slowly her brain registered his face, same as the image printed on the back of Samantha’s book. It was him, Anatole Durand, the creator of the Sunshine Crew.

“Hello,” he said, his tone formal. Then he nodded his head and lifted the brim of his yellow hat in an almost Victorian gesture.

The look in his eyes, it was playful. Vera broke away, staring into the middle distance. “Hey,” she muttered, ignoring the ice luge forming down her back.

This is the guy everyone’s obsessed with? She smiled, friendly, as her arms wrapped tighter around her chest.

“Have a lovely evening,” he added as he passed. His guard dog sniffed her leg, straining against its leash.