I grab my phone, type in some notes. Hana and Wess are definitely hiding a secret. They’d only do that if it was a major one. I have a long way to go, but I smell a much bigger story, though it may be different from the one I’d planned. There’s more investigating to do. And even if Annie won’t give me the time, if she demotes or fires me, I’ll keep going, then sell the piece to another paper. It’s going to be that good.

Downstairs Hana and Wess’s conversation rises and falls. I can’t make out the words, but know the content. They’re assholes, but that doesn’t change the facts. Sylvie never showed any signs of being a psychic-medium as a kid. Her parents gave her a home, a family, and a future. She ditched them to work her con. They’re overwhelmingly disappointed, but also offended. I can’t blame them though their delivery is brutal. Still, it’s impossible not to empathize with Sylvie—it’s a horrible thing to know you can never live up to a parent’s expectations.

Sylvie has been gone awhile. Is she on the phone with Lucas? Her parents probably have a landline. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to kill this story.

Moose stalks over. Brown eyes study me like he’s picking which limb to tear off first. “Don’t get any ideas, buddy. One bite and I’ll call the dog catcher, have you locked up.” He doesn’t react, like he knows I’d never do it. Admittedly, I’ve gained a grudging respect for Cujo. He’s been gentle with Chris and his devotion to Sylvie is obvious. She did rescue him. “Where is she?” I mutter. Moose takes a few steps back, whines. A few more steps then he turns to the closed door. “I’m not taking you out. Wait for Sylvie.”

The beast stands on hind legs and grazes his nails down the door, leaving deep gouges in the paint. He scrabbles again. “Stop it!” I hiss. Sylvie’s parents will be pissed. Not my problem. Moose spins and barks at me. “Fine.” I open the door. “Head downstairs, find your way outside if you need to take a whiz. Watch for coyotes.” But instead he bounds up the narrow staircase to Hana and Wess’s bedroom.

He’s not Lassie. I hesitate then take the steps three at a time. Sylvie is on the bathroom floor, curled like a caterpillar. She’s hyperventilating, her lips tinged blue. I rifle through cabinet drawers for a paper bag. There isn’t one. I cup my hands in front of Sylvie’s mouth, press tight to her skin. “Slow it down.” Moose whimpers. “You’ve got this.” Her lips skim my palm as her body struggles to apply the brakes. I glance over my shoulder, consider a run for help. She wouldn’t want her parents to see her this vulnerable. My palms are moist as Sylvie’s hot breath forms condensate. Finally she pushes my hands away. Her lips are pale but no longer blue. “Help me get—out of here before they come—upstairs.”