BIANCA BARRED US FROM the kitchen, telling us to relax awhile. Fatigue built up in my body; between the disaster at the warehouses, building the cases for the reaping panes and training, dealing with Luca, and worrying about Oliver, I’d almost hit my limit for one night. While the boys turned on the television in the family room, I retreated to the hall to call Oliver again. No good—I hung up on his voice mail. I paced and paced, passing Dad’s old study where the map of San Francisco waited on his desk. My shoulder ached at the thought of tracking the ghost via Ouija again. Something’s off, he should’ve called by now. My phone buzzed. My heart leapt, then crashed when I saw Dad’s name on-screen. Since I’d left home, he’d called almost a hundred times and sent more texts and e-mails than I dared open. Part of me wanted to answer and reassure him, the other part wanted to tell him to go screw himself. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when I came home, scrubbed clean of soulchains and carrying photographs of an exorcised killer.
