But somehow the whore was able to see Ethel beneath Clarabelle's skin. When Sheila struck the woman on the head it had expelled her fetch from Clarabelle's body.

"Say what you will about the bitch, she's one smart cookie," Mavis said.

From there they waited. Ethel sat quietly, awaiting a sensation that would draw her fetch from her body. Mavis read one of Martin's books, trying to get a better grasp of what might be going on in his head. Some sort of psychological insight Ethel may have missed.

Mirror Man was as much Martin's story as it was the case against Nico Damiani. He'd thrust himself front and center into the narrative, taking much of the attention away from the serial killer's history. Was it any wonder a man like James Barclay wanted to murder him?

Martin was scared, that much Mavis knew. He'd been a frightened little boy and he was just as frightened now. An outside observer might not see it, but it was apparent in every book he wrote.

He'd always been running, ever since he'd seen her standing in the glow of the fire. Perhaps much earlier than that.

She supposed it was possible he remembered the moments shortly after his birth. The running. The struggle. Perhaps he even remembered watching his birth mother die.

Mavis smiled at the thought.

"They're in the church," Ethel said from the backseat.

It was just past midnight. The reverend shook Martin's hand, saying goodnight. Ethel felt the rough bandage wrapped around his palm.

"Should I fetch?"

"Not this time," Mavis said, adjusting the brim of her hat in the mirror. "I've got a better idea. Something not even the smart bitch will expect."

With a wicked smile, she turned the key in the ignition. The Pink Princess's engine rumbled to life.

To everything there is a season, Padre, she thought, pulling out of the car wash lot. A time to kill and a time to burn.

The doctor's assistant called Sheila into his office. She stepped into a small, curtained vestibule and changed out of her damp clothes into a fresh green gown, opened at the back. Then she sat in the tiny exam room on the crinkly paper covering the table, feeling uncomfortable in the flimsy gown, waiting for Dr. Mulligan.

A calendar was flipped open on the doctor's desk, December 15 circled in red. Puzzling over this, she looked over the posters on the walls. One listed common gynecological disorders. A second showed the stages of growth of a human fetus.

Her gaze settled on a poster that seemed out of place in the doctor's office: a dozen piglets clamoring over a fat mother sow's teat. The poster said SAVAGING: It's not just wrong—it's dangerous!

She was still puzzling over its intent when she noticed the buzzing from somewhere within the small, closed room.

The paper crinkled under her as she slipped off the table, tracking the sound. It seemed to be coming from the corner of the room, beside the desk where the calendar stood open on December, even though she knew it was March.