As Megan had said, Alastair was a therapist, though the sites run by the girls’ parents were quick to point out he had a bachelor’s degree, not a doctorate. They also noted his work history, which showed that the guy liked to move around. And he changed wives as fast as he did jobs. Four ex-wives, the dates of the weddings running close enough to the divorce decrees that you knew he hadn’t finished with one before starting on the next. Each divorce petition charged infidelity. Alastair liked variety. Surprise, surprise.

That was all very interesting, but nothing more than I’d have expected. A guy who had made a very nice life for himself, surrounded by girls half his age, who when they weren’t fighting to share his bed, were raking in some serious cookie dough for his coffers.

What interested me was that talisman painted on the gate. It looked like a simple protective symbol, though I couldn’t identify it. Maybe one of the girls was a practicing Wiccan. Nothing wrong with that, but considering I was investigating possible occult-linked killings, it was a lot more interesting than Alastair’s ex-wives.

I ran a bunch of searches on his name and the company name, combining them with everything from “satanic” to “occult” to “ritual.” The closest thing to a hit I got was a deeply buried post on a message board where someone joked that Taste of Heaven cookies had more than just organic flour in them, explaining their popularity.

I was pretty sure you couldn’t get drug-laced cookies past the FDA, but was it possible to enchant them? I always said that Paige did something with her cookies—they never turned out the same for me—but she just rolled her eyes and said that the only “magic” was that she actually followed the recipe and measured the ingredients.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of “lost” spells and rituals floating around. Most likely, though, they were simply good cookies.

My alarm rang then, reminding me of my non-date with Michael. I showered and dressed, grateful that Paige always insisted we pack an outfit for every undercover eventuality, including cocktail parties.

As I got ready, I racked my brain for more things to research. I was doing my makeup when an idea hit. I returned to my laptop and combined the occult keywords with Cody’s name. Bingo. On Facebook no less, in a frat buddy’s photo album. A picture of Cody Radu conducting an occult ritual.

It was tucked into a section from rush week—old photos of guys making jackasses of themselves and, ten years later, thinking it was cool to post evidence of their youthful stupidity online for the world to see.