My apartment is quickly becoming a flower shop.

When we walk through the door after leaving Alice’s ranch, the scent of fresh flowers fills the room.

“Oh, right. I forgot to mention that Lily had these delivered. Duff texted me while we were gone and asked for permission to bring them in.”

A surprisingly tasteful vase of pink peonies is sitting next to my dying unicorn display.

“Huh. No unicorns.”

Silas gives me a strange look. “Unicorn flowers?”

I point to the older vase. “Lily. She’s a hoot.”

“Sounds like she’s becoming a friend. That’s good. You need more.”

“Yes.”

“Just tell her never to be your driver again when you’re running away from me.”

“It wasn’t her fault.” I finger the card on the new flower arrangement. My name is on the front, and inside, a simple message.

If you need an ear, please call me. My deepest condolences. Lily

I close my eyes and inhale slowly. Silas is right.

I do need more friends.

Just then, my phone rings. The actual ringtone goes off.

I hold my phone up for Silas to read the display as it rings. “Hedding, Stuva & Bollinger?” I read. “Sounds like a law firm.”

Silas motions for me to take the call. “That’s a major firm in DC. Answer it.”

“You sure?”

He nods. I accept the call. Too late, though–I get dead air.

“I’m sure they’ll leave a voicemail,” I say, but Silas isn’t listening. He’s frowning, deeply.

At my phone.

“Why in hell would Hedding Stuva call you?”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m being sued? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No–they’d call Harry’s lawyers for something like that. All calls related to anything legal pertaining to you go through them. Hedding Stuva is a white-shoe, genteel DC firm for the ultra wealthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe Harry hired them?”

“I would have been told. Did they leave a message?” He peers at my screen.

I look at the blinking notification on my phone. “Yes.” He doesn’t have to ask. I navigate and hit Play Message.

“Hello, Ms. Borokov. This is Nathaniel Stuva from Hedding Stuva, a private law firm. We need to speak with you concerning one of our clients. Could you please return this call at your earliest convenience?” He gives a number.

Silas’s lips are parted, eyebrows up in a look of extraordinary astonishment. Leaning in toward the phone as if it will tell him some secret not yet disclosed, he says, “What the hell?”

“Why is this so troubling?” I ask, perplexed.

“Because the last time I had any interaction with people at Hedding Stuva was the El Brujo case.”

My turn to be perplexed. “El Brujo? You mean the drug dealer who died? The one who was a dean at Yates University and no one knew?”

“Yeah.”

“What did this law firm have to do with him?”

“Turns out he was laundering money through some offshore investments. Hedding Stuva handled some of the taxation paperwork. It was a big stink. They don’t deal with dirty money. Old money, slimy money, robber baron money–they’re fine with that. But not drug money and definitely not sex slave trafficking dollars.”

“Why would they call me?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

I pick up the phone. “I’ll call them and–”

“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t. Let me talk to Drew about this first. I can’t think of any good reason why Hedding Stuva would call you. This smells like a set-up.”

I know better than to argue. Frankly, I don’t want to argue. This is so out of the realm of normal. Not the odd call from a law firm I don’t know.

Silas’s reaction.

“We need to bring Paulson in on this,” he says as if talking to himself.

“Mark Paulson?” A chill runs through me as I say his name. “Why?”

“He was a major part of bringing El Brujo down. And now you’re being contacted by a law firm that was part of a drug and sex slave dealer’s empire. He knows more about the whole web than anyone else. I want him in on this.”

“Do we have to?”

Silas seems taken aback. “You have something against Mark?”

“It’s not fair, but yes. I do.”

“What is it? Why?”

“He’s the reason my mom handed Lindsay over to those guys, on the helipad.”

“Mark had nothing to do with it,” Silas says calmly, but he’s defensive. I wonder how close they are. “John Gainsborough pretended to be Mark. You know that.”

“I know. But emotionally, I don’t know. Some part of me on the inside still thinks of him as the reason my mother is dead.”

“That’s one hell of a leap.”

“I never said it was rational.”

“Fair enough. He’s crucial. Mark has a mind that rivals Drew’s for this kind of work. His training is so complex. And with his experience with El Brujo kidnapping his fiancée and–”

“Wait. What? Say that last part again?”

“Mark’s fiancée, Carrie, was kidnapped by El Brujo’s men. She was snooping around and found a way station for sex slaves they smuggled into the U.S. from Mexico. She also found her friend down there.”

Memories of everything from my time at Yates spill over, making it hard for me to speak coherently. “Carrie Myerson is Mark Paulson’s girlfriend?”

“You know Carrie?”

“I know of her. You can’t go to Yates or be an alum and not know what Dean Landau did. That he was El Brujo.” I let out a small gasp and realize I’m barely breathing. “Mark Paulson’s fiancée is her?”

“Yes.”

“Then being set up as the fall guy for kidnapping Lindsay is twice as bad. I heard the rumors at Yates about how they really killed El Brujo. How he cut off arms and legs of women he kidnapped.” I shiver.

“That’s why the call from Hedding Stuva is troubling,” Silas declares. “I’m bringing Paulson into this.”

“Okay. I understand. Not that you need my permission.”

His eyebrows rise with amusement.

“Glad to have your blessing.”

I look around the apartment. Nothing’s changed other than the new flowers. The dead ones need to be thrown away and I’m starving. Dispatching the decaying blossoms into the trash, I wash my hands and turn to the task of making something we can eat.

Only to confront an empty fridge.

My phone buzzes. I look.

I freeze.

ENTER TO WIN! Halloween SWEEPSTAKES! TEXT 21334 to UNICORN for a chance.

That’s not a spam text from a candy company.

That’s a message from my informant.

Silas settles in on my couch, reading from a folder Duff handed him earlier. He has his personal and work phones on the seat next to him, face tight with concentration.

Tell him, my conscience begs. Tell him.

But another voice, that seductive, sabotaging inner voice, says something quite different.

It says one word.

No.

I turn away, giving Silas my back, and pretend to make coffee.

Meanwhile, I text 21334 to UNICORN.

The reply is a riddle. It must be. We had no choice all those years. Who knows how long my electronic life has been under surveillance? My knees turn to wet nerves as I realize I’ve likely been monitored my entire life.

Being Harry’s daughter has made it so.

I stare at the screen and hold my breath as I read the reply.

All witch hunts have a warlock.