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Cassie’s chest ached, and not just from the blossoming bruise.
The boy who had gotten away hadn’t meant to hurt her. But if he’d just waited and listened to what she had to say, the day could’ve ended differently.
Anger surged through her body, taking her by surprise. She was angry at the kid for getting one up on her. Angry at the man for escaping Harris. And angry at Harris for putting her in this position. Harris had sent her off after the kid like she was a cop. What if there had been more people waiting for her around the corner? What if the man had turned on Harris and killed her?
A gasp escaped Cassie’s mouth, and a middle-aged man turned to look in her direction. Hiding her face, she shuffled into the next room without seeing where she was or what surrounded her. The thought of losing Harris had hit her like a ton of bricks. They were hardly friends. How much did Cassie really know about the detective? But Harris understood what Cassie was going through. She understood what Cassie felt.
But Cassie wasn’t just angry at Harris. She was angry at David. She’d never admit it out loud, but she blamed him for leaving her. How could he do that? He knew going to that warehouse dock was a trap. He’d left Harris behind. He’d even left Cassie that letter.
Her anger intensified. Cassie’s knees went weak, and she stumbled over to an empty bench. The wood was hard beneath her legs. She focused on the discomfort to distract her from Harris and David and this whole mess that had brought her to Chicago. She missed Apollo and Bear. She missed her bed. She missed Jason.
A tear slipped down her face. New Orleans had changed everything—her powers, her relationship with Jason, her understanding of what had happened to David.
And then there was the shadow. Could it have been David, or someone else? What was holding them back? It had felt as though they had wanted to tell her something, to warn her. But she couldn’t decipher the words amidst all her feelings.
Cassie brushed the tear from her face. Anger continued to flicker inside of her like a flame assaulted by a gust of wind. It almost went out, only to return as bright and hot as it was before. She didn’t want to be angry. But if she let go of her anger, she’d be left with the overwhelming sense of emptiness and depression.
The subtle scent of smoke caught her attention. She looked up. As the seconds ticked by, the acrid smell made her eyes prick with tears. Blinking them away, she shot to her feet, waiting to hear the alarms that told her they had to vacate the building. But no noise came, and the other patrons continued to stroll around the room unbothered.
A gentle heat caressed her skin. This was different than what she’d experienced in the jewelry store. It was more like a warm campfire on a chilly night—just enough to comfort you without searing your skin.
Cassie took a step forward, and the heat increased. The smoke burned her eyes, but she blinked away the tears. She could feel ash on her tongue. With every step, the invisible flames inched closer. Pulling off her coat, she draped it over her arm, searching the room for anything or anyone that seemed out of place.
But there was nothing. Somehow, she had wandered into the Chicago Fire exhibit. Cassie’s shoulders dropped. Coming to the museum was a bad idea. She had meant for it to be relaxing and familiar. A place to clear her head. But now it was just full of smoke.
Someone brushed by her, and Cassie turned to apologize for standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought and more than a little in the way of the flow of traffic. But when she looked over her shoulder, no one was there.
Across the room, she saw another shadow pressed against the wall. This one had more form than the one from her picture, but less than the figure she’d seen in New Orleans. Her heart beat rapidly, and she could no longer smell the smoke or feel the fire kissing her skin.
Cassie pulled out her phone and took a picture of the shadow. She had accidentally left the flash on, and she winced as the light went off, causing nearly everyone in the room with her to turn in her direction.
“No flash please, ma’am,” the security guard said.
“Accident.” Cassie turned to flash him an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
He nodded, but kept watching her. Cassie made a show of turning off her flash before facing the display across the room again. The shadow was gone. Had the light scared it away? Or had it served its purpose in garnering her attention?
Cassie picked her way across the room, trying to look natural. No one could have guessed what she had seen or experienced, but it still felt like there was a spotlight trained on her. Sure enough, when she looked over her shoulder, the security guard was still watching her. She looked away first.
The shadow had brought her over to an old map of Chicago tucked away beneath glass. The paper was browning at the edges and smudged here and there with foreign substances. It highlighted the areas of the city that had been affected by the fire. Whoever had drawn the map had used red, which seemed both appropriate and garish at the same time. It was not hard to imagine those streets burning bright, casting an orange glow over the faces of those watching their livelihoods slip away. Memories of the painting she’d seen earlier flashed through her head. She could almost hear the screams again.
Cassie leaned in closer, careful not to touch the glass. She found the river, which had protected some of the city from the devastating flames, but not all of it. And there was Kingsbury and Market Street. And just off Market Street—
The jewelry store. On the edge of the burnt district, there was no denying that the Great Chicago Fire had consumed whatever had been in its place a hundred and fifty years ago. Is that what she had been seeing? A long-forgotten victim from the late nineteenth century? Maybe the shadows had nothing to do with what had been hidden in that filing cabinet.
Maybe they had nothing to do with David’s murder.
10
Zbirak loved winter. The cold rarely bothered him, and the early fall of darkness comforted him more than anything. As a child, he had been afraid of the dark, but no mo
re. Now, he felt a quiet solace when he found himself concealed in shadow.
Of course, this was the South. December in Georgia was mild, and its citizens were more likely to encounter rain than snow. Tonight, it was a balmy sixty-three degrees—Zbirak was used to much harsher temperatures, but it was nice to travel without the encumberment of a winter jacket. He checked his watch. Just after six in the evening. A light drizzle fell across his head and shoulders. Every once in a while, a drop of water would cascade down his face. But he didn’t dare move to wipe it away.
He kneeled at the base of a large tree, dressed from head to toe in black. Only his face would be visible, but the angle of the road meant no headlights would find him. He’d parked his car several miles away along the side of the road. Seemingly abandoned. No one should disturb it, but he wasn’t worried either way. The car wasn’t his, and he’d be rid of it by the morning.
Besides, most people who traveled the road were either lost or headed to one specific destination. Zbirak’s target was in the former camp—he knew they would be traveling this road tonight, driving toward the detention center.
