Shiny chrome walls lined the interior of the small 70s retro diner, giving me plenty of reflective surfaces to monitor Camilla as she sat in her booth sipping on a sugary coffee drink. A dab of whipped cream stuck to the end of her nose. She glanced around to ensure nobody watched as she wiped it off with a finger, and then then plunged it into her mouth.

  I occupied a booth three away from hers. A heaping portion of eggs and hash browns rested next to piles of paper in front of me. To her, I appeared to be a random guy flipping through documents, not a private investigator thumbing through records pertaining to her.

  Some of my notes listed the basics, blonde hair, hazel eyes, beauty mark over the left side of her lip. But the federal reports obtained through the Freedom of Information Act provided further insight. Camilla vanished two days before her husband, Brian, filed a missing person’s report. She surfaced three months later, running back to him with open arms.

  According to her statement, a cult named Nature’s Prophecy lured her into their group. Her inheritance of almost four million dollars disappeared from her account, and she claimed she didn’t remember signing the power of attorney they used to gain access.

  I reworded the search on my phone’s internet browser, not getting any hits on Nature’s Prophecy. Results from several other databases had delivered the same lack of information. Even the few wizard sources that still talked to me and my underground fringe magic connections came up empty. No evidence linked this cult to the previous murders or the impending attack on Camilla that Sekre, a Vodou Mambo, foretold.

  The tip provided the first solid lead I had on my wife’s killer in months, possibly the best since she died two years ago. Not only could tracking Camilla help my investigation, but it allowed the opportunity to stop this unsuspecting woman from a fate she likely didn’t deserve. Failure would mean she becomes victim number five of a serial killer authorities won’t acknowledge exists.

  Camilla scanned the room. When her eyes locked on me, she raised her eyebrows. Her gaze dropped quickly, as if she pretended not to notice something.

  “I believe she made you.” Claude’s voice rattled in my head. He saw what I did, but I refrained from answering. The people around me wouldn’t realize I was talking to a French psychiatrist I absorbed after finding his about-to-be dead body during my previous case.

  The fact that Camilla didn’t recognize me sooner surprised me. After a week of surveillance, she likely spotted my face more than once, a side effect of working sans backup. On tv, the police sat blocks away in high-tech covert vans plastered with fake business decals to remain well hidden. However, as an independent PI, I lacked any living teammates, limiting my options. If the killer struck, and I wasn’t close, I’d be recovering a dead body instead of saving a live woman.

  Camilla paid her bill and left a tip. From here, it resembled a twenty, not bad for a little diner known for charging only six dollars for an omelet and home fries. She stood up and ambled in my direction. I turned my head away from her, as if staring out the window, hoping to hide my face, but she stopped a foot from my table.

  My legs twitched as my instincts insisted I run, but that would end my hidden surveillance, leaving me with one choice, telling her everything and hoping she believed me. I imagined how the conversation would go… Hi, I’m Ludwig, a sort-of-former wizard, specializing in absorption magic, who gained connections to Sekre through Junette, a Haitian Vodou practitioner I absorbed in return for protection from the wizards I formerly studied with. Oh, and Sekre told me a serial killer, most likely possessing magical abilities, is targeting you.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  I peered towards her. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I used to know someone that wore a similar hat. I’ve never seen one exactly like it before. Can you tell me what it’s called?”

  When tailing a target for an extended period, changing clothes isn’t as easy as picking a fresh shirt. Altering one’s silhouette and even modifying how I walk and stand, makes detection less likely. Most individuals fail to realize what the human mind perceives. Wearing the same style might trigger my subject’s memory when they normally wouldn’t recognize my face. The Fedora, instead of being my normal attire, was intended to act as camouflage. I picked the item up for a couple of bucks weeks ago at a yard sale. “I’ve worn this for so long, I can’t remember the name.”

  She pulled out her phone. “Can I get a quick pic?”

  For a moment, I froze.

  “Na uh.” Junette’s thick Haitian accent echoed in my head. “Princess just wants to snap a pic of your ugly mug.”

  I used a similar ruse last year, pretending to admire a woman’s glasses to take a picture of her near the man she stalked

  I removed the hat and placed it on the table, far enough to make including me in the frame noticeable. “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” She snapped a close-up of the hat, keeping me out of view.

  Without another word, she scuttled out the door and to her vehicle. I waited a moment, then slapped a twenty on the table and dashed to my rental car.

  After switching the Fedora for a plain black baseball cap, I eased into traffic and caught up with Camilla. I kept two vehicles between me and the red Prius as we slowed to a stop at the light. If Camella paid too much attention to me, I’d need to switch cars again. The small-town rental agency seemed to only have one employee, and she had already gawked at me suspiciously after changing models three times in a week. I didn’t dare a fourth.

  “Was Sekre wrong?” I asked out loud.

  Junette said, “Sekre is one of the best, but the lwa play games sometimes. You can never be certain.”

  Claude chimed in. “We’ve followed her to every cafe and mall for days. I’ll soon need a triple espresso to stay awake.”

  “Boy, you know your coffee drinking days are well behind you.” She sighed. “As are mine.”

  “Please, no bickering while I’m tailing someone.”

  Claude and Junette resumed their argument before the light turned green. This time in French, a language I haven’t gotten around to learning. I didn’t consider the implications of absorbing two people with that similarity. Claude, a middle-aged French-born phycologist, and Junette, a twenty-one-year-old Haitian, otherwise had contrasting backgrounds. Her deep ties to the magic underworld proved as helpful as his insight into the human mind.

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  As we picked up speed, I allowed Camella’s red Prius to pull virtually out of sight.

  Junette said, “You need to stay on that girl. She’s a flighty one.”

  “We can’t get another car,” I said.

  “She ain’t paying attention to no one.”

  “To anyone,” Claude corrected her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A double negative. I think you meant anyone.”

  “Your face and your personality are a double negative,” Junette said. “And don’t think lacking a hand to slap ya means I’ll put up with your mouth.”

  “You would sound a little more…”

  “A little more what?”

  Then they started in French again. I shook my head, trying to remember my last genuine moment of peace.

  The French bickering disrupted my thoughts. “Let’s listen to the radio, not the ongoing soap opera in my head.”

  “This guy,” Junette said in a manner that made me imagine she crossed her arms. “Is there a station that plays Compas.”

  “I don’t know what that is, so I’ll guess no.”

  “You need some culture,” she said.

  “I haven’t listened to NPR in ages,” Claude said.

  “No to both.” I turned on the radio, which was already tuned into Community Legacy, a local news broadcast.

  ‘Enough of the weather. Let’s get into something interesting. I have retired Police Chief Lawson Ward joining us today. We’re going to discuss a case that’s been on everyone’s mind.’

  “Wake me when it’s over,” Junette said.

  Ward’s deeper voice rattled through the speakers.

  ‘We all know you brought me on here for insight into the Andre murders.’

  ‘While serving as Chief, you emphasized the importance of gathering all the facts before reaching conclusions. What do you think about this case?’

  ‘Though we lack all the details, the revealed evidence is solid, and the defense hasn’t broken their silence.’

  ‘Like we need to hear from them. The kid was stalking the daughter. They have his DNA in her bed—Irrefutable evidence. Shoes matching the indentations in the mud outside her window were found in his room, still dirty. We call that a smoking gun. They have cell phone pings showing he was at her home in the middle of the night on several occasions. Creepy much? Not to mention a dozen cameras caught videos of a Ford Focus identical to his. Can you explain those findings to the listeners?’

  ‘Experts reviewed them and concluded that the vehicle matching his traveled a path that brutal night leading from his after-school job to her front door.’

  ‘Lance did this. Case closed. Skip the trial and juice up the chair.”

  I switched off the radio.

  “That was just getting good,” Junette said. “Now we won’t know if that boy did it.”

  Claude sighed. “They lack fresh information. They’re milking the story.”

  “New information?” Junette paused. “I know nothing about it, and I’m trapped in here with your stale ass.”

  “Trapped! Really?” I clenched my jaw. “I gave you both a choice.” My face warmed. Not only was I getting frustrated with them, but annoyed I foolishly lumbered into one of their never-ending arguments. This must be how parents on a long road trip feel.

  Claude ignored me and kept talking. “When Ludwig reads the paper, I read it with him. I don’t lounge around complaining about being bored.”

  “I’m surprised the story didn’t pique your interest, Junette. If memory serves me, Marcel Andre immigrated from your country. He did well as a farmer, catering to other local Haitian families, raising livestock they wanted.”

  “Some Lance character killed a Haitian goat farmer and his family?”

  “Allegedly,” Claude said.

  “A name like that. He did it.”

  We followed Camilla a few more miles, until she veered onto her block. She pulled into her garage. I parked a few spots past her house, then retrieved a small handheld radio from my glove compartment. The speaker popped when I turned it on.

  “Her husband is home early,” Claude said.

  The sound of her front door opening played over the radio. The listening device wasn’t as high-tech as the ones the police used, but compact enough to be undetectable under their kitchen table.

  “Hi honey.” Camilla’s voice cracked. “You’re already home.”

  “I thought I’d surprise you with some takeout, but instead an empty house surprised me.” His voice raised. “Where have you been?”

  “I went out for food and coffee.” She paused. “You don’t say ‘hi honey’. Right to the accusations.”

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything.” His speech softened. “We agreed, after the… incident… you would stay close to home for a while.”

  “Now I can’t even eat?”

  Footsteps were followed by the sound of cabinets opening. “There is a ton of food here. Take your pick.”

  I turned off the radio.

  “Right as it started heating up!” Junette said.

  “The killer’s MO has been to strike when the victim is alone. No need to listen while Brian is home. I prefer to minimize my invasion into their privacy when able.” Her husband’s workplace was too far to return to work after a lunch break. He was likely there for the day. “I’ll take the opportunity for a shower and some much-needed sleep.”

  “Maybe answer the calls piling up on your voice mail,” Junette said.

  “No distractions, not when we’re so close.”

  Claude spoke up. “When I agreed to join the team, you promised we’d help people.” He cleared his non-existent throat. “I’m not saying let’s stop watching over Camilla, but we can at least talk to some potential clients. Consider setting up a case after…”

  I started my engine and pulled back onto the road, heading toward my office. “After I grab some files, I’ll get some grub and rest, then we’ll see if we have time.”

  “Don’t forget a shower. If I could smell, I bet your aroma would turn my stomach,” Junette said.