Finale

just told you he moved out. Two days ago. Did it in the middle of the night, just like an Italian would. Sneaky and wily as a Sicilian mobster.
Up to no good, I’ll tell you what.”
    “You must be mistaken. Dante still lives here,” I said, trying to hold a pleasant tone.
    “Ha! That boy is a goner. Always kept to himself and was about as unneighborly as they come. Was from the day he moved in. Wouldn’t so much as say hello. Sneaky boy like that in this
nice, respectable neighborhood. It just wasn’t right. He only lasted a month, and I can’t say I’m sad to see him go. Ought to be laws against renters in this neighborhood,
dragging down home values like they do.”
    “Dante wasn’t renting. He owns this house. His friends left it to him in their will.”
    “Is that what he told you?” She wagged her head, staring at me with sharp blue eyes like I was the biggest sucker the world had ever seen. “My son-in-law owns this house. Been
in his family for years. Rented it out during the summertime, back before the economy crashed. Back when you could make a buck off tourism. Now we have to rent to Italian mobsters.”
    “You must be mistaken—” I began a second time.
    “Check the county land records! They don’t lie. Can’t say the same for shady Italians.”
    The dog was running circles around the woman’s legs, tying her up in the leash. Every once in a while he stopped to give Marcie and me a guttural growl of warning. Then he went right back
to sniffing and chasing circles. The woman untangled herself and shuffled down the sidewalk.
    I stared at her from behind. Dante owned this house. He wasn’t renting.
    A terrifying sensation vised my chest. If Dante
was
gone, how would I get more devilcraft? I was almost out. I had a day’s supply left, two if I cut back.
    “Well, someone’s lying,” Marcie said. “I think it’s her. I never trust old women. Especially the cranky ones.”
    I hardly heard her. I tried Dante’s cell, praying he’d pick up, but I got nothing. Not even his voice mail.
    I helped Marcie carry her shopping bags inside, and my mom came downstairs to meet us. “One of your friends dropped this off,” she said, extending a manila
envelope. “He said his name was Dante? Should I know him?” she prodded.
    I tried not to look too eager as I snatched the envelope. “He’s a friend of Scott’s,” I explained.
    My mom and Marcie kept their eyes on the envelope, watching me expectantly.
    “It’s probably just something he wants me to pass on to Scott,” I lied, not wanting to draw extra attention to the situation.
    “He looked older than your friends. I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of you hanging out with older guys,” Mom said doubtfully.
    “Like I said, he’s Scott’s friend,” I responded evasively.
    In my bedroom I drew a deep breath and broke the envelope’s seal. I shook out several blown-up photographs. All black and white.
    The first several were taken at night. Patch strolling down a deserted street. Patch doing what appeared to be surveillance from his motorcycle. Patch talking on a pay phone. Nothing new there,
since I already knew he was working around the clock to find Pepper’s blackmailer.
    The next photo was of Patch and Dabria.
    They were in Patch’s new black Ford F-150 pickup truck. Little needles of rain sliced through the streetlight above them. Dabria had her arms around Patch’s neck, a coy smile dancing
on her lips. They were locked in an embrace, and Patch didn’t appear to be offering resistance.
    I flipped through the last three pictures rapidly. My stomach heaved, and I knew I was going to be sick.
Kissing.
    Dabria kissing Patch. Right there in the photos.

C HAPTER

25
    I WAS SITTING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR, MY BACK against the shower door. My knees were drawn up, and even though the space
heater was running, I felt cold and clammy. An empty bottle of devilcraft lay beside me. It was the last of my supply. I hardly remembered drinking it. A whole bottle gone, and it had done nothing
for me. Even it couldn’t make me immune to heart-sickening despair.
    I trusted Patch. I loved him too much to believe he’d hurt me this way. There had to be a reason, an explanation.
    An explanation.
The word echoed in my head, empty and taunting.
    A knock sounded on the door.
    “We have to share this thing, remember? And I have a bladder the size of a squirrel’s,” Marcie said.
    I was slow to climb to my feet. Of all the