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That night, 4:16 a.m.

Emmy stares at the bracelet on the dead woman’s wrist. She’d commented on it earlier to caution Cassie to be careful. It was the type of thing that a raven would pilfer. She remembers, too, what Cassie said in reassurance: Don’t worry. I never take it off. It’s going to the grave with me.

She stares down at Cassie Bent’s face, so deformed beneath her bloody hair that Emmy can’t find her through the brokenness.

“Cassie, can you hear me?” The tears well. She sniffles to brush them off. She’s a professional. She cannot let her emotions distract her. She must get to work.

Emmy positions the flashlight in her lap, offering enough light to see Cassie’s arm. When she touches Cassie’s wrist, it’s cool and lifeless. No pulse.

Still, she may have a carotid pulse, which, if Emmy was thinking more clearly, she would have checked first. But there’s no time to chastise herself for her inexperience. She needs to stay focused.

She reaches out and moves the matted, bloody hair from Cassie’s neck. It’s coarse with salt. The contact makes Emmy’s stomach lurch. She shivers to ward it off and tells the dead woman, “Cassie, if you can hear me, I’m going to touch your neck now.”

Emmy presses two fingers to the woman’s neck. Nothing.

In the distance, she hears voices and sees the beams of flashlights, so small they look like fireflies, wobbling as they approach.

She readjusts her index and middle fingers. Nothing. And again, a millimeter to the right. And again higher. Nothing.

One last time, she presses deeper. And she feels it. It’s faint but steady. A pulse.

Cassie Bent is alive.