Jericho stuck his head in. He spoke with urgency. “Will. You should see this.”

The press had gathered on the front steps of the museum, their notepads at the ready. They looked mean and bored and ready for a story with blood in it. The Pentacle Killer had been good for business; it must have been hard to let that slip away. At the front was T. S. Woodhouse himself.

“I’ll handle this.” Will walked out and the reporters snapped to attention. “Gentlemen. Ladies. To what do I owe this honor? If you’re dying for a peek at the museum, we’ll open again at ten thirty tomorrow.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald! Hey, Fitz—over here!” The reporters tried to outshout one another.

“Have you recovered from your arrest?”

“Yeah, Professor—why’d they take you to the clubhouse? You bump somebody off?”

“What can you tell us about the Pentacle Killer?”

“Any truth to the rumor that there was some element of the supernatural involved? Some old hocus-pocus?” T. S. Woodhouse asked.

Will held out his hands in appeasement. He attempted a smile that came off as a grimace. “I leave the supernatural to the museum.”

“Was the killer really a ghost?” T. S. Woodhouse persisted. “That’s the rumor floating around, Professor.”

“The police have given a statement. You’ve got your story, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve nothing more to add to it, I’m afraid. I wish you a good evening.”

Woodhouse turned to Evie. “Miss O’Neill? Got a statement for us?”

“Evie. Let’s go inside. It’s cold,” Will said.

Evie stood on the steps, small and pale in the dim lights. She’d left her coat inside and the chilly October wind cut through her dress. Will wanted her to go inside. Then he would send her back to Ohio, where her parents would also tell her to go inside, in effect. She was tired of being told how it was by this generation, who’d botched things so badly. They’d sold their children a pack of lies: God and country. Love your parents. All is fair. And then they’d sent those boys, her brother, off to fight a great monster of a war that maimed and killed and destroyed whatever was inside them. Still they lied, expecting her to mouth the words and play along. Well, she wouldn’t. She knew now that the world was a long way from fair. She knew the monsters were real.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” she said. Her eyes shone with a hard light.

“Evie, don’t,” Uncle Will warned, but already the press had turned and taken note of her. A man in a black fedora snapped a photograph, and Evie blinked from the white-hot glare of it.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Evangeline O’Neill. But my friends call me Evie. Of course, they usually call me from jail.”

The reporters laughed.

“Say, I like this one. She’s a real live wire,” one said. “And a Sheba to boot.”

“Yes, she is,” T. S. Woodhouse murmured appreciatively.

“Miss O’Neill! John Linden with the Gotham Trumpet. How’s about an exclusive for us?”

“Patricia Ready from Hearst, Miss O’Neill. We girls have to stick together, don’t you say?”

“Hey, doll—over here! Smile for me. Attagirl!”

They clamored for her story with shouts of “Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!” Her name called in Manhattan, the center of the world.

“Which one of us gets an exclusive?” a reporter shouted.

“That depends—which one of you has the gin?” Evie shot back, and they roared with laughter.

T. S. Woodhouse tipped his hat back and stepped closer to Evie. “Your old pal, T. S. Woodhouse, Daily News. No hard feelings still, I hope? You know I’ve always got a soft spot for you, Sheba. My pencil’s nice and sharp—almost as sharp as you are. How’s about you giving us the goods, sweetheart?”

Evie glanced back at her uncle and Jericho. Behind them, the museum sat quiet. Above them all, the city glittered with a thousand squares of cold, hard light.

“Miss O’Neill? Evie?” T. S. Woodhouse rested the point of his pencil against his notebook.

“My uncle’s not being entirely truthful. Special powers—I guess you could call them supernatural powers—were employed to crack the case. My powers.”

The reporters fell into chatter and shouts again.

Evie put up her hands. “Since we’re all New Yorkers and not a bunch of chumps, I suppose you’ll want a demonstration. You might finally prove useful, Mr. Woodhouse.”