Page 36 of The Rut in the Road

Raj shifted. “I know you’ve been working on your… readings,” he said softly. “But I didn’t realize you could narrate them now.”

Ah. I nodded. “I’ve been working on it,” I replied. “I find it’s both more detailed and probably accurate, and that way I only have to go through it once, if it’s being recorded.”

Hart’s ears turned pink. “I, uh, didn’t record that,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I did.”

“You did?” Raj repeated.

I nodded. “Ward has a recorder in here for séances, so that clients can’t make up what happened or make accusations of inaccuracy.” I pointed to a corner. “It’s closed-circuit, so it doesn’t leave the office, but I hit the recording switch by the door on the way in.”

Raj looked slightly alarmed. “You can’t just do that for federal cases,” he objected.

I looked mildly back at him. “We can, actually,” I replied. “It’s in the contract Ward signed with the FBI that we’re allowed to record all victim interviews and consultations with Beyond the Veil staff.” I knew it probably sounded like I was being rude, but I also knew I was right. Ward and Mason had made sure that was in the contract, to protect the company in case anything ever happened.

I’d asked what could happen, and Mason had looked grim. “We can’t trust that the same people we’re working with now willalways be there or that their employers might not be influenced to silence evidence that makes them look bad,” he’d said.

I wasn’t going to say that, specifically, to Raj and Hart, though.

Raj still looked offended. Or maybe hurt.

Hart snorted, and his expression was amused. “Fucking good for him,” he said.

Raj looked over at him. “Whose side are you on, here?” he demanded.

Hart shrugged. “Not the side that has a bunch of dickbags passing laws to make our existence illegal,” he replied pointedly.

Raj blinked, emotions that I couldn’t quite identify flickering over his face. “I—” His features settled in a frown. “I don’t like it,” he said slowly. “But I—” A sigh. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” He clearly wasn’t happy, though.

“Do you want me to read the headlight now?” I asked. I really didn’t want to, but I knew it was important, so I would. That was, according to Ward at least, what adults did. Things we didn’t want to do, but which were important.

I didn’t want to re-experience the elf’s death, but if it would help catch his killer, then that’s what I was going to do.

Raj didn’t answer my question with words, but he opened the bag, allowing the large fragment of yellow-orange plastic to rattle across a few inches of the surface of the table.

I drew in a long breath, steadying myself.

Then I reached out and gripped it between thumb and forefinger.

He could feelthe thrill rushing through him, just like Jerry had said. The excitement. The knowledge that he was—they were—doing God’s work.

He was jittery, tapping his fingers against the plastic of the headlight, his foot bouncing on the pavement as he waited, watching. Looking for the sign that God would send.

Preacher Dale told them that God would make clear the way. That God would shine a light for them. To show them what to do. Where to go.

So he waited for the sign.

It came sooner than he expected, his eyes catching sight of pale skin and long legs pushing through the crowd. The creature—for so Preacher Dale had reminded them they were, not people, butcreatures—bumped into a woman carrying a tote bag of groceries on one shoulder. She staggered a little, glaring after the creature.

Her hatred to his will.

God’s will.

The memory stopped there,and I let go of the plastic before I was drawn into the next one. “That’s all it has from the driver,” I told them. “But there’s a fragment of memory from the… victim.”

Raj’s skin took on a greyish cast, and Hart swallowed visibly. “Jesus,” the elf breathed. “Do you—is there anything helpful to it?” he asked.

“His spine was damaged, I think,” I said, remembering vividly the memory of pain. “And then nothing.”