Striker sat on his couch, transfixed at the cube of red gouache paint rotating in the air in front of him.

  Now that he maintained control when he touched what he called ‘the shape page’, he could form liquids and malleable materials into basic shapes. Spheres. Platonic solids. Basic artistic forms he could call to the front of his mind without a second thought. With a little concentration he could create sculptures, immediate and impermanent.

  He released the page when he heard a knock at the door. The cube became a blob as it splattered into the cup on the table beneath it. He peered through the peephole, which was blocked by a hand— Case’s judging by the rings.

  “What are you, twelve?” he asked, opening the door.

  She held up a journal, with a smug grin. “You probably wanna see this.”

  He stepped aside to let her in.

  She looked around the room and ultimately decided the floor was safe enough to take her sandals off. “Is this furniture-against-the-wall thing a coping phase or…?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been rearranging.”

  “Hey, that’s productive,” she said, poised for a high-five.

  He obliged. “So, what is that?”

  She opened the journal to a random page and turned it toward him. It was in Zoey’s handwriting. English words were followed by single sigils, pairs, and some larger sets of three or four symbols.

  “I was cleaning my room and I found Zoey’s makeup box— all the trays were gone and there’s no makeup, but it had this in it.”

  “…I thought that box was here? She did her makeup before she left trivia.”

  Case shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe we went out somewhere and she got ready at my place?”

  He shook his head. “No, the last time I remember her using it was the night she disappeared.”

  “Oh…”

  “It’s fine. Things showing up isn’t really new, if you’d believe it.” Striker paused for a moment, considering what consequences might come with showing Case the items that appeared in his apartment since the year began. “You’re probably gonna have some trouble believing what I’m about to tell you,” he said, leading her to his room. Her eyes settled on the short purple bookcase in the corner.

  “I thought you said that went missing? And what the fuck is that?”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the empty handgun magazine on top of the bookcase. “Did you get a gun?”

  “No, the bookcase just showed up with the clip on it. Like the makeup box, I guess. Out of thin fucking air. I have no explanation for it. That binder of Zoey’s you told me about was in the bookcase when I found it.” He picked up the binder from his desk and showed it to her. She furrowed her brow as she looked over the contents of the redacted document. Her eyes drifted back to the gun magazine. Then to Striker.

  “So, that’s really not yours?”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t even know if it's Zoey’s. The clip was just on the bookcase. No gun or bullets. That’s not what’s important here.”

  “You can tell me if you got one.”

  “It’s really not mine, Case.”

  She pursed her lips. “So, where did you hide the bookcase?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her expression seemed unconvinced. “You’re my best friend, I’m not going to tell the cops or anything.”

  “I’m serious. I didn’t hide it. It showed up. Like I said. It sounds like maybe the same thing happened with the makeup box.”

  “I just didn’t know the box was there,” she said, “that doesn’t mean it magically appeared or something.”

  “What if there’s a possibility you’re not accepting?”

  “I know things have been weird since Zoey went missing, but I feel like you’re about to make a big stretch.”

  “How many times have you cleaned your room since Zoey disappeared?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because, do you really think you’d miss a huge makeup box in your room for months? With how religiously you clean your apartment?”

  She shrugged. “I miss things. It’s not like I’m at my best since Zoey’s been gone.” She sighed and settled into silence for a moment as her gaze settled on the floor. “I have a friend… He’s a therapist. He said he’ll see us for free, at least once. I think we should do that. We’ve both been kind of fucked up over Zoey.”

  “I’ll pass. I appreciate it, but I don’t see the point.”

  Her face soured, “Well, I lost a friend. A really close one. You’ve been really selfish lately and—” she paused. “I really want to go. You’ve also been, I don’t know, erratic lately? I’ve known you for almost ten years and this is the first time you’ve been acting really weird for you, you know? You’re going through something traumatic, too. I think it’s a good idea. For both of us.” Her eyes darted to the bookcase, the magazine, and back to Striker.

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Relief washed over her face. “I’ll make an appointment. Can we make your apartment a little less weird?”

  Striker looked around his living room and shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I should finish rearranging.”

  The pair spent the day together, reorganizing furniture and cleaning up the trash in Striker’s living space at Case’s behest. They left a magic show on in the background— a showcase of the Bay Area’s best, as background noise. Once they were done, they bought wine— Zoey, because Case wanted Rosé. They played music from her iPod and drank into the late hours.

  Case passed out on the couch cradling a hot pocket that burned her tongue. Striker fell asleep face-down on top of his covers, after an exhausted attempt at translating the journal with his new resource.

  Case awoke with a start and turned on her side. She took a bite of the cold hot pocket and tossed it onto the table. She rolled over, nestling into the couch. A thud that sounded like a heavy boot against the door startled her onto the ground. “Striker, get up!” she yelled, as she stood on wobbly legs, searching in darkness for a weapon. There was nothing useful she could see in the living room. She couldn’t see much either way, with the dim light cast from the doorframe.

  She clenched her fists and hissed Striker’s name again as she approached the door. She peered through the hole, keeping her face as far away as possible. In the fish-eye view, she could make out a small figure whose silvery hair shined in the hallway light. The figure jerked and another pound assailed the doorway.

  Case flinched, curling her fists tighter. “The fuck?” she muttered under her breath as she leaned in closer. She gasped when she recognized the old woman who walked around the neighborhood with her husband so frequently. From the few conversations they had, Case had learned she briefly had a career as a dance instructor before transitioning to nursing and caregiving. Now, her life was quiet retirement. At least until whatever the fuck was happening now.

  Her name was Helga.

  Helga kicked the door again. It held fast. Case leaned in closer, despite her instincts telling her otherwise. Helga’s face was enraged, her eyes wild and mouth stretched into a silent snarl. She moved with clear calculation as she paced back and forth, with slow steps, seeming to consider her next move.

  She stopped and stared at the peephole, as though she’d taken notice of Case on the other side. As slowly and carefully as she’d paced the front of the doorway, she brought her right hand to her forehead and began to drag her fingernails across it.

  Blood began to pour as she drew a shape into her flesh. Case stood, jaw agape, unsure of whether or not she’d woken up. On the other side of the door, Helga continued, her fierce gaze unbroken, staring directly at Case through the peephole. She smeared the fresh blood across her face and bowed her head, swaying as though entranced.

  With a trembling hand, Case reached for the lock.

  Helga exploded back to life with another swift kick to the door.

  It splintered.

  Case staggered back as it crashed open. Half of it hit her and fell to the ground as the other half bounced off of the wall on the hinge. It hurt like a motherfucker.

  As her foot hit the floor in the apartment, Helga hissed, recoiled backward, and fell. Case froze. Helga sprung up and charged the doorway, reeling back out into the hall the moment she crossed the threshold. Her expression shifted as she stood still, her eyes locked with Case’s, the muscles in her face relaxed, her gaze softened.

  She looked down at her bloody hands and then Case, on a cycle. Her lower lip trembled. Tears began to fall from her eyes, leaving faint trails of blood on her face.

  Case took a step forward, and stopped when she reconsidered the last minute-and-a-half. Helga needed help. Her injuries— completely self-inflicted— were severe. Blood poured from her fresh wounds as Case thought about how a woman of her age and size couldn’t last long at that rate. She then thought, for a moment, about how such a frail woman could have destroyed Striker’s door with a kick. When Helga collapsed, Case moved toward her without a second thought.

  She knelt next to Helga, who was on the floor in a daze, eyes rolling to the back of her head. Case reached out for her shoulders when she slumped over. In the next instant, Helga lunged forward, sending Case scrambling backward toward the doorway. Helga jumped to her feet and dove at Case, grabbing her ankle before she could pull herself all the way inside.

  Helga was light, and Case had no trouble pulling her across the threshold of the door along with herself. With her body halfway inside, the old woman began to convulse violently. In labored, jerky movement, she struggled back out and threw herself against the opposite wall.

  “Fuck!” she heard Striker yell from his bedroom. He sounded panicked.

  His light was off and the hallway leading to his room was dark. She looked back toward the door. Helga’s demeanor now seemed more in line with her actions— the face of rage had returned, her chest heaved, and she huffed with each breath.

  Case backed away, as Helga assumed a strange position. It was almost feline. The way a cat holds itself a moment before it pounces. She walked carefully to Striker’s room, refusing to break her gaze from Helga until she reached his door. She could see him standing at the foot of his bed, in front of the glass door to his balcony with his hands out in front of him.

  “Shit!” he yelled, as she stepped into the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She dropped to her knees as the glass balcony door shattered. She heard a thunk against the wall and was barely make out the mobility cane, embedded down to its handle, in the darkness. Outside, she saw a silhouetted figure on Striker’s balcony, framed in curtains that fluttered out with the wind. She flipped the light on with a trembling hand. The old man’s face was illuminated in the sickly orange of Striker’s overhead light.

  Outside on Striker’s balcony was Helga’s husband, Arthur. His eyes met hers. They were cold, devoid of emotion, as if he were dead but still standing. She shuddered.

  It was too familiar. She remembered a gaze like that settling on her, but not from him.

  “Have you seen my wife? She needs help,” he said. His delivery was entirely wrong. Arthur was a Cambodian immigrant and English was his second language. In any other interaction, it would be broken. Now, he spoke confidently with a Cockney dialect.

  “Fuck you,” yelled Striker, “Don’t listen a fucking word he says. Or she. Whatever the fuck it is.”

  Case grimaced, her eyes darting between Striker and Arthur.

  The old man’s attention remained on Case. “What’s wrong? You look scared. Aren’t you a doctor?”

  “N-No,” stammered Case, “but,”

  “He’s fucking with you,” barked Striker.

  “So you’re useless, is what you’re saying?”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “To you, sunshine? The reaper.”

  Someone screamed in the hallway. It wasn’t the old lady.

  “Brilliant,” said Arthur. He began to whistle a tune as he threw himself off of the balcony.

  “Fuck,” yelled Case, running toward the door. Striker tackled her and they tumbled to the floor. She screamed and swore at him, struggling to get to her feet. As she fought, Striker’s eyes remained fixed— as much as they could be— on the balcony where the Arthur stood just a moment before.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He was waiting for Arthur to spring back up, or grow some monstrous appendage that would somehow impale them from a distance. Instead, he saw the old man’s head, from his hair to the tip of his nose, watching them. Striker and Case heard that whistled tune for just another moment before he dropped out of sight.

  A scream came from street below.

  Case shoved Striker off of her and ran to look over the balcony, covering her mouth as she looked over the edge. Arthur had fallen on someone. Both lay on the sidewalk, motionless. Striker staggered to his feet, stumbling to his hallway. He froze at the sight of Helga in a bloody heap at his broken front door. A red-haired neighbor stood over her, panicking as Case neared them.

  Case stopped just short of the door, her fists curling. “Can you help me, Striker?” she asked.

  Striker nodded absently and followed. She moved carefully toward Helga once he was in arm’s reach.

  “I’m an EMT. I live right there,” she said, pointing at her door.

  The neighbor glared at her, suspicious.

  “Unless you now what you’re doing, call the cops and step aside,” said case.

  The neighbor huffed and rushed down the hall. Case glanced back at Striker to ensure he was nearby.

  She slid a bit closer, rattled but losing precious time as she assessed Helga, who lifted her hand, shaking, her eyes fluttering. Her entire body trembled.

  She was in shock.

  Case did her best to keep her awake until an ambulance arrived, but she still fell asleep.

  The cops appeared at the stairway before the paramedics. Their guns were drawn and they shouted at the residents to get on the floor when they saw them. Everyone did as they were told at gunpoint, except Case, who continued administering CPR. She looked back at the police, and barked, “We need EMT’s, not guns.”

  They trained their guns on her, as she continued to compress and breathe. The SFPD officer glanced among each other, slowly lowering their weapons. A couple of them approached. “She’s good,” said one of them, “She was EMT on Turk last night. Everyone stay where you are. We do have questions for you. We need to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

  The officer assessed the residents in the hallway, settling his gaze on Striker. “I thought this address was familiar.” The scorn in his voice was palpable. “Who’s door is that?” he asked, pointing to Striker’s doorway.

  “Mine,” said Striker, his eyes on the floor.

  Some medics rounded the staircase and rushed past the police. Case continued CPR until one of them relieved her. “I didn’t notice you without your uniform,” he said, as he went to work on Helga.

  “Devin, right?” asked the cop. That particular officer was Striker’s nightmare. He was one of the cops that interrogated him over Zoey's disappearance. 'Officer Dill' was the only name he knew him by. He refused to give Striker his first. “What the fuck happened here?”

  Striker shrugged.

  “Don’t give me that, what happened to that door? You live there right? You can't tell me what happened to your door? And why there's an old woman bleeding out here in front of it?”

  The medics and Case shot Dill a harsh glances, almost in unison.

  Striker shook his head, “I don’t know, I just woke up to weird shit happening.”

  “Weird shit?” He laughed, “What kind of weird shit?”

  “Hey, my door is open, can I make sure no one’s inside?” asked Case.

  Her door was ajar.

  Officer Dill shrugged. “Come back out for a statement,” he said.

  She disappeared into her apartment.

  “So, Devin, I’m going to ask you again what happened.”

  “I don’t know, I just woke up and people were trying to get into my apartment.”

  Dill looked at the old woman on the floor, “Like what— an old woman you probably just beat to shit on your doorstep?”

  Striker’s eyes flashed to Dill’s hip, where his hand rested on the handle of his pistol.

  “I only just came out here— Look at my fucking door! Why are you coming after me?”

  “Because there’s two bodies on the sidewalk under what I’m gonna guess is your balcony, and you’re going to tell me it’s related to more ‘weird shit’.”

  The residents in the hallway all turned their attention to Striker.

  “Are you accusing me of murder?”

  “Yes, dipshit. Maybe two people, at least,” said Dill, as he glanced at Helga. “We’ll see. I’m surprised this apartment allows you to live here.”

  “It’s legal for me to tell you to go fuck yourself, right?”

  “It’s legal. But probably a bad idea for someone who killed his old lady. And when I prove it—”

  Everyone in the hallway turned as the apartment door next to Striker’s opened. A woman in a robe waved to the police as she stepped out, “Hi, I called,” she said. “My neighbor didn’t do anything wrong. I saw someone break his window and… I don’t know… jump off of his balcony? He’s— he was someone I’ve seen around the neighborhood. Devin wasn’t even outside when it happened.”

  Striker wanted to open his mouth but decided otherwise.

  “I want to see this balcony,” said Dill. “This is a crime scene, so if you don’t live here, go home when an officer tells you to do so. Otherwise, get into your own unit. Devin, shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the broken door.

  Striker shrugged and walked in, followed by Dill and another officer, both of whom scanned his space with every step they took. “You should clean your apartment,” said Dill. “People get evicted for shitstyes like this.”

  Striker grit his teeth as he proceeded down the hallway.

  He had no idea how he’d explain Zoey’s bookcase, after so many questionings and assurance that he had turned everything over.

  Not to mention the pistol magazine, out in the open.

  Dill made him wait at his bedroom door as the other officer walked in first.

  “You need to see this,” he said, a moment later.

  Dill gave Striker a sharp glance and nodded for him to move into the room. The other officer was staring at the cane embedded in Striker’s wall. Dill looked at it, Striker, and the broken glass door to the balcony. “Gotdamn,” he muttered. “This is the old man’s?”

  Striker nodded.

  Dill approached it with his flashlight. “Devin— What is it, Striker? You’re under arrest.” Dill smiled, a wide shit-eating grin. “You know the drill.”

  ***

  When Case entered her apartment, nothing seemed out of place, but the air was frigid. Wind blew the door shut before she could quietly settle it into the frame. She found her balcony door open when she reached her room. She knew she’d left it closed.

  She stepped onto her balcony and looked over to Striker’s. She began to take a step to look over the edge, to see what had become of the old man and the other person below, but instead pivoted and climbed over the short barrier to Striker’s balcony. She crept into his room, stepping carefully over the glass, her heart pounding in her ears. She collected the two books on Striker’s bed— The journal she’d given him, and another plastered in stickers—, the large binder in the short purple bookcase, as well as the handgun magazine on top of it. She could hear Striker and one of the cops talking as she reconsidered and put it all into the bookcase, carrying out as quietly as possible.

  Striker’s phone buzzed on his bed as she was making her way out. It was just past two in the morning. The name on screen was ‘Cecilia’.

  She left it and stepped out carefully, slinking back onto her balcony as she heard voices approach— Striker’s and the officer’s. She had a hard time hearing what they were talking about until what sounded like Striker’s arrest. She carried the bookcase into her room and walked back to her front door as quickly as she could.

  She tossed her hair into a bun before emerging. Two officers and Striker entered the hallway, with him in handcuffs. She stood between them and the stairs. “What are you doing?”

  “Ma’am, this is none of your business,” said Dill.

  “I’ve been with him all night, we’re the victims here, and whoever did this hurt that lady too… Somehow.” She looked over to the EMTs, as they raised the woman onto a stretcher.

  Dill was unmoved. “We still have questions for our friend here,” he said.

  She refused to step aside. “He didn’t do anything, you can’t just arrest him.”

  “Wade, arrest this woman if she continues impeding the arrest of this suspect.” He smiled at her. She stepped aside.

  They put Striker in the back of a car, took him downtown and put him in a room for an hour. Dill and two other cops he didn’t know grilled him on how he got the old the folks to his apartment and why he attacked them, while he continued to assert he didn’t do a damned thing. Wade sat watching, silent in a corner, with his arms crossed when he wasn’t writing a small notepad.

  The sun was coming up when they ultimately decided there was nothing they could hold him for, especially when Case and the neighbor who’d called them showed up at the station and raised as much hell as they could without getting arrested.

  When they were back in the car, Case opened the glove box. The gun magazine and Zoey’s journal fell out onto Striker’s lap. She turned the car on and drove. “I think… I don’t know. I called that therapist— Joel— he has time today if we can meet him at SF General.”

  They went after getting lunch to kill some time. Zoey was the primary topic of the two hour therapy session. Smaller topics included Case’s slowly-boiling anger since her best friend had vanished. Striker’s lack of willpower to engage with the outside world. The trust they maintained in each other. The events of the night before. New Year’s Eve, and how things that seem related in situations of high stress and despair can potentially not truly be there. He gave them time to compose themselves after the session before he bid them farewell and gathered his things to go home.

  Striker went to Case’s car while she hunted for a snack machine on the bottom floor of SF General. As she was rounding the corner into the main corridor, she heard a familiar tune. It took her a moment to realize she’d heard it the night before as a large man shouldered her. He had a bodybuilder’s physique and she figured him to be six and half feet tall, at least.

  “Casey?” he asked, “I believe I have your phone.” He had a Cockney dialect and zero emotion in his eyes.

  He thrust the phone into her hand and walked away whistling the same tune Arthur had before he fell to his death.

  She stood, stunned. “Fuck you,” she said, long after he’d walked down the hall and tuned a corner. She put the phone into her pocket with a shaking hand.

  Striker was leaning on the hood of her car when she emerged from the hospital doors. She unlocked it and stared at the hospital entrance before she got in. The man was standing there, watching her, just outside with his head cocked.

  “Get in,” she said to Striker, her gaze locked on the stranger.

  Striker, puzzled opened the door and sat down. Case slid into her seat, turned over the engine and reversed before either of them could put their seat belts on.

  “What the fuck?” asked Striker, as he snapped his belt into the buckle.

  Case didn’t say anything. She didn’t react at all. She drove out of the parking lot, onto Potrero and took a left. She parked in the first spot that was open. She put her seatbelt on and got back into position to drive, but sat frozen. Tears streaked down her face, and her shoulders rocked as she sobbed silently, aside from hissing, deep breaths. Striker stared at her from the passenger seat, bewildered by her sudden— at least for him— outburst of emotion.

  “Either you’re crazy, I’m crazy, or we’re both crazy. I don’t fucking know.” She turned the car off.

  “What happened?”

  “There was someone at the hospital,” she said. “He had the face— no, he looked at me the same way that girl did on New Year’s. And Arthur. The old man,” she paused. “I need to drink. I just saw a man jump off your fucking,” she trailed off. “I’m used to bodies, but not… all this.”

  “What do you mean by ‘all this’?”

  “I want to get away from here. Let’s go to the Norton,” said Case, turning the car back on.

  Striker attempted to pry, but Case’s silence was enduring. They found parking on Folsom a few a blocks away from Eleventh Street and walked the rest of the way. It was busy. The venues on the block were awash in patrons for various shows and parties. They waded through the crowd at the Norton to get to the bar, where they managed to get seats as a couple of people left.

  Striker ordered his regular whiskey while Case started with a long island. There was DJ in a cramped corner. Case’s foot was rocking on the footrest of her chair, as she scrutinized the patrons over her shoulder. When their drinks came, she chugged her’s as Striker sipped his whiskey.

  “What happened at the hospital?” asked Striker.

  She sat for a moment, perhaps pretending not to hear the question, but relented. She looked at him dead in the eyes, her’s red and wild. “I think you’re— I—” She kept pausing, like she was fighting with herself over what she was trying to say. “I think weird shit is going on, and I’m sorry. I think you were right on New Year’s Eve, and I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Striker looked at the back of his left hand. The mark was more intricate since the last time he’d looked closely. He held it up. “Can you see this?”

  Case looked at his hand. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  He put it down. “I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s like the journal— You couldn’t see it a few days ago, but maybe—”

  The bartender, Mickey, planted himself in front of Striker. His face was dour.

  “What’d I do?” asked Striker.

  Mickey looked down at Striker’s hand, at the mark no one aside from Cecilia had acknowledged and said, “I need help with something in the back. Ray’s busy.” He rounded the bar and beckoned Striker to follow. They went into the back room. Mickey waited until the door was closed. “Did you get a tattoo? On your hand? Yes or no?”

  “Uhhh—”

  “No, look Striker, I’m very serious about this question. That thing on your hand just showed up, what, a week ago? I didn’t see it at the memorial.”

  Striker shrugged. “I guess?” He paused. “It seems like you know what it is, so why are you asking?”

  Mickey paused for a moment, crossing his arms in thought. His expression softened. “You don’t want to just show that around. The people who can see it aren’t people you want to fuck with— at least, unless you know them. It’s like wearing a gun on your hip.” He walked over to a large bin and began rifling through it. “These fit?” he asked, tossing a pair of gloves toward Striker, who failed to catch them as they went different directions.

  “Where did these come from?”

  “Someone that hasn’t been here to collect ‘em in a month,” said Mickey.

  “You have it too, don’t you?” asked Striker, as he looked at Mickey’s gloved hands. “I’ve never seen you without gloves.”

  Mickey nodded. “Caoimhe had it, too.”

  “Your sister?’

  Mickey nodded again. “Yeah. There was a lot more people with this thing back then— before the event. It’s rarer now, knock on wood. You’re best keeping it covered and not fucking around with anything that has to do with it,” he said.

  Striker put on the gloves before he met Mickey at the door.

  A rapid pound made him and Striker jump. Mickey ripped the door open, “It’s not the bathr—”

  Case slipped in.

  “They’re here,” she said.

  “Fuck me,” said Mickey, “Who is they?”

  Striker explained what happened on New Year’s Eve. Then, what happened at the warehouse party— Cecilia saving him from Ada and Elsie, and their demise. Then, the assault on his apartment by the Arthur and Helga. Case filled in the hospital encounter and her fight on New Year’s Eve with Ada, as well as their theft of Striker’s sketchbook.

  Striker pulled out the journal and started to explain it, when Mickey put up his hand. “Yeah, fuck all this, you both need to go. Right now.”

  “Wait, what?” asked Case. “Can’t you call the cops or something?”

  “You,” he said, pointing at them, “Don’t need cops. You need to get as far away as you fuckin’ can. And not bring that shit to my bar,” He led them to the back door of the bar and practically shoved them out. “I wish I could help. I really do.”

  He shut the door. Striker and Case looked at one another before hurrying back to her car. She started driving as soon as they sat. Striker held the journals side by side in his lap with his phone as a light.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I think I can find out more from the book.”

  “Ok… Let’s say you’re right, and it just showed up. Do you think it’s really Zoey’s?”

  “You’ve seen it. That’s her writing, even if it’s not English.”

  “Do you really think Zoey managed to get it into your apartment without anyone knowing?”

  “I don’t know how any of this has worked so far. I know it sounds like I’m telling a story or something, but the journal, the bookcase, everything just showed up.”

  Case sighed. “I want to go to the Presidio,” she said. “We can think there.”

  They parked in the Golden Gate Bridge lot and walked up to the benches facing the bridge. There were a few late-night tourists around, gawking and taking photos. Striker sat with the books side-by-side in his lap.

  “How much of that have you figured out?”

  “A couple of pages, maybe? It’s slow going. But I’m probably wrong about some of it. This page says something the power in our building, and I don’t know if I’m reading this right, but there’s something about turning off someone’s TV across the street? Then it jumps into something about a door on Haight street... I think it’s related to a club? Or an event? I don’t know.”

  “What about those people that are following us?”

  “They want this journal. That’s what they said when they took me next door from the party. The tall one, at least. ‘Ada’.”

  “She’s dead though, isn’t she?”

  “Whatever made her attack you isn’t. Which I think is the same thing that made those old folks attack us.”

  “If they want something and they’re actually this fucking horrifying, why don’t you just give them what they want?”

  “They were about to kill me at the party. I don’t think that’ll help. I think we’re loose ends. Or I am, at least.”

  “Then what? What do you do? What the fuck are we apart of?”

  “I think we should split up. They want this. I can at least… I don’t know, keep them off of you for a while or something. Until I can get things figured out. We definitely shouldn’t stay at home.”

  Case nodded. “You wanna split a hotel room?”

  “I think it’d be safer to go to different places.”

  “I fought one of them before.”

  “You got your ass kicked. And you had help.”

  She grimaced and shrugged. “I’m not just going to let you put yourself in danger.”

  “I’m already in danger, and I’m pretty sure I’m dragging you into it.”

  “So what, that’s it?”

  Striker shrugged. “We’re just laying low for a while. We still have our phones.”

  “Okay, really? Why are Mickey and you both acting like I can’t handle myself?”

  “It’s not like that, Case. You’ll end up getting in the way.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Not like that,” he started, but she turned, presenting her middle finger and stormed back to her car.

  Striker remained for a few minutes, staring at the bridge. Her car was gone when he returned to the lot. He didn’t expect her to be there. He called a cab and checked into a hostel in North Beach.

  He regretted parting with Case.

  He regretted how he made her feel.

  Walking into the hostel, however, gave him a feeling of safety, fleeting as it would be.