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Thornes? Have there been local wraith attacks? —so Layla finally rested her head back to enjoy the incessant, teeth-grating kat-a-kat between her ears.
    At dusk they landed at a private airstrip somewhere in Jersey. A cab was waiting to take Layla into the city. Thoughtful again. Segue’s heavy boot would take her all the way back to her apartment.
    She was just getting in the vehicle, shivering in the gusty, frigid November evening air, when she felt a poke on her shoulder. She turned to find the creepy-moody woman from the plane, her features stark, eyes vivid in the diffused evening light. The contrast punched the woman out of reality, made her gleam with some kind of strange soul aura.
    Either this woman was not normal, or Layla needed to go back on her meds. No more putting it off.
    The visions had plagued Layla all her life, usually occurring at the worst moments when she’d have to strain to ignore whatever hallucinations popped up in order to look normal herself. They seemed so real. Ultrareal. Like now. This weird woman was surrounded by pulsing black light. The aura was part of the impression, but Layla could feel it as well, as a pressure on her chest.
    Layla squeezed her eyes shut. Two times in one day. This was really bad.
    â€œYou pissed off Adam, right?” the woman asked.
    Layla opened her eyes. The soul-glow was gone, thank God, so she answered, “I sure did.”
    â€œAnd you want to find out how the wraiths got started, right?” The woman had been on the Segue Express; it followed that she knew about Segue’s work.
    Layla straightened fully. “Yes.”
    The woman glanced over her shoulder, back toward the small airport, nervous. “The public doesn’t know anything. I mean anything. And why the fuck not? Because Adam-fucking-Thorne says so.”
    â€œWhat doesn’t the public know?” Layla wasn’t cold at all now.
    â€œAnd what burns me is that I actually helped that man once. Him and his wife. And now he’s got my sister under lock and key.”
    This got better and better. “Is she a wraith?”
    â€œAbigail?” The woman looked at her, hesitating as if Layla were stupid or crazy. “No. She’s sick. Adam’s got doctors all over her. And last week some Navajo medicine man.”
    Layla tried to get her back on track. “What doesn’t he want the public to know?”
    But the woman ignored her question. “Try the docks. I think he’s there.”
    â€œAdam?” He was in landlocked West Virginia. “Which docks? Where?”
    The woman smiled bitterly. “No. The one who started everything.”
    â€œStarted what? How?”
    â€œAnd if you live long enough to break this story, you put my name in your article. I want that controlling bastard to know.”
    The bastard had to be Adam. “Which docks? Who started it?”
    â€œI want him to see my name in black-and-white. Zoe Maldano. If you survive”—Zoe laughed there—“you tell the world how this happened, and you put my name in your article.”
    â€œYeah, sure, but . . .” Zoe was already striding toward another car, sleek with Thorne money. She slammed the shiny door shut and was taillights before Layla came out of her surprise.
    Docks. Adam or someone else was there. And they had information on how all this—the wraith disease?—started.
    Layla’s head was spinning. She had to get home. Get on her computer. Find out who Zoe Maldano and her sister were, and if there were any links between Thorne or Segue to some docks. The vague reference docks would probably need a whiteboard of its own.
    The taxi dropped her at her walk-up in the East Village. She tried not to look at Tyler’s boxes as she entered her apartment. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad if he’d pick up the last of his stuff. Three weeks and the boxes still blocked the door. He hadn’t wanted his ring back either.