Dia swung around, startled, and smiled sheepishly for having been caught. “Just trying to figure out what’s inside.”

“Why don’t you just open it?”

“Because it’s not mine,” Dia said, holding it out. “It’s yours.”

Haven gaped at the box. “Where did it come from?”

“A guy just dropped it off a second ago.”

She blinked a few times. “The mailman?” Who would send her a package? Dominic? Tess? Maybe Celia?

“Actually, I think he was a police officer.”

Haven stared at her as those words sunk in. “Did he tell you he was?”

“No, he didn’t say much, just asked if you lived here and left the box. I should’ve asked him, but I didn’t think about it. He would’ve had to tell me, you know. They can’t lie when you ask them.” Dia thrust the box forward. “I need to go wash my hair. I’ll be right back.”

Haven looked over the cardboard box, seeing no labels, nothing but a piece of packaging tape securing it closed. She cut the tape with a knife and opened the flaps, her brow furrowing.

Inside was a large clear plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE, holding a normal-looking notebook. Haven picked it up, along with a piece of paper addressed to her from the Department of Justice office in Chicago.

Miss Antonelli,

We send our sincerest regrets for the inadvertent seizure of your journal. It was done in error and has been returned to you in the same condition as when it was confiscated. Again, please accept our apologies. We appreciate your understanding.

Special Agent Donald Cerone

U.S. DOJ

She blinked in shock and tore the notebook from the bag. She couldn’t breathe as she scanned the pages of jumbled writing, her deepest, darkest secrets on display in front of her eyes. They had seen them. They had read them. They knew where she had come from. They knew what she was.

“What is it?” Dia asked, returning from her room within a matter of minutes. She rubbed her wet hair with a white towel, streaks of color now staining it.

“It’s, uh . . . a notebook,” Haven replied. “They took it when Dr. DeMarco was arrested.”

“Ah, damn. I thought it was something cool.” Dia pouted for a second before perking back up. “So, are we going out tonight?”

“I’d rather not,” Haven said, still staring at the notebook. “It’s been a long day. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to go to Durante for spring break, remember? You can come along if you want. We could hang out down at Aurora Lake.”

The thought of going back to Durante made her head pound even harder. She wasn’t ready to see that place again. “Maybe next time.”

“Rain check, then,” Dia said. “After I get back, we’re going to celebrate.”


A strong breeze blew through the abandoned ranch house in Blackburn from an open window on the first floor. Desert sand swirled along the wooden walkways like mini cyclones, sullying Corrado’s dress shoes. His nose tickled as he breathed in the soiled air, the scent of festering mildew mingling with the dust. It blanketed everything visible like a dull, gray shield, tarnishing colors and hiding the otherwise obvious flaws in the house—the old bloodstain on the floor in the foyer, the gashes in the wood from where someone had once been chained to the banister like a dog.

It appeared like just another forgotten stop along the desolate highway—nothing special, nothing out of the usual hidden beneath the layer of filth—but Corrado knew the truth. He had heard the stories and witnessed enough first hand to know the seemingly innocent house was practically a portal straight to Hell.

And the gatekeeper, he knew, had been his own sister.

The place hadn’t been touched in months, not since the day three people had died in the adjacent stable. He had done a quick clean-up job, ridding the grounds of everything incriminating, but the rest was to be left to Haven, the next of kin.

The estate was nearly settled, every penny of the Antonelli’s money transferred to an account for the girl. All that was left to deal with were the possessions, Katrina’s love for material things evident in the clutter.

Corrado wasn’t a superstitious man. He would often have to restrain himself from mocking Gia DeMarco during one of her delusory outbursts, but being there, strolling through the dead-silent house, he could feel the evil that still resided in it. It suffocated him, the air thick with hatred and bad intentions. It clung to everything, desperate and unyielding, trying to find its way inside him so it could live on.

He was too strong, too stubborn, to let it seep into his lungs or burrow in his chest. Instead it skimmed the surface, bristling his hair as it crawled across his skin, unforgiving and stifling. He had killed his sister, disposed of her, but the demons that possessed her, the pride and envy and vengefulness and bitter rage, remained. And he could feel it all around him, shoving against him, trying to force him back out with each step he took.

Doing his best to ignore the sensation, he spent the next hour going through the house, sifting through desk drawers and scouring rooms, looking for anything the girl might want. He thoroughly tossed the place, turning furniture upside down and destroying things with no regard in his search. He came up empty in the way of personal effects, but he found a bit of hidden cash and some jewelry he could sell for her. The rest wasn’t salvageable in his eyes, nothing worth saving.

No photographs. No mementos. No nothing in the way of admitting she was family or that anyone who ever lived in that home cared she existed.

He was in a downstairs closet, throwing things around, when he hit a wall panel and knocked it loose. He kicked it aside, peering into the hole, and caught a flash of something silver. He reached inside, felt around, and grabbed a handle, having to use some force to yank it out, a heavy cloud of dust coming with it. Corrado coughed forcefully as it infiltrated his lungs, his eyes stinging.

After stepping back out of the closet, Corrado surveyed the object with puzzlement. It was a vintage Halliburton aluminum briefcase, heavy and expensive. Age had dulled the outside, but it held sturdily together.

He tried to pry it open to no avail, striking at the lock, before conceding and throwing it to the floor. He considered leaving it there, frustrated, but something nagged him not to. It had clearly been hidden away for years, maybe decades. He couldn’t fathom what the briefcase contained that warranted such protection.

It was a riddle to him, a puzzle . . . a mystery he needed to solve.

Giving up, he snatched it from the floor again and headed outside, tossing it into the back seat of his rental car. He stared at the house, still feeling his skin trying to slink away. Dusk had come upon him, nighttime approaching fast as the sun dipped behind the desert cliffs. After debating for a long moment, he went back inside and gathered some books and clothing in the room with the open window. Finding a container of paint thinner in the cellar, he splashed a bit on the belongings before pulling a book of Luna Rossa matches from his pocket. He struck a single match and stared at the flame briefly before tossing it onto the pile.

It ignited swiftly as Corrado made his way back out to the car, leaving the front door wide open. He pulled away from the property, heading for the highway out of Blackburn. There was enough wind blowing and dirt in the dry air to cover his tire tracks, enough oxygen in the house to be certain the entire thing would go up in flames. Given the isolated location and the darkening sky, it would be hours before someone spotted the smoke, sufficient time for it to burn to the ground.

An orange glow lit up the bottom floor of the house when Corrado glanced in the rearview mirror. Mixing with the burn of sunset, it illuminated the ground surrounding it. The tension in his muscles receded as he watched it, the clawing at his skin fading away.

A small smile lifted the corner of his lips. What better way to send the evil back to Hell than a fiery grave?

13

While Dia was on her way to Durante to visit her parents, Haven awaited a visitor of her own. She sat in the living room of the quiet apartment, the notebook from the federal agent laying on her lap. She had flipped through it countless times, rereading passages as she hoped the words would somehow change.

They weren’t, though. Every time she looked at them, they seemed to get worse. It was all there in black-and-white, everything she had promised to never tell spelled out with utter simplicity.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

There was a knock after a while, firm and determined. Haven set the notebook down and opened the door, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Dr. DeMarco walked in without a word and she closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry to bother you . . .”

“You’re not bothering me,” he said, pausing in the living room. His eyes lingered on the wall splattered with art and photos before he turned to her. “I’m glad you called. Where is it?”

She pointed to the table where the notebook lay. “I had no idea they had it.”

Dr. DeMarco picked it up and sighed. “I did.”

She gaped at him. “You knew?”

“Agent Cerone showed it to me. He thought I would crack if I knew what you’d written.”

Her stomach dropped so hard it was like she had taken a ten-story fall, stopping just shy of slamming into the concrete. She swayed, needing to sit down. “You read it?”

“He read a few passages to me, but I couldn’t help that.”

Her head swam as she ran through possibilities of what he might have heard. “I’m sorry. I really am. I was upset when I wrote some of it and—”