Page 70 of What Happens at Nightfall

Adam wasn’t entirely sure why that should confer immunity. He took the glass back from Ingrid and set it down on the counter. “What does he want?”

“Souls. I mean, that’s what they usually want, isn’t it? You don’t need to be an expert in demonology to know that.” Ingrid lurched to her feet, using Jess’s shoulder to shove herself up. “Can we get out of here? I don’t want to be here right now.”

Rubbing her shoulder, Jess followed suit. She looked around the room, at the scattered clothes and papers. “Did Bel—did the demon do this? Rampage through your stuff?”

“What? No. This is the way it always looks. I just don’t want to be here.” Ingrid furiously scrunched up her face, trying to keep from crying. “He got into my apartment and got into me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Adam inadequately. The university, he was sure, had counselors to deal with all sorts of trauma—but possession?

Jess put her arm through Ingrid’s, moving decisively toward the door. “We can go to my place. It’s not far from here. And there’s coffee.”

Coffee was pretty much all there was.

Jess’s apartment, in a swanky modern high-rise, was austerely tidy. The walls were the unimaginative white chosen by the management company. The sofa was black leather; the coffee table and desk were black-painted wood. The fridge was equally bare, inhabited by a giant orange jug of caramel macchiato creamer, a chunk of Brie that was beginning to mold, and one lonely jar of capers.

There was, however, a large stockpile of Nespresso pods.

Jess moved briskly around the tiny galley kitchen, filling the water chamber of her Nespresso machine, which was larger, fancier, and more complicated than Adam’s and took up most of the available counter space. “I don’t think I have any decaf pods. Are you okay with regular? Or I think I have some chamomile tea somewhere . . .”

“Can I do anything?” Adam followed her into the kitchen. It was so narrow he could rest his hands on both counters at the same time without having to stretch.

Jess thrust a mug at him. It was solid, olive-colored pottery, as bland as the rest of her decor. “Can you take this to Ingrid?”

Adam hesitated, all the things he wanted to say jumbling together somewhere between his brain and his lips. I had a demon in my head. I’m sorry I thought terrible things about you.

Adam took the mug. “Sure.”

He delivered the coffee as instructed to Ingrid, who was hunched on Jess’s black leather sofa, her laptop on her knees, furiously scrolling and muttering to herself. Adam left her to it. He wandered aimlessly around Jess’s living room. There was a dead orchid on the radiator. It was so dead it had long since ceased looking like a dead plant and now resembled some sort of decorator’s art statement.

The tall bookshelf across from the couch turned out to be packed with a combination of assigned reading of college vintage and a truly impressive collection of elderly paperback mysteries, ranging from Dame Ngaio Marsh to a full set of Nancy Drew with bright yellow spines. A smattering of framed pictures rested on the shelves in front of the books. One was clearly Kameka’s kids: a Christmas card photo, all matching seersucker and big hairbows on a beach, although the little boy had managed to keep it from being entirely obnoxious by pulling a hideous face. Adam respected that. As the younger brother, he, too, had made a point of sticking out his tongue at his big sisters.

But there was also Jess. A very young Jess, summer-bleached blond, standing with an equally young Kimmy, both holding dripping ice cream cones and making faces at the camera. Based on the missing front teeth, he’d guess she was about six, with the kind of sunburn under her eyes that suggested no one had remembered to reapply sunscreen.

Propped in the corner was the oldest of the photos, faded in that way old photos had, when they’d actually taken them on cameras and developed them in stores. A woman in a flowy dress with feathery nineties hair was looking away from the camera, squinting at something just out of the frame, while a little girl hugged her around the knees.

A funny little sculpture stood next to it. An angel, Adam realized, made of paper clips and scraps of paper. He picked it up, intrigued. Depending on the angle, it looked like nothing at all—or very unmistakably an angel, wings and all, the tiny bits of paper forming the feathers, a curve of paper clip a halo.

Fascinated, Adam moved it back and forth, watching it transform from desk supplies to holy messenger and back again.

“Coffee.” Jess emerged from the kitchen, holding identical olive-green mugs in either hand. She held one out to him. “You okay with caffeinated?”

“Just don’t tell Melinda.” Adam held up the paper clip angel. “Where did you find this?”

“I made it.” At his look of surprise, Jess gave a tiny shrug. “I used to doodle angels when I was little. I figure this is like doodling, only in 3D. It’s something to do while I’m on endless Zooms. Or when I was on endless Zooms. Back when. Before the whole embezzlement and fraud thing.”

She’d finally run out of breath. Adam had no idea what to say. “It’s really good.”

“It’s paper clips,” she said dismissively. “Here. Take your coffee before I spill it.”

Adam put the angel carefully back on the shelf before following her to the couch.

“Let’s call this meeting to order, shall we?” Jess perched on her desk chair, her mug cupped in her hands.

It was a move that kept her apart, separate from her guests on the couch. She did that a lot, Adam realized, putting herself off to the side. He thought of her standing at his kitchen counter or pushing her chair just a little farther out than it needed to be at the kitchen table, as if she weren’t sure of her welcome.

“Adam? Hello?”

“Huh, what?” Both women were looking at him.