As the afternoon faded into twilight and the small lights illuminating the pathways in the conservatory gradually grew brighter, Isabelle rested her head against Thomas’s shoulder and sighed. “I ruined your shirt. My mascara ran all over it.”

“I didn’t like this one anyway.” His low voice rumbled through her, rough and silken at the same time.

All of a sudden Isabelle wanted to be in bed with him, craved the slide of his skin across hers, the slip of his lips over her mouth and all that wonderful dark hair brushing over her body.

But it would have to wait. Twilight had fallen and they had a demon to hunt.

“Do you really think it’s possible my mother could regret?”

He stroked her hair. “I believe she is regretting now, Isabelle. It’s just that she doesn’t have the first clue how to make amends.”

“And maybe it’s too late.”

“Yes, and maybe it’s too late. That’s for you and her to work through.” He paused. “She mentioned that sometimes she left you and your sister with people who didn’t treat you well. Is that true?”

Isabelle stiffened against him. “It didn’t happen that often. There were two times…Neither was very long. But once she paid this woman, Marie, to keep us for a while. She lived in Marseilles. Anyway, I was a little kid, always getting into trouble. Smacks never really bothered me as far as discipline went. So one day…I don’t even remember what I did anymore…Marie got fed up with me and locked me in a closet.” She swallowed hard, still able to feel the press of the darkness like a physical presence and her throat working dry from a lack of water. “And there I stayed for four days.”

Thomas tightened his arms around her.

“Angela tried and tried to open it, but couldn’t. She stayed with me the whole time, tried to push food and water under the tiny crack beneath the door.”

“Catalina said that’s why you’re claustrophobic and that you used to have recurring nightmares.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What did your mother do when she found out what happened?”

She shrugged. “She moved us somewhere else. That time we went to live with her and her flavor-of-the-month, Fredrick, in Switzerland for a while.” She sighed. “Anyway, all that’s ancient history. You can’t change the past. I rarely have nightmares anymore and the claustrophobia is much better than it used to be.”

Isabelle lifted her head, aware that she probably looked horrible—no makeup, tear-stained face—and was happy for the dim light in the conservatory, though she felt comfortable with Thomas, even looking like shit. “So when do we go?”

“Go?”

She wiped at her cheeks. “When do we leave to make the rounds for Boyle?”

His face tightened. “I don’t want you going tonight.”