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paper littered the floor nearby.
    “This is our psychiatric ward,” Kinsey said. “All of our patients are volunteers, or are here under the written consent of family members. We use unorthodox methods to reach adults who are mentally handicapped through illness or accidents, and our results are promising.”
    “What does unorthodox mean?” Trance asked.
    “It means we don’t feed them stimulants, get them to talk about their feelings, and then call it treatment. Beyond that, until we have enough research to patent those methods, you’ll need your warrant.”
    “Alternative therapy seems legitimate to me,” Tempest said. “Why not put that in your brochure?”
    “Because we don’t advertise for patients, Tempest,” Kinsey said. “The ones we can help have a talent for finding us without assistance.”
    “So you have a flair for psychiatry,” Trance said. “What else do you do?”
    “Research.” Kinsey smiled, as unsettling as the first time. “And development.”
    The interview ended soon after. I didn’t start to relax until we hit the sidewalk, back under the kiss of the afternoon sun. That place stifled me, like a hand closing in and squeezing tight. Some of their work sounded promising, but the things Kinsey wouldn’t talk about scared me the most. He was hiding something behind a warrant, and we had no grounds to get one.
    “He was pretty honest,” Cipher said as we entered the parking garage. “He was probably protecting their other projects, but he wasn’t lying about Jarvis. I hate to say it—”
    “But you’re going to,” Tempest said.
    Cipher frowned. “He may be right about the coincidence. The killer could have no connection to Weatherfield, other than his choice of victim.”
    “You know that from a ten-minute conversation?” I asked, unable to keep the snap from my voice. Amazingly, I didn’t blush or back down.
    “First impression, Ember, that’s all. And it’s possible Jarvis wasn’t even the first victim, just the first one found. I imagine after a while, skin gets harder to recognize as human than an entire corpse would.”
    My stomach clenched. “That’s so gross.”
    “So what now?” Tempest asked.
    “Home,” Trance replied, unlocking the SUV. “I’ll check in with Pascal, see if he’s got anything new, but—”
    “What time is it?” I asked, a mental lightbulb flaring.
    Trance hopped inside, turned the key, and checked the clock. “A few minutes after three, why?”
    I slid into the back, sort of wishing I hadn’t asked. With two related deaths to investigate, my other assigned taskseemed superfluous. “I, um, still need to find us an electrician and most places close at five.”
    “You wouldn’t rather concentrate on finding the manufacturer of human pillowcases?” Tempest asked as he climbed in next to me.
    “Here I thought you and your singed fingertips would thank me.”
    “Says the Human Fire Extinguisher.”
    “Windbag.”
    He winked. “Thank you for refraining from a very bad pun.”
    Cipher twisted around in the front seat, amusement dancing in his silver-flecked eyes. “You mean by saying you’re full of hot air?”
    I groaned. Tempest blew Cipher a kiss. Cipher blew a raspberry. The pair looked more like feuding siblings than adult superheroes. I started giggling.
    “Children,” Trance said, watching us in the rearview mirror, “I will turn this car right around—”
    “He started it,” we three said in perfect unison. A moment of utter silence preceded a long dissolve into laughter. After the horrors of the human skin and the unsettling nature of Weatherfield, the release felt wonderful.
    I relaxed into the backseat, still grinning, and pondered our electrician problem. That, at least, I could solve.

Four
    Scott & Sons
    A fter a quick change back into street clothes and a glance through an outdated phone directory, I left Hill House in one of our tinted-window Sport utilities, air-conditioning blasting full speed, and music