“Actually, the Vatican has a rather extensive file on you.”

“Shut up,” I said, flattered and appalled at the same time.

“No, it’s true. You’re of great interest to them. I thought you should know.”

“Wow, thank you, but aren’t you betraying your vows or something?”

“My vows are to our Heavenly Father and to the Church. They’re not to a file in the Vatican’s archives labeled ‘Charlotte Jean Davidson.’”

“They know my middle name? They’re really good.”

“They know quite a bit. I actually found much of it to be a little hard to swallow.” I nodded, but he pinned me with a knowing stare. “At first.”

“Oh, so you swallow the whole thing now?”

“I do, yes. And can I just say, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“You make me sound like a saint.”

“Not a saint. More like a warrior.”

My spine lengthened. “A warrior. I like it. But what exactly did you discover that set you on this path?”

“A different kind of possession.” His face softened. “I’m kind of a specialist.”

“Okay, I’ll bite, but first, would you like some coffee?” I pointed through the adjoining door to the Bunn. The one that was residing on a counter in my office. Not the one residing a tad southeast of my belly button. Because that would have been awkward.

He brightened. “Sure.”

Cool. I could live vicariously through a Catholic priest. A thought that rarely occurred to me, for obvious reasons. I stood, crossed over to my office and poured him a cup, then asked if he liked his coffee like I liked my Death Stars: gigantic, on the Dark Side, and powerful enough to destroy a planet.

He laughed softly. “A little cream is fine.”

“One coffee high coming up,” I said through the doorway. I loved diner lingo.

My body reacted to the scent, to the act of pouring the dark elixir, like a Chihuahua when face-to-face with a pit bull – by shaking uncontrollably. It was a Pavlovian response to java anytime I went longer than an hour or two without a sip, and it had now been almost seventeen hours since my last slug of joe. I couldn’t help but note that, for one reason or another, I’d been shaking for quite a while. Hopefully, it wouldn’t become a habit.

“Can you explain the different kinds of possessions, so we’re on the same page?” I asked, coming back and handing him the cup. Reluctantly.

“Absolutely.” He took a long, sensuous draw. Either that or I was projecting again. “The first is infiltration, which is a possession of a space.”

“Like the house in Poltergeist,” I offered, swallowing back my inner Chihuahua.

“Exactly. But with a little less drama.”

“Of course,” I said, pretending to be more knowledgeable than I actually was.

“Then you have oppression, which is where a demon is focused on one person.”

“Like a stalker, only less creepy.”

He chuckled. “Why not? The third kind is the most known, and that is possession itself, where a demon occupies a person.”

I nodded. “My very favorite flavor. So, which kind brought you here?”

“That would be infiltration.”

“Really? So there’s a possessed house somewhere in Albuquerque?”

“It would seem so. I have a young family who just bought their first home and is terrified to go inside it. They end up sleeping at relatives’ houses quite often.”

“That’s awful, and I’d love to help, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

He put the envelope on the coffee table stacked with magazines in front of us and fumbled through another inside pocket for his phone. After thumbing through a couple of menus, he passed the phone over to me. “Scroll through these, then ask me that again.” He wore a mischievous grin as I took the phone.

The first picture was hard to make out. “Is this a wall?” I asked.

“Probably. But there’s more.”

“Okay.” No idea what that was about. There were scratches on the wall, but the camera didn’t pick them up clearly. So I scrolled. The next one was of a doll. One of those lifeless dolls with dead eyes so often used in horror movies. It, too, had scratches in its plastic skin, but I couldn’t decipher what they were supposed to mean. I continued to do that for a few more images. Paper. A broken toy. A Lego construction worker. Another wall. Then a pattern started emerging. I finally saw a C. Sometimes an R or a Y. I went back to the beginning and started over, zooming in when I needed to, until I realized the scratches all said the same thing: Charley Davidson. Over and over. That couldn’t be good.

“So, you think this demon is trying to send you a message?” I asked, making light of an eerie situation. ’Cause that’s how I rolled.

Father Glenn raised a thick brow. “Can’t be certain. It sure seems to like you, though. An old flame, maybe?”

“Could be. I dated some doozies.” I handed his phone back. “Never took any of them for demons, though. Can you send those to me?”

“Sure.” He put his coffee cup on the coffee table and took one of my business cards to get my e-mail address off it.

I cringed. I’d recently run out of my current business cards and had to set out an older stash of them: my very first attempt at professionalism. Thankfully, when I’d hired Cookie, she talked me into getting new cards. But the one Father Glenn had just picked up said, CHARLEY DAVIDSON, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, BECAUSE NO ONE IS BETTER AT INVESTIGATING YOUR PRIVATES.