Damn it. There was no telling where she went.

She wasn’t a prisoner. She was a guest and a client. She could leave as she wished. Even if it was dangerous and stupid.

On the recording, Bern slipped out the door. I whipped out my phone and texted him.

Where are you?

Watching Runa.

What is she doing?

She’s sitting in the remains of her house and crying. I’m going to let her cry it out and then follow her to make sure she gets home.

Ragnar is awake.

I’ll tell her.

I exhaled. Today would be a long day.

When people thought of Houston downtown, they imagined modern towers made of steel and glass. Which was true. But Houston had another downtown, older, more ornate, born during the 1920s and 1930s, when Art Deco skyscrapers set new height records and the recent invention of air-conditioning made the oppressive heat and humidity of the Houston swamps bearable.

The Great Southwest Building, which now housed Diatheke, was built in a single year during that boom. The blocky limestone and brick tower rose above Texas Avenue, rectangular for most of its twenty-two floors, except near the top, where the upper floors were stepped back to mirror the Mayan pyramids that inspired its design. Carved reliefs adorned the walls. Mesoamerican dragons and warriors stared down at passersby from above the ornate arches.

I walked through its doors wearing my work clothes. Dark pants, white turtleneck, and my favorite Burberry coat with my knife in it. I carried a folder containing the legal equivalent of a loaded Howitzer, everything from our license to the limited power of attorney and urgent request for information, which I had Runa sign last night.

The lobby was just as grand as the outside. The polished parquet floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting red marble walls. To the left, a small marble counter, decorated with an elegant white orchid, sheltered a lone receptionist. Past her, two elevators interrupted the marble wall. Directly across from the receptionist, to the right, a small sitting area offered two plush loveseats and a low coffee table with a glass vase filled with bright Christmas ornaments.

Typically, a lobby would have more than one exit, but the only other door, in the far wall, wasn’t marked as such. It probably led to the stairs. The door looked remarkably solid, steel and modern, with a keycard lock.

I approached the counter. A middle-aged black woman wearing a charcoal suit and a pair of black framed glasses looked up from her computer screen and smiled at me. She had short hair, minimal makeup, and a string of pearls around her neck.

“How may I help you?”

“Catalina Baylor, of House Baylor. I’m here to speak with someone regarding the House Etterson account.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. However, the principal account holder is dead, and the matter is urgent.”

“Oh my goodness. That’s not good. Please have a seat and someone will be right with you.”

I walked over to the loveseats and sat in the corner, so I could watch both doors. The elevators had a keycard access box, meaning nobody without a card could even call the elevator to the floor. There had to be surveillance cameras, although I couldn’t see any. For an older building, they sure had a lot of high-tech security.

Bug still hadn’t reported in, which meant Alessandro had given him the slip twice. Bug had to be livid. On the other hand, Alessandro was now a challenge and would get his complete attention. No texts from Leon or Bern, which hopefully meant that Runa was still alive and hadn’t murdered anyone. The last I’d seen of Arabella, she’d armed herself with a doughnut and a ridiculously large Starbucks latte and was shoulder-deep in Halle’s online social life.

I looked up from my phone. The receptionist sipped something from a white mug with golden letters spelling out “Baby, it’s cold outside.” If she locked the front door, I would be trapped. The elevators were inoperable without a keycard. Same for the door leading to the stairs. There were no windows at this level except for the front door glass panels, and I had caught a glimpse of a metal grate that could be lowered, blocking the exit.

It was all rather dungeonlike.

The left elevator doors opened with a whisper. None of the numbers above it had lit up. Nothing indicated from which floor it had descended or that it was even on the way. Curiouser and curiouser. Unlike Alice, I couldn’t grow to giant size in case of trouble. That was okay, I had other tricks up my sleeve.

A white woman in her late forties or early fifties stepped out of the elevator. Short and petite, she wore a pale pink Chanel suit with black piping, beige stockings, and black kitten heels. She’d chosen a chunky rose-gold necklace and a matching bracelet as her accessories. Her glasses matched her jewelry. Her dark hair, pulled back into a conservative bun, completed the look. She hurried toward me, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor.

I got up.

“Celia Scott.” She offered me her small hand with rose-gold acrylic nails.

“Catalina Baylor.”

She squeezed my hand, trying to reassure. “I’m so sorry about Sigourney. What a horrible tragedy. Let’s talk in my office.”

I followed her to the elevator. She pulled a slim plastic card out of her jacket pocket, waved it in front of the dark window above the call button, and the elevator doors opened. We stepped inside, and she waved the card again, this time above the floor numbers, and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor.

“How is Runa?”

“Shaken up.”

“Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.”

The doors opened, revealing a surprisingly modern hallway with a tasteful modern rug with splashes of red and turquoise, and eggshell white walls. Wow, fast elevator.

Celia took off down the hallway to the left, and I had to speed up to keep pace.

“What a beautiful building,” I said.

“Isn’t it? So much history here. If only these walls could talk.”

Celia waved her keycard in front of a door on our right. The electronic lock clicked, and she swung the door open. I walked inside into a comfortable but decidedly modern office with an ergonomic desk and black leather designer chairs.

“Sit, sit.” Celia waved at the chairs.

I sat. Three pictures in rose-gold frames sat on a corner of her desk; one showing Celia holding a baby, one with her and a middle-aged man in ski outfits, standing on a snowy slope, and one of a ridiculously groomed white poodle about the size of a cat. I was kind of surprised the poodle didn’t sport a rose-gold collar.

Celia sat in her chair and smiled at me. Her mouth stretched, but no emotion reached her eyes. “So what can I do for you?”

I opened my folder and unleashed my bona fides. It took her about three minutes to get through it.

“A private investigator. How exciting. How did you get into that? You don’t look the type.”

“What is the type?”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh, burly, older, male?”

“We’re not those kinds of detectives.” I smiled back at her. “Strictly white-collar investigations here. We deal with insurance companies rather than distraught dames.”

Celia laughed. “A pity.”

“I’m here in a friend-of-the-family capacity. Runa is too upset to sort through her mother’s affairs and we’re trying to prep everything for her takeover.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Ms. Etterson kept meticulous records and they show a withdrawal of two-point-two million dollars from her Diatheke account. Can you confirm that a withdrawal took place, the status of the account, and the account to which the funds were deposited?”

Celia frowned. “I’m so sorry, but it is our policy to process such requests in writing. If you submit a written request, I should be able to get back to you in a couple of weeks. By Friday after next, at the latest.”

Two weeks.

We didn’t have two weeks. More importantly, she was lying.

Online resources and crime dramas stressed the importance of microexpressions or signs of nervousness when trying to judge when someone was telling the truth. Shifting eyes, looking up in the direction opposite of your dominant hand, sweating, pursed mouth, and so on. Accomplished liars exhibited none of those. However, I had grown up with a human lie detector of a sister, and Nevada had clued me in on an indicator that proved right most of the time.

Frequent liars maintained eye contact.

When I was little, my mother would sit me and Arabella down and ask who started the fight. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do it.” We both quickly figured out that as long as we looked her in the eye while we lied, she was much more likely to trust us. I had no idea why parents believed in the supernatural truth-serum power of their gaze, but most of them did. And they taught their children that shifty-eyed liars didn’t meet one’s stare under tough questioning.

Celia had maintained eye contact like a champ. So much so, it was slightly unsettling. Most people looked away when they were embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or when they tried to process things. Denying help to someone whose family had just died in a fire was about as uncomfortable as it could get, but Celia had stared straight at me, emitting trustworthiness.

I concentrated.

Nearly all mages had an active and a passive field. Active magical abilities required effort on the mage’s part, while passive powers were always present: automatic, involuntary, and continuous, like breathing. Cornelius always scanned his surroundings for animals. His subconscious did it on autopilot. However, if he wanted to make friends with a particular animal, he had to apply his magic. In my case, I spent most of my time actively suppressing my passive field around strangers. Relaxing control now felt like letting out a breath I had been holding.