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“Security cameras?” Cade asked, scanning the alley.

“None pointed this way,” the detective replied. “But we've got footage of him leaving Jake's Bar across the street about an hour before the body was found.”

“Alone?” I prompted.

“That's where it gets weird,” the detective admitted, flipping through his notes. “According to the bartender, Reeves was talking to someone at his table, got real quiet suddenly, then left.But the security footage shows him sitting alone, then getting up and walking out by himself.”

Cade and I exchanged glances. Invisible entity or something moving too fast for cameras to catch—neither option was good news.

“We'll need to talk to that bartender,” I said.

The detective nodded, apparently relieved to hand off the case to someone else. “O'Malley's opens at noon. Owner's name is Thomas Kelley; he was working last night.”

“Any connection to the other victims?” Cade asked.

The detective looked startled. “Other victims? This is the first case like this we've had.”

Another glance between us, this one heavy with understanding. Whatever we were hunting, it was mobile, and Reeves wasn't its first victim.

“Just covering all bases,” I covered smoothly. “Any chance we could get a copy of that security footage?”

“Already on it,” the detective said, gesturing to a tech who approached with a USB drive.

Cade pocketed it with a nod of thanks, and we stepped away from the body as the coroner's team moved in to remove it.

“This contradicts my earlier assessment,” I muttered once we were out of earshot. “Whatever did this, it's not a psychic vampire. Too violent, too focused on the eyes specifically.”

“Agreed,” Cade said, his voice low. “This is something else entirely. More violent, more . . . personal.”

“Right then,” I sighed, loosening my tie slightly as we headed back to the Impala. “Back to square one. At least we know what we're not dealing with.”

O'Malley's Barwas exactly what I expected from the name—a dim, wood-paneled establishment that smelled of beer and poor decisions. The neon signs advertising various brews cast a sickly glow over the scarred bar top, where a wiry man in his fifties was stacking glasses with practiced efficiency.

“Thomas Kelley?” I asked as we approached, badges already in hand.

The man glanced up, wariness immediately settling into his features. “That's me. You the feds the cops said would be stopping by?”

“Agents Tennant and Smith,” I confirmed, settling onto a barstool. Cade took the one beside me, his posture rigid and professional. “Mind if we ask you a few questions about last night?”

Kelley sighed, setting down the glass he'd been polishing. “I told the cops everything,” he muttered, running a hand through thinning hair. “Guy came in alone. Left alone. Next thing I know, he's dead in the alley.”

“What about while he was here?” I pressed. “Anything unusual about his behavior?”

Kelley hesitated, his fingers drumming restlessly on the bar top. “He was a regular. Came in two, three times a week. Always the same—scotch on the rocks, kept to himself.”

“But something was different last night,” Cade stated rather than asked, his eyes never leaving Kelley's face.

The bartender's shoulders slumped slightly. “Yeah. He was . . . talking to someone.”

“You saw who he was with?” I leaned forward, interest piqued.

“That's just it,” Kelley admitted, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I didn't see anyone. His table was in that corner.” He nodded toward a shadowy booth near the back wall. “He was sitting alone, but talking. Animated, like he was having a real conversation. Thought maybe he was on one of those Bluetooth things, you know? But then . . .”

“Then what?” Cade prompted when the man trailed off.

“He just went quiet. Dead silent. Staring at nothing for a good five minutes. Then he stood up, left his drink half-finished, and walked out. Never seen him do that before.”

I exchanged a look with Cade. No signs of compulsion or possession, just . . . influence of some kind.