The UCLA campus kept the bars along the main drag hopping, even at the late hour. Pete rolled slowly with the ever-present molasseslike slog of traffic, guiding the Fury onto side streets, along a row of gates and low-hanging trees. Each home was more brightly spotlit than the last, security systems gleaming like the metal teeth of cybernetic dogs. Look, the neighborhood whispered, but don’t think you can ever be a part of what’s behind these gates. The Cases’ home was dark, and an estate agent’s sign sat crookedly on the fence, faded by sun and wind. Jack wasn’t surprised—even if you weren’t psychic, who wanted to live in a murder house? The Black had an effect on mundane sorts, too, except they wrote it off to “intuition,” or bad dreams, or Jesus appearing in their cereal. Pete eased the Fury to the curb and shut off the lights. Jack got out and examined the gate. The alarm was a good one, but the estate agent’s key box gave him an in. He passed his fingers across the slot and whispered a few words of persuasion he’d picked up long ago, when his talent was primarily aimed at breaking into places and nicking things.
