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When we came to a service station, he pulled in and parked the bike out of sight behind it. My legs felt stiff and unreal as I climbed off, as if I were a zombie just crawled from the grave.
    Alex’s face was tight with sympathy as he put his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, we’ve got to talk,” he said. He steered me into the restroom.
    Talk. The word seemed alien; I found myself turning it over for different possible meanings. I stood hugging myself as he locked the door behind us. Somewhere deep within, I could feel the tears waiting like a tidal wave. If I gave into them, they’d sweep me away, drown me for ever.
    Alex’s hair was ruffled from the wind as he turned to me; his hands gripped mine, feeling warm and strong. “Willow, listen,” he said urgently. “The more I think about it, the more this doesn’t make sense. I mean, yeah, the Church of Angels might want your mother dead, but why would they target your aunt, too? Everyone in Pawntucket knew that the two of you didn’t get along, right?”
    I shook my head, too shell-shocked to get where he was going with this. He was right, though. It was a small town, and Aunt Jo wasn’t the type to keep her complaints to herself. Everybody had known how put-upon she felt having to support the two of us, even with the money I sometimes brought in from my psychic readings.
    “Plus, your aunt believed what the Church said about you running off with a secret boyfriend, so why have her killed?” Alex went on. “It helps their story if she’s around. And if the target was your mother, it would make more sense to just stick her in a home somewhere and then quietly get rid of her. You don’t do away with people by burning their house down – there’s too many ways it could go wrong.”
    A headache spiked my temples; I could hardly take in the meaning of his words. “Alex, what are you saying?”
    He hesitated, his hands still holding mine. Finally he said, “This may sound weird, but can you try to sense your mother?”
    The realization thundered through me. “You...you don’t think they’re really dead.”
    I could see the conflict in his eyes: his reluctance to get my hopes up versus whatever he was thinking. “I don’t know,” he said. “But this doesn’t feel right. The house burning down that way just seems too convenient, somehow. Almost like something you’d do for show.”
    I swallowed hard, barely daring to hope. “It could have been a – an unruly mob, though. People do burn places down sometimes. And people die because of it.”
    “Yeah, they do. Look, I could be totally wrong. But just try it, okay? Try to sense them.”
    I almost didn’t want to try; didn’t want to allow myself even this small amount of hope, only to be disappointed. I took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to clear my mind enough to focus.
    Mom.
    I envisioned her soft blonde hair, so like my own natural shade; her green eyes that used to sparkle with recognition when they saw me. The smell of her, which wasn’t shampoo and wasn’t body lotion but a mixture of both, plus something else that was just her, my mother – a smell that when I was little I wanted to curl up in for ever. Even later, when she’d stopped responding to anyone at all, I’d still sit close to her sometimes as she sat lost in her dreams, breathing in that scent and wishing for things to be different.
    It didn’t take long for Mom to be firmly in my head; she was never far from my thoughts. I stretched my mind out, drifting, searching. Was she out there, anywhere? Please?
    Endless minutes went past. I stood against the cool porcelain sink with my eyes closed, trying not to force things, despite the thudding of my heart – the tiny agony of hope that had sprung up within me. Don’t push, just relax...drift... Mom, are you there?
    Nothing. Darkness. My throat tightened as the hope flickered and died.
    And then, somewhere in the emptiness, I thought I caught something – the faintest