I turned to look. Rain was shifting to the middle seat. At the open door, Imp was climbing into the car.

“What were you doing?” I asked, trying to sound more casual than suspicious and unsure if I was succeeding. I was usually better at that, but—conversation with Weld.

“Went with Mrs. Wynn. When she was done talking to us, she got on her phone to talk to her hubby and some guy called Balminder.”

“And?”

⊙

“This Balminder guy has Cauldron vials. We talked about how Tats said there were Case Fifty-Threes at the attacks. Mercenaries, right?”

“Yes,” Tattletale said.

Both groups were assembled in the hideout, with only Rachel absent. They’d decided it was time to call her.

Sveta sat beside me, very still as she watched Imp.

“They were talking out loud about whether their vials could be responsible for the new cases.”

“And?” Sveta asked, her voice tight.

“And they think no.”

Both teams and a collection of the Heartbroken were assembled at our headquarters.

I’d thought earlier about how the conference room had felt too empty, but how it would feel too full if everyone was present.

This was that weird middle ground, I decided. Not a middle ground where the porridge was just right, but one where it was both too hot and too cold. Fucking uncomfortable.

Chicken Little had a pigeon in his hands, and Kenzie was fitting something around its neck and chest. One of the Heartbroken—Candy, I was pretty sure—was sitting on the edge of Kenzie’s desk, feet propped up on the back and front edge of Chicken Little’s chair. Dark hair, braided close to the scalp at one side, the rest left as a tumble. Darlene knelt on the floor by Chicken Little, holding the cage with more birds inside.

Others were scattered around the room. Some boys were in Chris’s old corner, having found and started up some of his old games. One had been given to Kenzie—it wasn’t a video game player, but a scanner. She would dismantle it later.

Older Heartbroken were scattered in with a trio of mercenaries, and were managing some of the remaining Heartbroken. A seventeen- or eighteen-year-old with really long, wavy hair was stepping on a leather whip she’d wound around one girl’s hands, keeping the hands pressed to the floor.

Eerie, to think about where they came from and how very dangerous they were.

A hell of a lot of emotional firepower.

On the topic of firepower, Ashley was present, sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her. When we hadn’t been sharing info as a group, she had been talking quietly to the little girl that was Kenzie’s age who had her hands bound by the whip.

Parian and Foil sat on plastic cases with perishable foods inside. Tattletale stood off to one side, a healthy distance from the dangerous little ones, looking at various screens.