As if this tragedy were something that you could get over in twenty-four hours if you were just hydrated enough?

Well, at least a simple meal like this wasn’t liable to backfire. And as soon as Bitty had eaten it, Mary was going to go find another staff member to attend the girl—and then get some counseling herself.

When she came back from the cupboards with the sleeve of crackers, Bitty was taking a test taste, and Mary sat down across the table so she didn’t crowd the girl.

The plastic wrapping refused to cooperate, and Mary split it wide, spilling Saltines and salt grains over the wood. “Damn it.”

She ate one herself. And then realized she hadn’t had any food in a while and was hungry, too—

“My uncle is going to come for me.”

Mary froze in mid-chew. “What did you say?”

“My uncle.” Bitty didn’t look up, just kept moving her spoon through the steaming soup. “He’s going to come for me. He’s going to take me home.”

Mary resumed the whole mastication thing, but her mouth was like a cement mixer trying to process gravel. “Really?”

“Yes.”

With careful hands, Mary gathered up the scattered crackers, stacking them in groups of four. “I didn’t know you had an uncle.”

“I do.”

“Where does he live?”

“Not in Caldwell.” Bitty took another spoonful and put it in her mouth. “But he knows how to get here. Everyone knows where Caldwell is.”

“Is he your mahmen’s brother?”

“Yes.”

Mary closed her eyes. Annalye had never mentioned any relations. Hadn’t disclosed them on paperwork or named a next of kin. And the female had been aware that her condition was deteriorating—so if there had been a brother somewhere, surely she would have told somebody about him and it would have gone into her file.

“Would you like me to try to contact him for you?” Mary asked. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No.” Bitty stared down into her soup. “But he will come for me. That is what family does. I read it in that book.”

Mary had some vague recollection of a children’s book on the different kinds of family: biological, adopted, grandparented, as well as those that resulted from sperm donors, egg donors, IVF. The point was, no matter how they came about or what they looked like, in each instance, everybody was a unit, with a lot of love surrounding them.

“Bitty.”

“Yes?”

Mary’s phone began to vibrate in the pocket of the coat she still hadn’t taken off—and she was tempted to let whoever it was go to voice mail. But with what the Brothers were doing tonight with that huge attack?

As she took her cell out and saw who it was, she thought, oh, God. “Butch? Hello?”

There was interference over the connection. Wind? Voices?

“Hello,” she said more loudly.

“—coming to get you.”

“What?” She rose from her chair. “What are you saying?”

“Fritz,” the Brother shouted. “Coming for you! We need you out here!”

She cursed. “How bad?”

“Out of control.”

“Crap,” she breathed. “I’ll drive out myself. Save time.”

There were a series of pops, some cursing, and then distortion like Butch was running. “—text you location. Hurry!”

As the connection got cut off, she looked down at the girl and tried not to sound as panicked as she was. “Bitty, I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

Those pale brown eyes lifted to hers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I’m going to grab Rhym for you. She’ll sit here and maybe you two can have dessert?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to go up and pack so I’m ready for uncle.”

Mary shook her head. “Bitty, before you do that, maybe you and I should try to find him first?”

“It’s all right. He knows about me.”

Steadying breath. For so many reasons. “I’ll stop by later and see how you’re doing.”

“Thank you for the soup.”

As the girl resumed eating, she didn’t seem to care who was around or not around her—as usual. And it was with a pounding headache that Mary went in fast search of the intake supervisor, who was doing double duty as on-site personnel because one of the other social workers was out on maternity leave. After explaining to Rhym everything that had happened, Mary took off at a run, leaving the house and jumping into the Volvo.

The former Brownswick School for Girls was about a ten-minute drive away. She made it in seven, shooting down back roads, dodging around suburban developments, blowing through orange lights and stop signs. The station wagon was not built for that kind of workout, the boxy, heavy weight lurching this way and that, but she didn’t care. And holy crap, it felt like forever before she got to the outer edges of the neglected campus.

Getting out her phone, she eased off the gas and went into her texts.

Reading aloud, she said, “‘Bypass main gates . . . go around—shit!”

Something shot out into the road, the figure moving rag-doll sloppy and tripping directly in front of her car. Slamming on the brakes, she hit the man—no, it was a slayer: The blood that speckled across the windshield was black as ink, and the thing took off once more, even though one of its legs looked broken.