The cop flicks his lighter. The cherry of the cigarette flames as he sucks in a breath, then exhales right in Paige’s direction.
Paige wafts the smoke out of her face with dramatic arm-sweeping gestures. “I don’t care who you are, you can’t—”
“Excuse my partner’s rudeness,” Mr. Wolf says now examining the snow globe close to his face. “You can dress him up, but you can’t take him out. Know what I mean?”
Scarface laughs, a barking, unkind sound.
I haven’t had many encounters with policemen in the past, but this isn’t going down as I’d imagined.
“You girls saw something pretty frightening yesterday, didn’t you?” Mr. Wolf sets down the snow globe and picks up a picture frame holding a photo of two blond children—probably Mrs. Malone’s kids.
I’m about to answer when Paige cuts in. “How did you know that? I mean, we didn’t leave our names with anyone, so how did you know where to find us?”
“Shut up, Paige,” I say, elbowing her in the ribs.
“What? I’m just wondering. If he can blow smoke in my face, I can ask a question, right? And since I’m asking, you didn’t tell us your names. Isn’t that part of an interview?”
Mr. Wolf ’s thin lips curl up in an amused smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “We have ways of knowing … things, Ms. Abernathy. Cute kids.” He sets the picture frame down and starts ruffling through papers on the desk.
“You didn’t answer my last question,” Paige says.
“That’s right,” he says. “My name is …” He looks up, as if considering his response, and then levels his eyes on me. “Mr. Wolf.”
A gasp falls out of my mouth.
“And this,” he continues, giving me a knowing grin as he gestures to the other cop, “is my partner, Scarface.”
My heart thrums like a bird in a cage, a cold damp slicking my palms. “H-how did you do that?”
“Do what?” Paige asks.
I can’t say it aloud—that he’s read my mind. It sounds too implausible. Too ridiculous. But it has to be true. That can’t have been a coincidence.
“We’re wasting time, Frederick,” Scarface says.
“Shhh, I think I’m on to something here.” Mr. Wolf, or Frederick, or whoever he is, rubs the stubble on his chin, assessing me.
Scarface removes his feet from the desk and sits up straight. “There are at least a dozen more people who saw Bishop die who still need to be dealt with.”
Dealt with? What is that supposed to mean?
“Patience, Leo. Patience.” Frederick drums his index finger on his chin, and Scarface/Leo crosses his arms like a child who’s been put in time-out.
“They obviously don’t know anything about the Bible,” he mumbles.
For some stupid reason, Mom’s tattered leather-bound book comes to mind. Suddenly Frederick leans in, close enough that he is just inches from my face.
“What is this book?” Spittle flies out the corner of his mouth with the force of his words.
Okay, so that settles it. He’s definitely reading my mind. “Wh-what are you talking about?” I ask.
“That’s it,” Paige says. “I’m getting Mrs. Malone in here—” She starts to stand, but Leo bolts upright and points a finger at her. She stops so quickly it’s as if he’s pressed the pause button on the movie of her life.
“That’s better,” Leo says. “Now sit down, Paige.”
She obeys.
“Paige?” I lean across my chair to get a better look at her. She stares straight ahead, her vacant eyes unblinking, her dainty features slackened like she’s a stroke victim. Nauseating loops form in my stomach.
“Hey, this could be fun.” Leo slicks his tongue over his teeth. “She’s pretty cute, for a nerdy type, don’t you think, Frederick?”
“Shut up, Leo.” Frederick leans in, his breath rushing against my cheek. “Now tell me about this Bible.”
I grip the chair so hard I wonder how the wood hasn’t splintered. “What did you do to Paige?”
“Your friend will be fine if you answer my question. What is this Bible? What does the cover say? And don’t give me any more of this bullshit.”
I swallow. Mom’s warning streams through my mind. If that book gets into the wrong hands …
Then what? Mass hysteria? The earth implodes? Cats and dogs take over the world? I don’t know—Mom never delved into specifics. But I get the impression that whatever it is wouldn’t be good, just based on this guy’s savage desire for it. Especially not with Mom at the shop, alone. “I—I don’t know, it’s just a regular Bible. I guess it just says ‘Holy Bible’ or something.”
“Liar!” he yells, so loudly it makes my spine go ramrod straight. “Your mom’s Bible is leather-bound and tattered. You said it yourself.”
But I didn’t say it—I thought it. My already racing heart speeds into Indy 500 territory.