The temperature in the suite shared by Mr. Simmons and Violet was bone-chilling. I shivered in my chair as Mr. Simmons unveiled his big plan to Mischa, embellishing how much of a huge relief it would be for Mrs. Portnoy if her daughters' training expenses were covered by his accountants. Mischa stubbornly listened with a glimmer of defiance in her brown eyes. We'd already informed her of the general gist of Mr. Simmons' plan back at the coffee shop, and I could see that she was already antsy to get back to the gym. Outside, a storm was rolling in. Harsh afternoon light spilled in through the crack in the heavy curtains in the window.

"Right now, your mother's paying about two thousand dollars a week to your coach for your training, and another two thousand a week for Amanda's," Mr. Simmons informed Mischa in a tone that bordered on taunting. "By the time you compete in the trials, she'll have spent almost fifty thousand dollars. And that's just this year, Mischa."

Mischa squirmed and looked at the ceiling with her jaw firmly set as she ran the numbers in her head. It was odd for me to embrace the idea of the Portnoys struggling financially. Throughout my whole life, I'd considered Mischa and Amanda to be much wealthier than my family.

"It pains me to be the one to make you aware of this, but my attorney did a little investigative work, and your mother's already about sixty grand in debt from covering your training expenses over the last eight years," Mr. Simmons said. Whether this was true or not, Mischa provided him with the reaction he sought: her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He was breaking down her resolve. "There's a big difference in cost between tumbling classes at the Weeping Willow park district and the type of intensive training your parents were paying for in Ortonville. I was very sorry to hear about your father's passing, but without his income from the car dealerships, how do you expect your mother to ever pay off these debts, Mischa?"

In a gravelly voice, she replied, "My parents have always told me not to worry about that. It's my job to pursue my talent. Everything else comes after the Olympics." She swallowed hard, perhaps thinking of her recently deceased father, and continued, "Besides, my mom is going to sell the dealerships. She doesn't want to manage them alone."

"Selling the dealerships is another matter, entirely. Your mother won't make a profit. There are employees to pay and debts to collect on leased cars," Mr. Simmons pointed out. I could tell from the fire blazing in Mischa's eyes that her hate for him was increasing by the second. "And what if winning a gold medal isn't even enough?" Mr. Simmons continued to badger her. "Only one of you can win. What are the odds that both you and your sister will medal? You've perhaps been overestimating the amount of money that athletes receive from corporate sponsorships-and underestimating how much the government will tax that kind of income."

Mischa leaned forward to stand. She'd heard enough and intended to leave. I stole a peek at Trey and his expression told me that if Mischa was leaving, we needed to make ourselves scarce right behind her. We were in a city where no one in the world other than those surrounding us knew to look for us, locked in a seventh-floor suite of a hotel. In other words, Trey and I had willingly walked into a set trap. We would likely only have one chance to leave if Mischa rebuffed Mr. Simmons' proposal-if any chance at all.

"Look, I have to get to practice," Mischa announced with authority. "Your offer is very generous, Mr. Simmons. But if I take you up on it before June and miss even two days of practice, I'll be throwing away thirteen years of training."

Violet stood up from where she sat on the suite's leather sofa to face Mischa. She was easily four inches taller than Mischa, and peered down at my petite friend with her steely ice blue eyes. "You know this can't wait until June, Mischa. How many more people will die between now and then?"

Mischa's face tightened. "You, of all people, can't expect me to believe that you actually care about the people that will die, Violet." Her eyes shifted toward the door and it seemed like she was thinking the same thought that Trey and I were: Mr. Simmons wasn't going to allow anyone to leave this suite willingly. Interrupting what was turning into a tense moment, Mischa's phone rang. "It's my sister," Mischa announced after checking the phone's screen. Confirming my hunch that the situation in the suite was rapidly escalating into one emulating a prison, Mischa asked Mr. Simmons, "Can I answer it?"

He nodded where he sat on the sofa. Violet sat down again next to her father and primly folded her hands in her lap. Ironically, Henry was closest to the door, and I wondered if he'd stop any of us if we tried to leave. A glance in his direction sent a jabbing pain through my rib cage. His presence in Long Beach was utterly confusing to me. I was grateful that he was with us, but frustrated with myself for not being able to determine why he wasn't in France at that exact moment. Something about his involvement with Mr. Simmons just didn't seem right, and yet I couldn't put my finger on it. Laura sat in the corner on the other side of the room, out of harm's way, watching Henry with hope. I hadn't ruled out the possibility that she'd meddled with Henry's head and was influencing him.

"Yes," Mischa said into her phone in an annoyed voice. "I know. Look, I know. Something came up and it's an emergency. I'll be there as soon as I can." She paused, listening with her head hung and abruptly said, "Amanda, I said I'll be there, OK?"

Tell her where you are, I screamed at Mischa with my thoughts, wanting at least one person-even if it was flighty Amanda Portnoy-to know where we were being held, just in case things got messy. But Mischa tapped to end her call and slid her phone back into her handbag. "I really have to be on my way. I'm twenty minutes late, as it is."

"Mischa," Mr. Simmons said, standing slowly. My muscles tensed. Things were potentially about to get ugly. "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. Your presence is required in Weeping Willow."

Finally catching the drift that maybe she would not be free to leave if she tried, Mischa looked helplessly at Trey. "Trey said I could make my own decision." With wildness in her eyes, she spun around and glared at Mr. Simmons. "Look, you don't have to sponsor me. Just give me until the third week of June, and I'll do whatever you want. It's not like I'm enjoying having this stupid curse on me."

Mr. Simmons checked his own mobile phone. "Here's what I'm proposing. I have a private jet chartered to take the seven of us back to Wisconsin at eight o'clock tonight. We'll arrive in Green Bay by dawn, and can meet Father Fahey at Saint Monica's first thing in the morning. You can nap on the return flight and be back here in Long Beach in time for your afternoon training session if everyone cooperates," he tells Mischa matter-of-factly. "Then, this is all over and everyone moves on with their lives. It's that simple."

Mischa's fingers dug deeply into the handbag she clutched. "What if I don't want to?" she asked, with her eyes falling upon Henry last.

Now, confirming my worst suspicion about Henry, he stood and stared Mischa down. "You have to, Mischa. You owe it to Olivia to end this."

His comment served to ignite the fire that had been kindling on Mischa's tongue since we'd brought her back to the Marriott. "I don't owe Olivia anything!" Mischa roared at Henry. "She chose to play Violet's game. The only person in this room who owes Olivia is Violet!"

"Hey!" Mr. Simmons cautioned Mischa. "This is not about settling a debt. This is about all of us stepping up as adults and doing the right thing."

Violet picked at the lint on her expensive cream-colored wool skirt in silence until she mumbled. "No, Dad. Mischa's right. This is all my fault." She looked around the room at all of us before continuing. "But I don't know how to fix what I've done except to do what Laura and my dad are suggesting before it goes any further."

Mischa's eyes grew beady and she slid her hand into her handbag. "I'm calling my sister. I want to go to gym right now. And if you don't let me? I'm just going to scream bloody murder until the hotel staff breaks down the door to find out what's going-"

Mischa's mouth formed the last word of her statement, but she'd gone mute. Her hands flew to her throat as she struggled to make any kind of sound. In the corner of the room, Laura had clasped her own throat with her hands and stared at Mischa, clearly controlling Mischa somehow with magic. I inched more closely to Trey on the loveseat. This afternoon of negotiations with Mr. Simmons had turned tragically dark in a very short amount of time. Mischa looked at Laura in utter confusion until Laura eased her grip on her own throat and said, "No one screams."

Mr. Simmons casually took a sip of water from the plastic bottle on the glass-top coffee table in front of him. "There is another matter you may not have considered," he told Mischa, locking eyes with her. Mischa's posture straightened with panic. "In January, you might recall that a young woman from Weeping Willow went missing for a week and turned up at the Ortonville train station claiming to have no recollection of what had happened to her."

I bit into my lower lip so hard that I tasted metallic blood. So, Mr. Simmons was about to reveal the hand he intended to play. All this time, he'd had a trick up his sleeve. Even though I'd been suspecting this all along, my stomach still turned as he smiled bitterly at Mischa.

"It just so happens that my attorneys have learned from the police department in Weeping Willow that our local police estimate having spent over twenty-seven thousand dollars searching for that young lady. The sheriff's department in Shawano County estimate having spent thirty-five thousand dollars searching for her," Mr. Simmons continued in his patient, cunning voice. "Shall I continue?"

"I didn't ask anyone to search for me," Mischa complained.

"Well, you're a minor. You could have reasonably assumed that your parents would be worried enough to call the local authorities. Your photo was on the evening news the entire week you were missing. Ah," Mr. Simmons exclaimed as if he were just remembering an important fact. "But there are no televisions at the Preet Wellness Center, so you couldn't have known that the police were scouring central Wisconsin in search of you that entire week."

Trey placed his hand on top of mine and squeezed. I had no idea how Mr. Simmons might have found out that we'd stashed Mischa with the meditation guru who had counseled his wife before Violet was born. Not even Violet knew where we'd hidden her. Mischa threw both of us a dirty look over her shoulder, assuming that we'd confided in Mr. Simmons, but I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a hell-if-I-know grimace in response.

"Do you know, Mischa, how the state of Wisconsin handles cases in which people fake their own kidnappings? They require those people to refund the taxpayer dollars spent on search efforts," Mr. Simmons said without emotion. "It would be an awful shame if your mother had to add that financial obligation to her stack of worries."

Mischa's chest heaved in defeat. She shook her head at me as she frowned. "I should have known better than to follow you here," she hissed. Then she turned and barked at Mr. Simmons, "What am I supposed to tell my sister and my coach? If I just vanish without a trace for the rest of the day, you'd better believe they'll come looking for me."

Delighted with himself, Mr. Simmons stood and stretched his arms. The cashmere sleeves of his sweater rode up his forearms to reveal the gold Cartier watch he wore on his left wrist. He pulled out his mobile phone again and tapped into his contacts list. "I don't know," he told Mischa. "You're a manipulative young lady. I'm sure you'll think of a suitable cover story."

Violet soundlessly mouthed the word "Sorry," at Mischa. I could practically see waves of anger emanating from Mischa's body as she sank into the loveseat on which Trey and I sat. Mr. Simmons had duped us all, which didn't feel great, but in the end his purpose had served mine, too. There was a possibility-if Laura and Mr. Simmons were to be believed-that in twenty-four hours' time, Trey and I would be free from all of this business with evil spirits. We could move on with our lives, whether that meant returning to my Dad's house in Florida or taking off with Trey bound for a new life together. I couldn't even get my head around the full meaning of liberation from this nightmare.

Mr. Simmons wandered into the next room, confirming the private jet reservations that he had made. Mischa glowered at Henry. "Not cool, Henry Richmond," she said as she shook her head slowly. "I thought you were on our side."

"I am on your side," Henry insisted. "We all just want this to be over."

Laura rose from her chair and approached Trey with her hand outstretched. "I'll be needing that jar I gave you," she told him.

He stared up at her in total ignorance. "Huh?"

"The jar," she repeated. "There was a jar in the pocket of the coat that you wore out of Esther's house, remember? We'll need it in order to capture the second curse and lock it away."

"Oh, yeah, about that jar," Trey said, scratching the stubble on his shaved head. "That and just about every other personal belonging I had in life was incinerated on a train car yesterday morning. McKenna and I almost died from smoke inhalation. We lost your magical jar. Sorry."

Laura threw her arms up in despair as if she were babysitting us and we were disobeying her orders to do household chores. "God, Trey! There was powerful witch bottling magic on that jar." She sighed in disappointment and announced, "Well, I guess I have to go downstairs and see if this hotel has a gift shop because now I have to cast an entirely new spell on some kind of box or jar that can be locked before we get to Wisconsin." She left the suite in a huff with her shoulder bag.

Violet looked at me and Trey with questioning eyes, not having the slightest clue about Laura's statement. Mischa crossed her arms over her chest, closed her eyes and simply said, "I don't even want to know." A few moments later she interrupted the tense silence in the room once more by adding, "And by the way, you guys smell gnarly."