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inexplicable reason, she did mind, but had no reason to say so. Instead, she rose and collected her crutches. Daemon met her gaze, and offered a tight smile. She realized that he wanted this, wanted to talk with the sheriff alone. She supposed he wanted to lay any suspicions to rest. What other explanation could there be?
    Seeing no option, she left them alone. But she lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, listening to the men talk. Daemon asked as many questions as he answered, and she had the thought that he was probing the sheriff for information as much as the sheriff was probing him. Their tones grew hushed and she lost the trail of the conversation.
    Then the sheriff’s voice rose a bit and drifted to her. “So where were you last night, Mr. Alexander?”
    “Last night?” Daemon’s tone was laced with perverse humor. “Why, I was right here, Sheriff. With Jen.”
    She froze. He didn’t exactly lie. He
had
been here with her as night fell. But after that? Where had Daemon been then? And why did he only offer a partial truth?
    “Why do you ask, Sheriff? Was there some problem last night?”
    “Mrs. Peteri says she saw someone lurking in the woods. The same woods where a woman’s remains were found. Someone with a flashlight that has a blue bulb. A very powerful flashlight. That wouldn’t have been you, would it, Mr. Alexander?”
    Daemon laughed. “Come outside and search my car if you feel compelled, Sheriff Hale.”
    “I just might do that,” the sheriff said. “Might like to look at where you live, too. You rent a room at Maybelle Tewksbury’s, don’t you?”
    “I do. You’re welcome to look there, as well.” Daemon paused. “I don’t own a flashlight. Blue bulb or otherwise.”
    But he did. If not a flashlight, then some other type of light. Jen had seen it leaking through the door of the room Daemon had been working in last night.
    Not bothering with stealth because her crutches made that hopeless, she headed up the stairs to the room under the eaves. Heart racing, she pushed open the door. The walls that had been covered with her grandmother’s floral paper were now a soft cappuccino color. She hobbled into the room. Paint tins were neatly placed on a folded drop cloth, roller trays washed and stacked. And there was a high-power light in the corner, switched to off, with the cord coiled neatly beneath the outlet. Which meant it needed electricity to work. This couldn’t be the blue light Lina Peteri had seen in the woods.
    With a sigh of relief, Jen turned back toward the bedroom door. Her heart twitched and stopped. Because only three of the four walls had been painted that warm coffee color. The wall behind her was still covered in her grandmother’s paper, but it wasn’t torn and stained any more. It looked as though someone had wound the hands of time backward. The paper looked fresh and new; there was no dirt, no smears or tears. Somehow, Daemon had cleaned and restored it. Moving closer, she placed her hand on the wall, feeling her world tip and tilt. What sort of man did something like this, something so selflessly kind?
    From outside came the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine, and a moment later Daemon was there, framed in the doorway, his dark hair falling across his brow, his hard lips curved in a small smile.
    “Sheriff Hale left?” Jen asked, feeling inexplicably awkward.
    “Yeah.”
    “Did he warn you not to leave town?”
    He studied her face, his expression intent. Then the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Yeah.” He closed the space between them. “Do you like it? The paper?”
      “I love it.”
I could love you, if I let myself
. Oh, God, where had that thought come from? This man was not for her. He could never be for her. She had known for her whole life that she was different, that once she came into her full sorcerer power she would live for centuries, as her mother and grandmother did, never aging, using clothing and make-up to hide that