Over the course of seven years, Max had grown accustomed to people giving him condolences. He’d lost someone “that day,” and all of the victims of the tragedy were to be honored (#RememberTheCreek). But this was the first time anyone showed him pity for his mother, his currently living mother. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he figured there probably weren’t any “right” words for this situation.

“Give it to me straight—how bad is it?” The priest looked at Vera.

“I don’t have the same frame of reference as you and my parents do, but”—Vera hedged—“something’s inside her. It’s taken over, and there’s a shrine.”

“I heard. Ain’t the first time I heard about it, neither. I’ve seen the shrine, in cars, store windows—”

“The florist?” Vera asked, trying to be subtle.

Max was more straightforward. “Vera thinks it could be connected to the Durands and the Sunshine Crew.”

“I reckon that’s likely. I got thrown off when I saw it at the Mexican restaurant up there on Willow. Thought it was Santa Muerte.”

Vera nodded. Max’s eyes flicked between the two of them; their mutual understanding had him feeling like he’d missed the required Catholic reading. Father Chuck eyed his confusion.

“Santa Muerte’s a folk religion down in Mexico. Church has hated it since the get-go, even blames it for the rise in demonic possession, but I think they just don’t like it taking away the parishioners.” He made grabby hands as he let out a chuckle. “Santa Muerte appeals to the poor folk, you see, the marginalized, the incarcerated. Folks who feel left behind by society, so they’re lookin’ elsewhere for a little help.”

“But this isn’t Santa Muerte,” Vera confirmed.

“No, don’t seem like it is.” He pulled a smartphone from his back pocket and showed them an image—a feminine white skeleton was displayed holding a scythe and crystal globe. Around her neck and wrists were colorful strings of beads, and she wore a bright cherry robe embroidered with a rainbow of flowers pulled high over her skull. It looked like a female Grim Reaper dressed for a festive Mexican wedding.

“This what you saw?” Father Chuck’s mustache pressed to the side.

Max shook his head no. So did Vera.

“Our idol’s all white,” Vera noted.

“With wings and a torch,” Max added.

“And it’s weeping black tears.”

“Exactly. Santa Muerte ain’t got wings. And the black tears…” The priest shivered. “I should have known better—the Bony Lady’s big in Texas. Folks pray to her for healing, protection, and safe passage to the afterlife. They don’t pray to her because they want to die, or because death is better. Whatever idol is ripping through our town is much…darker.” The priest set his phone on the table. His lock screen was an image of horses grazing that was so serene, Max wished he could cross an electronic force field and step inside it.

“Did my mom tell you about Chicago?” Vera asked, her voice small. “About the shrine and the cult there?”