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I been doing it before?” Ree asked.
    “Probably the same reason you’ve never seen a troll before. When people affected by the Doubt do magic, they never remember it. Anyone passionate about something can be a magician, focus their emotional energy into impossible effects. They might never remember it, write it off as luck, or rewrite their memory so that it doesn’t break their brain.”
    Eastwood paced over to the edge of his desk, then turned around and continued back, talking to the air more than to her. “Some types of magic are harder than others. Genre emulation is rare, from what I’ve seen. Like some of the more powerful talents, it seems to run in bloodlines, sometimes lying dormant for several generations. There’s more magic in the world than you’d think, which is actually really cool.” Eastwood turned the corner and walked down an aisle, still talking. “If people knew the effect they were having on the world, it’d be pretty amazing—then again, magic isn’t all sparkles and rainbows up your pi gu, so maybe it’s not so bad.”
    He emerged from the aisle holding a comb-clip-bound manuscript, paging through it while humming a song that Ree half-remembered from her youth—’80s TV show, maybe?
    “What now?” Ree asked.
    “Good question. I don’t take apprentices, as a general rule, but I do need help with something, so I’m willing to make a trade. I show you the ropes, you help me with this case.”
    “The oni ?”
    Eastwood shook his head and grabbed a newspaper off his desk. He handed it to Ree and said, “That was a one-off. This is my real problem.”
    A short article below the fold on the cover was circled.
    Recent String of Teen Suicides—Parents Panicked
    Ree scanned the article. Three teenagers in Pearson had committed suicide within the last month, but they weren’t homeless, and all had tested negative for drugs. To the parents’ knowledge, none of them had been bullied.
    Ree handed the paper back to Eastwood. “Okay, so this is horrible, but what does it have to do with your mountain of memorabilia?” She gestured to the stacks behind her.
    “I’ve psychic-papered my way onto the crime scenes, and there’s been a stink of magic at each site. And I’ve dug up another link between the kids—they all had breakups within a week of their suicide.”
    “Who would benefit from making people kill themselves? Some demon worshipper?”
    A shadow passed over Eastwood’s face. “There are . . . a lot of people who might take an interest in this—which is why I could use some help. I think someone’s following me, but they might not be able to follow you at the same time. I want you to go to the family of the third suicide. Angela Moorely, 4710 Washington. See what you can find out about her, especially the details of her breakup. I can’t help but feel that there are some other connections between the kids that I haven’t cracked yet.”
    Ree stood up and gave Eastwood the quoi? eyebrow. “And how I am supposed to get them to talk to me?”
    Eastwood pulled a leather-bound wallet from his coat, then opened it toward Ree. At first it was blank. Ree blinked and saw lettering fade in as a gold badge appeared on the other side, identifying Anthony Eastwood as a detective lieutenant with the Pearson PD.
    “Psychic paper.”
    Eastwood nodded. “It’ll work for you, too. When you show it to someone, just focus on making them believe that you belong.”
    “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” Ree said.
    “Except this time, you are the droid they’re looking for.”
    “I have to pose as an android detective? Will the ID say Deckard?”
    “Are you capable of ever not being snarky?” Eastwood asked.
    “Only if I try really hard. Plus, this situation is so preposterous, this is the only way I can keep from freaking out.”
    “Call me when you’ve had the chance to talk to the Moorelys, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, watch an action movie