Alessandro raised his eyebrows.

We started forward. The pillar on the left flashed, reacting to our movement. The construct on its top twisted. Magenta-colored magic sparked, and the small mechanical beast came to life.

About a foot across and eight inches high, the construct seemed old and a little crude, a collection of metal gears and cogs, shaped vaguely like a mole with four front limbs, two where the normal paws would be and two others, inverted so they pointed out, attached to the mole’s back. All four came equipped with long curved claws.

The screen on the wall behind the mole turned on, showing a black-and-white picture of a young man. He wore a dark suit and lighter frock coat and held a derby hat in his hand. Next to him a massive version of the mole construct towered, ten feet high, with claws the size of giant bulldozer blades. The caption underneath read “Secondo Castellano, 1901, Digger I.”

From where I stood, I could see other pedestals with their own photos. 1912, Crawler I, a millipede with a multitude of arms, each capable of picking up a large container. 1927, a strange beast with a scrapper attached to it, some sort of bulldozer equivalent. 1932, a bizarre grasshopper mutant capable of raising power poles. 1948, Digger V, updated and refined to be more efficient . . .

We were in House Castellano’s personal museum.

Alessandro studied the room. His face turned thoughtful.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve never stood inside someone’s American Dream before.”

A family of immigrants, coming to the US, starting a business, growing it into a House worth millions. “A version of it, yes.”

We resumed walking.

“My mom once told me that the American Dream was to live better than your parents.”

“Do you think it’s true?” he asked.

“I think everyone defines better differently. Some want more money. Others want more time.”

“What do you want?”

The answer popped into my head so fast, I didn’t even have to think about it.

“Security. I want my family to be safe in all ways. I want them to be secure from attacks, physical, magical, and financial. I want us to have enough money to cover our bills, to allow everyone to have the career they want, and to take time off if they need it. To not be one disaster away from complete collapse. Less disasters would be really nice. As a House, I want us to have a solid reputation, the kind that commands respect, so everyone can marry whoever they want without jumping through hurdles.”

“That’s all about your family. What about you?”

My happy dream died six months ago. Earlier, actually, before any of us realized the depth of Victoria Tremaine’s scheming. One day I would get back some of what I lost, but by then it would be too late for me and Alessandro.

“My family is my happiness.”

A dangerous shadow flickered through his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

I must have hit a raw nerve by accident.

The pedestals kept going. We passed out of the twentieth century into the new millennium. The constructs slimmed down, becoming sleeker, more specialized. A spider to climb buildings and deliver supplies to disaster areas over rugged terrain. A mobile solar battery shaped like a flower that crawled forward on tentacle-roots.

The pictures changed too, as did the names. From Secondo to Francis, then Janet, then Sean and Mark, then finally, Cheryl. It was a trip through history designed to impress. Had we come to do business with House Castellano, by the time we reached the frosted glass doors at the other end, we would have been humbled and grateful for the opportunity.

But I wasn’t here to be humble. I was here to interrogate Cheryl about a murder. None of her family’s admittedly impressive achievements would change that.

The museum ended in another lobby and a pretty female secretary ushered us into Cheryl’s office.

Prime Castellano smiled at us from behind a solid black glass desk, accented with gold. She wore a soft silk blouse the color of bluebonnets and a tailored skirt. A porcelain brooch in the shape of a delicate white orchid rested on her chest. Her hair coiled on her head in soft feminine waves.

A man in his thirties stood on her right. Large brown eyes, deep bronze skin, South Asian ancestry. His gaze fixed on me and a faint shadow slid over my mind, filled with a distant echo of a wail. Mentovocifer, a mind shrieker. Victoria had had me fight one. They attacked by flooding the mind with magic, which their victim’s brain interpreted as a deafening, agonizing scream. Cheryl was taking no chances.

She rose. “A pleasure to see you both again, although I do wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Such a tragedy,” Alessandro offered.

Cheryl held out her hand to me. I shook it. Her fingers were soft, her handshake gentle. She got me out of the way and shifted her attention to Alessandro. He kissed her hand. Cheryl smiled in that particular way women smiled at Alessandro. He smiled back at her, a charming roguish grin that said, Yes, I would be a lot of fun. I resisted the urge to smack the back of his head.

“Please sit down.”

We took our places in two black chairs. Cheryl settled back behind the desk. It struck me how out of place she seemed. The office was luxurious, but so impersonal, it almost looked staged. Grey walls, chestnut wood paneling, black and gold color scheme. A distinctly corporate space devoid of personal touches.

This couldn’t have been her regular office. Frequently used offices, like most of the spaces people occupied, accumulated personal touches: photographs, plants, knickknacks, business gifts. She must have borrowed it for the meeting, most likely from her uncle, who had retired and rarely involved himself in the House business, according to Bern’s summary.

Cheryl didn’t want me to see her space. She could have done it out of privacy concerns, or because this office was convenient and impressive, but I doubted it. She did it because her regular office would’ve told me things about her, and she didn’t want me to gain any insights.

What are you hiding, Cheryl?

“This is Rahul.” Cheryl looked at the shrieker with a small smile. “He’s going to sit in on our meeting. Didn’t you have an interview with Marat this morning? How did it go?”

She was trying to hijack the conversation. I smiled at her. “What’s your opinion of Mr. Kazarian?”

She pursed her lips for half a second. That’s right, I ignored your question and asked my own. You don’t get to drive this car.

“An extremely hardworking man, dedicated, and an excellent father.”

“Can you tell me about Stephen Jiang?”

“Dedicated,” Cheryl said. “He comes from a wonderful family, steeped in tradition, very respected. A very smart young man. I’m not sure why you’re asking me these questions.”

“It helps me understand the interactions between everyone.”

“In that case, what did Marat say about me?”

“He wondered if you are applying for sainthood.”

Cheryl raised her hand to her mouth and laughed softly.

“Tatyana Pierce?” I prompted.

“My niece went to school with her. They used to call her Tatyana Fierce. The nickname still applies. Tatyana is direct and excellent under pressure.”

“And Felix?”

Cheryl’s face turned sad. She sighed. “Felix was everyone’s favorite. He was like a brother you wish you had growing up. Our leader, if you will. I feel so terrible for his children.”

“Can you tell me about your day on July 15th? Starting with waking up.”

Cheryl frowned. “Some days you remember and some days you don’t. This was an ordinary day. I woke up at seven, drank my coffee. Anna, my housekeeper, bought pomelos the previous evening, and I had one for breakfast.”

She spoke softly. Her tone wasn’t meek; rather, it was conciliatory and gentle enough so that raising my voice would have immediately branded me as an ass and a bully. Interesting.

“I spoke to my son, Sander, before he left for school. He keeps trying to convince me that a neck tattoo would make a good birthday present. Evan, my chauffeur, picked me up at half past eight and took me to the family workshop. I spent the day there.” Her frown deepened. “I don’t remember if I went out for lunch or if I ordered in.”

She had ordered in, a strawberry salad with salmon in a balsamic maple glaze. Augustine’s people had confirmed it with her secretary.

“I stayed at the workshop until five or six.”

She’d left at 4:42 p.m. Castellano’s workshop was roughly the same distance from the Pit as the Morton building. If they were going to the Pit, she would beat Felix by twenty minutes. Enough time to disable the security equipment.

“Where did you go after work?” I asked.

MII’s investigator assigned to the case confirmed that Cheryl was home by seven, but MII couldn’t account for two and a half hours of Cheryl’s time, starting from her leaving the office and ending with a traffic camera picking her up as she took an exit off I-69 on the way to her house in the Memorial Villages.

“I had a light dinner and some cocktails with a friend at Masraff’s.”

“The name of your friend?”

“Gloria Neville.”

I hid a smile.

Gloria Neville came from an old and powerful House. Like Bern, she was Magister Examplaria, a pattern mage, but her specialty lay in economics. She analyzed market patterns and predicted global economic shifts. She was in her sixties, and in the course of her life she had made a lot of money for a lot of people. In the eyes of the Texas magical heavy hitters, she was an unimpeachable witness. They trusted her with their money.