Page 42 of What Happens at Nightfall

“Him? I thought you were stalking my daughter.” Correction: She was stalking his daughter. Adam had the proof back in his house. “Your wall was covered with pictures of her.”

“Only because she was the next in line!”

The light in the sky was fading, leaving the hollow in deep dusk. Adam’s mind felt just as murky. “The next in line for what?”

“Demonic possession!”

Oh boy. Adam was presented with unfortunate images of spinning heads and projectile vomit. He looked at Jess, who gave her head a little shake, indicating that she was as bewildered as he was.

“Um,” he said awkwardly, “I’m sure whatever your university is, they probably have excellent mental health services. We could take you over there, if you’d like, and sit with you. Unless you have someone else who can be with you.”

“You think I’m crazy,” said the guide flatly.

“Not crazy,” Adam said. Crazy was thinking marble had moved. Crazy was those few moments when the world had disappeared in dust and fire and the ground had writhed with serpents. Crazy was seeing a stained glass statue stalk toward you. Crazy was thinking Jess could shoot light out of a parasol. “But sometimes our brains play tricks on us and make us see things that aren’t there or believe things that aren’t true. With the right medications . . .”

The guide’s lips tightened. She flung an arm in the direction of the rosebush by the reclining woman. “Did you ever wonder why that rose blooms all year round, even in winter?”

He’d tried not to think about it, really. He always stayed as far away from the Vanderwilt tomb as possible. “Some plants are very hardy.”

“Bloom-in-the-snow hardy?” Before Adam could explain that, yes, there were several species of flower that bloomed through winter, the guide went on, “I had wanted to resolve this all before anyone else needed to know, but you just ruined that. Is there any place we could go where I can explain to you what’s really going on here?”

Adam exchanged a look with Jess. They both knew what was really going on here.

“Oh, for the love of—!” exploded the guide. “Look, you pick the place, and if you don’t believe me, when I’m done I’ll go with you to NYU health services.”

Aha. NYU. That was the robe.

Jess rose creakily from the pavement. “Is there a diner nearby? I wouldn’t mind some all-day pancakes.”

“Okay,” said Adam grudgingly. It wasn’t a terrible idea. A diner would be bright and public. They’d have witnesses if she started ranting about demonic possession. “I have an hour before I have to relieve the babysitter.”

They went to Green-Wood Mews, both because it was close and because it wasn’t one of the places Adam usually took the kids. No one knew him here. It was old-school: laminated menus and cracked pleather booths, relatively empty on a Sunday night. The late-night crowd would come later, soaking up their incipient hangovers with bacon and pancakes. An old eighties power ballad played softly on the speakers. It was drowned out by a shout from a group of men clustered at one end of the Formica counter, passionately engaged in the college football game playing on the large TV screen cantilevered from the ceiling.

“Whaddya want?” asked the waitress, taking an order pad from her apron.

Screw cholesterol, he was having a burger with all the trimmings. “I’ll have the deluxe bacon cheeseburger with extra fries. And two lemonades.”

Sugar was good for shock and citrus was good for . . . something. Jess was no longer gray, but her face was pinched and drained.

Across from Adam in the booth, the guide looked disturbingly normal. Before they’d left the cemetery, she’d pulled off her robe and stuffed it into a Trader Joe’s tote bag. In jeans and a tank top, she might have been any other twentysomething doctoral student. She wore her pale blond hair in a braid and glasses that looked more trendy than functional. A tattoo—a Renaissance design of some sort—peeked out beneath one shoulder strap.

Jess had slid in next to Adam, so they both faced the guide like a pair of detectives in Law & Order: Occult Unit.

“What’s your name?” Adam asked, once all the orders had been taken and the latest ruckus from the TV watchers had died down to a low rumble.

“Does it matter? Fine. Ingrid. Ingrid Morteson.” It sounded like an alias. Adam’s disbelief must have shown on his face because the woman said, “If you don’t believe me, look me up. NYU history department. Morteson. Only one n.”

Jess was staring blankly at her outdated phone. “I forgot. I turned my phone off.”

“When was the last time you ate?” asked Adam.

“Breakfast. I think. Does coffee count?” Jess pushed the side button of her phone and held it. “Why won’t it go on? I could have sworn I still had battery.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got this.” After a surreptitious look to make sure there were no messages from the kids, Adam typed Ingrid Morteson into the search bar.

Sure enough, there she was, her hair shorter, but undoubtedly the same person. UMich undergrad, NYU history department.

Adam planted his elbows on the table. “Okay, you are who you say you are, but what’s all this nonsense about demonic possession?”