He'd told himself it didn't matter. As long as he was paying for her care, reading whatever they sent him to read, and returning any phone calls made to him about her, then he was doing his duty.

It wasn't true, but out of sight was out of mind. And Afghanistan was just about far away enough for him to forget for maybe a day at a time that his mother was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

"You told me they weren't ever going to let her out." Becca pushed at his chest, making Owen realize he still shielded her from the rest of the room.

"Considering her outfit"-Owen rolled free and stood, then offered Becca a hand-"they didn't."

She placed her palm against his and static leaped, the spark making both of them jerk back. It was kind of early in the season for that much of a static shock, wasn't it? It had been so long since Owen had been in Wisconsin, he wasn't sure, but the way Becca frowned at her hand, then rubbed it on her pants and got to her feet on her own, made him think she'd been as shocked-ha-ha-by the spark as he'd been. That his hand continued to feel oddly warm and tingly had to be his imagination. There was no other explanation for it. Unless it was witchcraft.

Owen used his nontingly hand to rub his eyes. Talk about cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

"You think she escaped?" Becca asked.

"Yeah." He dropped his hand. "I do."

"Th-th-that's your mother?"

Reitman crouched in the tiny corner formed between the stone fireplace and the wall. Owen couldn't bring himself to answer. He didn't have to.

"Mrs. McAllister?" George shouted, and she flinched.

"She isn't deaf," Becca said.

"She also isn't Mrs. McAllister." Owen's parents had never been married. Owen wasn't sure his mom even knew who his dad was.

"Mary?" George said in a normal voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Baby boy," she cooed. "Come to Mama, sweetheart."

Becca glanced at Owen.

"She isn't talking to me." His mom wasn't even looking at him but at the empty hallway, and she'd never once called him "baby" or "sweetheart."

Reggie appeared in the entryway, and Reitman cursed. "Keep him out of here!"

"Talk about a baby boy," Owen muttered.

"His hair will contaminate the crime scene." Reitman's prissy voice reminded Owen of Miss Belinda, the ancient librarian who'd never allowed him and Becca to sit on the same side of the table in school. Had Belinda been her first name or her last?

"The crime scene is three ways from f.u.c.ked already," Owen said.

However, he did tell Reggie to "bly'b," though the dog had ignored the order to stay already or he wouldn't be in the house. They were going to have to do some retraining before they went back to Afghanistan.

"Baby boy," Owen's mother murmured again, and Reggie inched a little closer.

"Seriously?" Owen asked the dog.

Reggie hung his head as if he understood, even as he scooted ever nearer, as though he couldn't help himself.

Animals liked Owen's mom, and they, in turn, calmed her, as she was calmed by little else but heavy medication. Becca had always had a dog or a cat or two, which had followed her everywhere, including to Owen's house. They'd usually wound up on Mary's lap, or curled next to her wherever she'd pa.s.sed out. Too bad they'd never been able to afford pets. Might have helped more than therapy ever had.

"Go on." Owen flapped his hand in his mom's direction, and Reggie's head tilted. "You know you want to."

Reggie promptly sprawled across Mary McAllister's filthy crazy-house slippers. From their worn appearance she'd walked here, which was a pretty d.a.m.n long walk. The Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility was a half-hour drive from Three Harbors.

"You think he smelled the blood on her?" Reitman asked.

Owen stiffened as if he'd inherited Reitman's stick. "Excuse me?"

"I suppose she's washed up since she did this." The doctor indicated the pentagram and everything beneath it.

"She didn't do that."

"She's got a knife."

"So does three quarters of the town."

"She's here."

"So are we."

"She's obviously off her rocker."

"So are you." The guy did believe he was a witch. "She's barely able to function. She certainly didn't have the capacity to s.n.a.t.c.h all those animals without someone seeing her."

Although she had escaped a secure mental inst.i.tution, and Owen really needed to find out how. When? And why he didn't know about it.

"These are domestic animals," Reitman continued.

"Your point?"

"They wouldn't be hard to s.n.a.t.c.h. They'd probably come right to her." His gaze went to Reggie. "He did."

"She's not a killer, especially of animals."

Becca cast Owen a quick glance, which he ignored. His mom hadn't killed anyone. Yet. Apparently she hadn't given up trying.

"Consider the dog," he continued. "He's trained to know what a killer smells like."

"Can he smell a witch?" George asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Owen demanded.

George shrugged.

"She's a witch?" Reitman glanced at Becca.

Becca shook her head. "They called this the witch's house when we were kids."

"Still do," George offered.

Becca gave George a dirty look before returning her attention to Reitman. "You know how small towns are."

"Not really," he said.

"What difference does it make if she is a witch or if she isn't?" Owen blurted. "You said this wasn't witchcraft."

"I said it wasn't Wicca."

"What's the difference?"

"Wicca is a religion. Witchcraft is a skill set."

Owen blinked. "Huh?"

"Witchcraft is a craft. Spells and magic."

"Magic," Owen repeated. "You think this is magic?" He waved at the mess nearby.

"I don't know what it is, but that"-Reitman pointed to the inverted star-"hints at Satanism."

Owen thought it did more than "hint" but he wasn't the expert. Didn't want to be.

"My mother definitely isn't a Satanist."

Reitman eyed Mary. "You sure?"

"f.u.c.k you."

"That's helpful."

Owen let out a breath. "She worships narcotics not the devil. She'd rather drink vodka than blood."

"Who said anything about drinking blood?"

Owen considered giving the guy the finger, but that would be redundant.

"She was the local crazy, who lived in a broken-down house in the forest," Owen said. "Hence the name 'witch's house. '"

Reitman's forehead crinkled. "I don't get it."

"Where are you from?"

"L.A., originally."

"They don't have witches there?" Owen asked.

"They call them something else. Starts with a b."

"You can say b.i.t.c.h. No one will wash out your mouth with soap." Though it might be fun to try.

"Bruja." Reitman's lips tightened. "In L.A. they call them brujas."

"What. Ever." Owen's lips tightened too. "My mother isn't one."

"We still don't know that she didn't kill these animals."

"I do. You're the one who doesn't believe it."

"Convince me."

Owen toyed with another bout of "f.u.c.k you." Then Becca touched his arm. "You should probably call the mental health facility."

"You should probably call a lawyer," George said. "Attempted murder is pretty serious."

"Good luck with that," Owen returned. "She's certifiable."

A judge had said so-although in more legal-type terms-and one continued to say so every year when the order to keep Owen's mother in the mental facility came up for renewal.

"She's also committed," Becca said. "She didn't check herself out, especially dressed like that. You need to find out what she's doing here."

"They won't know the reason." Owen considered his mom, who was still whispering to Reggie. At least she was occupied. "I doubt she does."

"I meant when did she escape? Why don't you know about it?"

"Right." He'd already wondered that and gotten distracted by ... everything. He pulled out his cell, pushed the contact number for the mental health facility before he remembered. "No service."

Becca pointed upward. Owen headed for the stairs. He hadn't taken two steps when Becca cried out. Reggie woofed. Owen spun, hands up, expecting his mom to barrel into him and body-slam him to the ground. Wouldn't be the first time. When she was lit up, she'd thought Owen was all sorts of strange things.

However, his mom remained right where he'd left her. The dog stared at Becca. Becca, Reitman, and George all stared at Owen's leg.

Owen glanced down. Considering their expressions, he half expected to see blood darkening his pants. But everything looked normal, or as normal as it had looked since he'd gotten out of the hospital in D.C.

Ah, h.e.l.l. He was walking like a peg-legged pirate. All he needed was a parrot and an eye patch.

Becca stepped toward him, hand outstretched, concern all over her face. "You're limping."

"I've been limping for months. Limping is pretty much why I'm here."

"You said ... I thought ... You haven't..."

"I know."

"I never saw you limp until now," Reitman said.

"And don't think I don't appreciate it."

"How have you avoided walking without my seeing?" Becca asked.