“Aaaand . . . voilà!” he chirps. “There’s a Joy Doon in Heritage. Does that sound right? Voter registration info shows a Morningside Drive address.”

“You found her that freaking fast?”

The list of names on his screen appear in green type, like a matrix of codes. There are only three of them—Joy, Mary, and Steve. Not a lot of people named Doon in the city of Heritage.

In Sawyer’s house there might be some essay he wrote, or cards that contain info about his weaknesses or motivations, or the kinds of energy he feeds from, specifically, so I can deprive him of it.

Hands in my hoodie, I start to pace between them, remembering the tools Sawyer used to fight me—whips, and then hands—horrifying wraiths conjured in midair, seeming to come straight out of him. They took me by surprise, maybe because they were so fleeting and haunting. If I had access to all of his memories, I would know his weapons of choice and the objects of fear I could use to defeat him.

“A journal. Maybe Sawyer had a journal.”

Allister raises his eyebrows, and I know that I’m onto something. “You think they’d keep that in the house?”

“Maybe. If it wasn’t too disturbing. Maybe as a trinket to remember him by.”

“You’d have to search it.” Fiona’s leaning on the back door, eating sour straws and writing something down in her notebook. “Which is possible with a story and a distraction. You’d need someone who looks like she means no harm and who can spin a convincing story.”

Allister’s still doing research. “Looks like Joy Doon is involved with the Found Project. A charity that benefits homeless LGBTQ youth.”

“I’ve heard of them!” Fiona says. “They help homeless queer kids. So we say we’re there to advocate for housing programs in Atlanta.”

Allister closes his laptop. “Sounds good to me!”

“Wait a minute.” I’m feeling queasy about the whole thing. “Are we . . . actually doing this?”

Minutes later, we’re driving to Sawyer’s house. The windows are down, but I can’t breathe.

I’m holding on to the passenger door handle. “So . . . we’re breaking into someone’s house. Okay. Cool. Casual.”

“We’re not breaking in,” Fiona corrects me from the back seat. “We’re door-knocking.”

“Okay, door-knocking. Who lets door knockers into their house these days?”

“Trust me. I’ll get into the house and text y’all when the coast is clear to come in through the back. Just be as stealthy as you can.”

“And if it’s not there? I mean, what are the odds I find his diary?”

“Then it’s not,” Fiona says. “And we leave, having gone on a satisfying after-school venture.”

“So you meant ‘robbery’ when you said that.”

“It’s no fun if you know what you mean when you say it!”