"Stop making me think," Murphy said. "I'm believing over here."

I grinned. "See? This is why I'm not religious. I couldn't possibly keep my mouth shut long enough to get along with everyone else."

"I thought it was because you'd never respect any religion that would have you."

"That too," I said.

Neither one of us, during this conversation, looked back toward the body in the living room. An uncomfortable silence fell. The floorboards creaked.

"Murder," Murphy said, finally, staring at the wall. "Maybe someone on a holy mission."

"Murder," I said. "Too soon to make any assumptions. What made you call me?"

"That altar," she said. "The inconsistencies about the victim."

"No one is going to buy magic writing on a wall as evidence."

"I know," she said. "Officially, she's going down as a suicide."

"Which means the ball is in my court," I said.

"I talked to Stallings," she said. "I'm taking a couple of days of personal leave, starting tomorrow. I'm in."

"Cool." I frowned suddenly and got a sick little feeling in my stomach. "This isn't the only suicide, is it."

"Right now, I'm on the job," Murphy said. "That isn't something I could share with you. The way someone like Butters might."

"Right," I said.

With no warning whatsoever, Murphy moved, spinning in a blur of motion that swept her leg out in a scything, ankle-height arc behind her. There was a thump of impact, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Murphy—her eyes closed—sprang onto something unseen, and her hands moved in a couple of small, quick circles, fingers grasping. Then Murphy grunted, set her arms, and twisted her shoulders a little.

There was a young woman's high-pitched gasp of pain, and abruptly, underneath Murphy, there was a girl. Murphy had her pinned on her stomach on the floor, one arm twisted behind her, wrist bent at a painful angle.