Next I worked on identifying the ritual. I’d just finished plugging in ideas for the silver object in Claire’s hand—coin, amulet, key—when I glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. If I planned to get to Columbus today, I had to get going.

I grabbed my helmet from the back room and wheeled my bike into the alley. Not a bicycle, a motorcycle. I might live in the green belt, but I’d never quite embraced the lifestyle. I drove a 1950 Triumph Thunderbird that Lucas and I had restored together. It was a sweet ride, and a lot more fuel-efficient than a car, so I could feel virtuous without sacrificing the cool factor.

I zipped home, then called Adam. No answer. That was fine—I wasn’t calling to get his approval, just to let him know. Adam wouldn’t stop me anyway. He was my biggest supporter when I argued for getting out in the field more.

Paige had baked me cookies before she left, and I was filling a box to take when my cell rang. The Doors’ “Light My Fire.” Adam’s picture popped up, a god-awful one of him snapped before his first coffee on a ski trip last winter.

I’d been in love with Adam since I was twelve. I’d grown up secure in the knowledge that while other girls dreamed about their ideal partner, I’d already found mine. I just needed to wait until I was old enough for him to realize I wasn’t just his friends’ ward; I was his soul mate.

Sixteen sounded about right. By the time I actually reached sixteen, though, I realized it was way too young. No decent twenty-seven-year-old should be interested in a kid that age. Eighteen then. When eighteen passed, I told myself the gap was still too wide. Twenty? Nope. Twenty-one. It had to be twenty-one.