Date: 2021-04-12 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Ghosts; Paranormal Mystery
Description: Calamity James can see the dead, but that doesn’t mean she likes it. Calamity James, a reluctant paranormal detective, returns to her hometown for the first time in ten years to attend her aunt’s funeral. When the local sheriff blackmails her into helping with a missing persons case, Cal can’t say no. Using her unique gift, sharp wits, and even sharper tongue, Cal flirts with death to solve the case. In Red River, the dead talk, and Cal is the only person who can hear them.

If She Only Knew

Alexandria Clarke

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Copyright 2021 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis

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1

I am not a snob. Far from it, actually. I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. I dropped out of high school two months before graduation. I was born in a ditch on the side of the road like a cold, confused possum. I have no reason to believe that I am too good to sit on the stained, dirty seats of a common bus.

And yet, my upper lip lifts as I swipe my brand-new bus card through the reader. My butt quivers as I lower it into the seat farthest from other passengers. I should have known better than to wear my favorite pair of jeans while utilizing public transportation cross-country.

I watch the driver through the mirror above his disproportionately small head. He’s asleep. His white Atlanta Braves cap has a circlet of yellow sweat stains around the brim. Gray stubble erupts from the driver’s pockmarked cheeks as if the hair is trying to fill in the missing bits of collagen.

While he dozes, a teenaged girl wearing a tasseled leather jacket rushes onto the bus and waves her pass in the driver’s face. With a shrug, she walks past him without scanning it. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I could’ve saved a few bucks.

The red clock that marks time’s infernal passage inside the bus terminal clicks past our designated departure. Another employee bangs on the driver’s window, sending a wave of reality through our wheeled tin can. Passengers drowsily melt into their seats like broken egg yolks, readying themselves for however many hours of in-between time lay ahead. On a bus, you’re neither here nor there. No one can quite pin down your location except the others riding with you. One life exists behind you, another in front. Nothing, however, exists on a bus.

I’m convinced the driver—Ed, I’ve decided to call him—is a retired Army veteran who doesn’t receive enough compensation from the VA, or whatever government entity is in charge of keeping our war-torn population docile and laboring, to enjoy a quiet, simple life in his hometown, wherever that may be. Perhaps Ed entered the service as a pimply but handsome eighteen-year-old, convinced the Army would bring him glory and honor. Instead, he got a bus route.

Ed yanks the sticky gear shift and turns the wheel with weary, age-spotted hands. The bus groans like a sick child, and everyone lurches forward as the vehicle unsticks itself from the hot pavement. Ed’s bleary eyes, lidded by sun-bleached lashes, make a lazy sweep across the windshield before he pulls into the road. And we’re off.

Busses are all well and good if you have the option of not riding them. No one with a car despises busses unless you get stuck behind one when you’re late to work. Then, welcome to your own personal type of purgatory. At least you can change lanes to escape yours.

If you don’t have a car or a bike or a set of legs that work efficiently, busses are often your only option for transportation. My legs are efficient enough, and though I’d rather walk from Georgia to Colorado, given a chance, such an act would not serve me in a timely manner. Besides, I’m not Forrest Gump, and I have no lust for extensive exercise or exertion.

I could’ve bought a plane ticket, but I’m pretty sure my name is still sitting on the no-fly list due to an unfortunate incident involving an explosive can of Coke in the TSA line and a dog with a nose sharp enough to sniff out the speck of actual coke in the folds of my pant legs. To be fair, it wasn’t my cocaine. I was holding on to it for a friend. If you shoot it or snort it, I’m out. I favor both my veins and my cilia.

Though currently, a damaged olfactory system might work in my favor. Between the sweet scent of gasoline and the inescapable blend of body odor and disinfectant, busses are not factories for fresh air. If multi-level marketing companies created bus-scented essential oils, mommies with two and a half kids would label them as “unique and invigorating” then chug another bottle of cheap white wine.

It has been five minutes since we left the bus terminal. I regret my life choices. More specifically, I regret getting on this damn bus.

I’m not alone in this regret. The teenaged girl who stiffed the system, sitting diagonally from me, huffs and puffs like she’s ready to blow down the three little pigs. With every irritated exhalation, she plucks the tassels of her leather jacket. She must feel my eyes on her because she glances over her shoulder.

“What are you looking at, cowgirl?” she hisses.

“Your jacket,” I say. “Nice taste.”

Her brow softens. “Thanks.”

“Running away from home?”

“No,” comes the snappy answer.

I lean toward her seat. “Some advice? Find a buddy. A person you trust, or even a dog. They’ll keep you safe at night. Oh, and always have some hand sanitizer in your bag. You never know when you’re going to need hand sanitizer.”

I stretch my legs into the aisle and tip my hat down to cover my eyes. The bus’s vibrations make my jaw rattle, but if I manage a few hours of shut-eye, part of this godforsaken trip might pass me by unnoticed.

While I doze, a light-fingered thief attempts to wiggle my wallet from my front pocket. Since my jeans are tighter than a coiled boa constrictor, the culprit doesn’t make much progress. When I feel the wallet slip beyond my belt, I slap my hand across the thief’s and twist. With a mousy squeak, the culprit drops my belongings. I lift my cap.

“I gave you advice,” I tell the leather-jacketed girl. Her wrist remains encaptured in my grasp. “This is how you repay me?”

She wriggles her hand free of mine. “Didn’t hurt to try.”

“Sit down.”

“No way.”

I grab the tassels on her jacket and yank her into the seat. “You tried to rob me. The least you can do is provide me with a little conversation to keep me from jumping out of the emergency exit window. What’s your name?”

“Mara,” she says reluctantly. “Mara O’Neil.”

“Calamity James.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish, kid.”

The circumstances of my birth are much debated, like a hot take on classic literature at a swanky university where students speak more Latin than English. From what I’d been told, my mother was alone when she went into labor and decided to drive herself to the hospital. Halfway there, my head popped out like the temperature gauge on a turkey. Dear ol’ Mom, unable to multitask, drove right off the road and into that ditch I mentioned earlier.

She went through the windshield. A passing truck driver called emergency services. When the paramedics arrived, they delivered me from the mudwater. Some might say it’s a miracle either of us survived. I’m convinced the whole event was a cosmic occurrence meant to halt my introduction to this world because things have been downhill ever since.

Addled by painkillers, my mother asked the hospital staff to name me, and those clever cats decided on Calamity due to the disastrous nature of my arrival. Had I the ability to speak or knowledge of historical facts, I might have mentioned that Calamity Jane—my namesake—was not christened so due to any catastrophes she caused. Some believe that she earned the moniker because to attempt wooing the frontierswoman meant “courting calamity.” The name served as a warning to men. To that effect, I hope to do her proud.

“Everyone calls me Cal,” I say, shaking Mara’s hand. “Where are you headed?”

“Anywhere but here,” she says.

“I know that feeling. In reverse.”

“Sorry?”

“I’d like to be going anywhere but the place I’m headed,” I explain. “My hometown.”

“Where’s that?”

“Red River, Colorado.”

The small town of Red River is the size of a postage stamp, but everyone who lives there has an ego larger than a ballistic missile. It’s an old, cattle-ranching, gold-mining spit of land that never outgrew its Wild West ways. Around the 1800s, Red River was full of rootin’, tootin’ cowboys, lawmen who were too big for their britches, prostitutes whose careers blossomed even in illegality, and outlaws who succumbed more quickly to cholera or tuberculosis than any criminal justice court.

Red River is rife with irony. For one thing, the town is named for an infamous duel that occurred between two cowboys—the names of which have been forgotten—who shot each other dead in the river, making the water run red with blood. That so-called river runs through the neighboring town, not ours. We’ve got a creek that eventually feeds into the Red River, but the river itself scoots right around the town’s borders like a snake outsmarting a nearby hungry fox.

For another thing, the people of Red River maintain a sense of high-and-mightiness that Lucifer himself wouldn’t challenge. The townies pretend they’re too good for fast, modern life. They take pride in the rundown buildings on Main Street, the crumbling saloon with the original swinging doors, and the town’s general air of malcontent. Pay no mind to the hipster café on the corner, the brand-new suburban development one street over, or the rainbow Dolly Parton mural painted on the municipal building where smartphone-happy twenty-year-olds stop to take Instagram-worthy pics.

“Colorado?” Mara says. “That’s one hell of a ride.”

“You’re damn right, kid.”

The hours wear on. In Mara’s company, my hatred of busses settles like leftover foam in the bottom of a cappuccino cup. Eventually, I get the full version of her runaway tale. Her mother’s a jerk, and so is her stepfather—pretty average stuff for a fifteen-year-old. Finally, I ask about the jacket.

“Where’d you steal it from?”

“What makes you think I stole it?” she asks, clutching the leather coat tight.

“It’s real leather,” I say. “You haven’t mentioned a job or anyone who’d gift something so expensive to you. Only one option left.”

Mara slips the jacket off her shoulders and sighs. “It was my mother’s favorite. Taking it was another good way to piss her off.”

I chuckle lightly.

“You should have it.” Mara dumps the jacket in my lap. “I don’t really want it. It’s not my style.”

I hold the coat up, wondering if it will fit me. It looks about the right size. Mara’s mother might have poor child-rearing skills, but she certainly has good taste. “But what will your mommy say?”

“With any luck, I’ll never talk to my mom again.” The bus pulls into a station, and Mara swings her backpack over her shoulder. “This is my stop. See you later, Calamity.”

“Hey,” I say, and she turns back. “Call your mom and let her know you’re safe.”

“Believe me, she hasn’t noticed I’m gone.”

“Believe me,” I say. “She definitely has. Promise?”

Mara rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

A sharp jolt shakes me awake as Ed slams on the brakes, and the bus screeches to a halt. Beyond the stuffy interior of the public transit vehicle, tires squeal across the pavement. A thunderous crash shakes the windows, followed by the tinkling of broken glass.

“No,” I groan, pulling myself upright. “No, no. Not today. Come on.”

Pushing past the passengers craning their necks to look at the wreck, I make my way to the front of the bus. Through the windshield, the damage looms. A tiny sedan sits upside down on the freeway, completely flattened. The other vehicle, a sturdy pick-up truck, has escaped the collision largely unscathed, save for a scratched dent in the front left fender. The truck driver stumbles out, and the bus passengers breathe a collective sigh of relief.

But I’m waiting for whoever’s in that tiny, upside-down sedan.

A good Samaritan leaves his unspoiled car to check on the crash victims. He kneels beside the sedan’s driver window and looks inside. His face distorts, and I know the news isn’t good. I check my watch.

“Damn it,” I mutter. “I’m going to be late.”

When a teenaged girl appears by my side, I briefly wonder if Mara has gotten back on the bus. Then I notice the girl’s vacant eyes and slightly transparent outline. She turns toward the sedan, lips spread with shock.

“You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here,” I tell her. “Aren’t you?”

She nods blankly.

“Well, I’m assuming that’s your car,” I say, pointing to the sedan. “Your body’s still in it, but your spirit isn’t. From the look on that guy’s face, you’ve been flattened like a pancake.”

The girl turns toward me with large questioning orbs for eyes.

“You’re dead, kid.”

She shakes her head furiously.

“Yup,” I say. “You’re dead. I’m guessing you died on impact because you turned up here pretty quick. No doubt about it, though. You’re definitely dead.”

There are two major annoyances about dead people. One, they can’t speak right after death, so it’s a bear and a half to figure out what the hell they want. And two, they always shoot the messenger.

Case in point: the dead girl wraps her hands around my neck.

2

Don’t ask me to explain the science or logic of ghosts. All I know is that I can see them, touch them, and talk to them as if they’re normal living people. A few rules apply, though. In cases such as these, when a ghost turns violent, I can only defend myself with my own body. You can’t kill a person twice, so guns, clubs, and other weapons have no effect on an angry spirit.

I can punch, kick, or choke a ghost. I can pull hair, pinch tender spots, and imitate pro-wrestling moves to my heart’s content. I can fight dirty, invoke name-calling and “your mom” jokes, and cheat to win. But if I take a swing at a ghost with a big stick or a fire poker or whatever else might be lying around, the weapon glides right through their essence like headlights in thick fog.

I have no idea why this “gift” has been bestowed upon me, but I don’t consider myself chosen or special or whatever. As far as I’m concerned, my ability to communicate with dead people is more inconvenient than anything else, especially since the dead like to lay hands on me.

As the deceased teenaged driver drags me off the bus by the neck, Ed shouts after me, “Hey, get back here!”

“Would if I could, Ed!” I choke out.

“My name’s Harry.”

Ed—or Harry, I suppose—can’t see that a petite blond girl in a violet sundress has grasped me around the throat and evacuated me from the vehicle. Before, when I’d informed the girl of her current status, Harry stared at me in bewilderment. To him, I’d been chatting with thin air.

This happens fairly often, but I’ve stopped caring about the growing tally of people who think I’m nuts. Ghosts don’t accommodate society's expectations, and if I ignore them, they get fussy. I’d rather get a dozen funny looks than be murdered by someone who’s already dead. That’s just embarrassing.

I peel the dead girl’s fingers from my throat so I can breathe. “Don’t worry. I’m coming.”

Satisfied, she leads me to the squashed sedan, where the good Samaritan is still trying to coax a response from the girl’s body.

“You don’t want to look,” he warns as I crouch beside him. “It’s bad.”

However bad it is, I’ve seen worse. I lower my head and glance inside the smashed sedan. The girl’s ghost follows my gaze, and she sees what I see: her own body squished between the roof and the steering wheel. The girl’s eyes bulge out of her head. Part of the car’s frame has sliced right through her torso, spilling her intestines across the cloth upholstery. No one could pimp this ride.

Pearly, translucent tears roll down the ghost’s cheeks. They always cry, but the young ones do so with obnoxious privilege as if they’ve been personally wronged by God or Lady Gaga or whoever else they put their faith in.

“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re better off.”

Good Sam offers me a quizzical brow raise. “Do you know her?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

I make room for the ghost, and she floats through the broken window of the car. She pets her mangled body, trying to slip her soul back inside the empty vessel.

“That won’t work,” I say. “I’ve seen a bunch of people try it.”

Sirens whirl in the distance. I’ve got to make this quick. I snap my fingers for the ghost’s attention. She regards me with a slack jaw and eyes sadder than a Basset Hound’s.

“You should pass over,” I tell her. “The longer you stick around, the harder it gets to leave. You don’t want to know what happens once you’ve been stuck on earth for a couple of years.”

Good Sam serves another bewildered expression and taps my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not talking to you,” I remind him.

With Mara’s leather jacket to protect me, I crawl into the car and paw through the wreckage until I find the dead girl’s purse. Her shiny, new driver’s license identifies her as sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Bowlby. I find her phone, too. The back’s cracked, but the screen is intact. It shows the last text message she sent about five minutes ago, right around the time the accident occurred.

“Elizabeth,” I say, but the ghost doesn’t halt her attempts to rejoin her body. “Eliza. Liz. Lizzie.”

Her head pops up.

“Lizzie,” I say again, and Lizzie’s eyebrows lift. “There’s nothing else you can do for yourself. The police will notify your guardians of what happened. The other driver is fine, so you don’t need to feel guilty. It’s time to go.”

As Lizzie ponders her options, the sirens grow closer. I clench my teeth, wishing Lizzie would get over herself and disappear. If I tussle with the police, it won’t be pretty. Plus, it’s starting to smell distinctly of death in this car.

“Make peace with yourself,” I tell Lizzie. “Feel that pull to leave? Follow it. You’re supposed to go. You don’t belong here anymore.”

Lizzie’s outline shimmers like a summer mirage.

“That’s it,” I say. “You can do it. You can go.”

An ambulance pulls into the circle of travesty. Lizzie briefly solidifies as if hoping the paramedics will perform a God-tier miracle to keep her alive.

“They can’t save you,” I say. “You have to go.”

An incandescent glow surrounds Lizzie’s spirit. With a swell of light that blinds only me, her soul vanishes from this earth, leaving only the contorted body behind.

I push myself off the pavement, wipe gravel from my hands, and jog to the bus right as two police cruisers arrive to block traffic. On the bus, the driver and passengers give me the weird looks that I’ve grown so accustomed to.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” I say, fitting headphones over my ears. “I’m going to be late.”

By the time the bus arrives in Red River, I’m five minutes late. By the time I get to the funeral home, I’m fifteen minutes late, and the ceremony has already begun. The usher gives me the side-eye as I slip into the back.

My heart tumbles like Humpty Dumpty off his wall when I spot the open casket. Death may not scare me, but the attempt at preserving life certainly does. No matter how skilled the embalmer is, a corpse will never look the same as a living, breathing person. A real blush replaced by papery, painted cheeks. Eyes and lips sewn shut like a sick type of torture. An embalmed corpse is a bag of bones and nothing more.

It takes me a moment to notice that the entire congregation has swiveled to see what has caused the speaker at the podium to pause his speech. A murmur swells like a rushing wave as brows raise and expressions turn judgmental or even hateful.

“What is she doing here?” someone whispers.

“Oh, sure. Now, she shows up.”

“Twenty bucks says she had something to do with it.”

The man at the podium, my Uncle Kent, clears his throat. The crowd returns their attention to him, but my presence has disrupted the funeral’s respectful aura. No matter where I look, someone is glancing over their shoulder or muttering to another person.

“Dolly was a special woman.” Uncle Kent speaks with a throat full of phlegm and a slight lisp. After years of chewing tobacco and a run-in with mouth cancer, he’s lost a few teeth, fulfilling his destiny as a slow-talking churl. “I still wonder what she saw in me all those years ago.”

“Me, too,” I say under my breath.

“Dolly was an unusually kind person,” Uncle Kent went on. “In a world where many of us can no longer be bothered to hold a door for the person behind us or thank our server at the diner, Dolly stood out as the epitome of kindness. When Dolly’s sister was no longer able to care for her daughter, Dolly did not hesitate. She brought Winnifred, a beautiful little girl, into our household without so much as a blink. Dolly cared for Winnie as if she was her own daughter.”

Kent makes direct eye contact with me, and I hold back a snort. He has some nerve mentioning my younger sister while pretending I don’t exist. My aunt Dolly took both of us in, but apparently, I don’t warrant acknowledgment anymore.

Speaking of Winnie, I scan the front row for her. Aunt Dolly was a better mother to her than ours ever was. Winnie should be here, but my little sister is nowhere in sight. Worry mounts in my chest. If Winnie isn’t at the funeral, does that mean something’s wrong?

As I look again, I catch the eye of an older Black man in the front row. He stares at me with enough intensity to telepathically start a fire. I shift my stance and ignore him. I don’t recognize the man, but I haven’t been home in ten years. Maybe I’ve forgotten who he is. When I check again, he’s still staring.

Kent finishes his speech and invites others to the podium to say a few words. After several teary anecdotes, the funeral moves on to the final prayer and song. Instead of a hymn, Dolly Parton plays over the loudspeakers. As I duck out of the hall, a slight smile pulls on my lips. Naturally, Dolly wanted Dolly at her funeral.

Uncle Kent and Aunt Dolly’s house brings back memories I wish I could forget, but I force myself to step over the threshold. The wake is in full swing, as I conveniently stopped to check in at my motel room before heading here. That way, hopefully, people won’t notice I’m around.

That wishful thinking goes out the window. I draw attention like a slam poet at a rock concert, and since a modicum of respect is no longer necessary, the locals have no issue throwing me dirty looks and dirtier comments.

“She has no right to show her face here.”

“After what she did? I’m shocked Kent didn’t kill her at the funeral.”

“We don’t want her here. Someone should make her leave.”

I pat Maisy Sellers, the speaker of this last comment and one of my old high school classmates, on the back as I pass her. “Nice to see you too, Maisy. We should catch up.”

“In your dreams,” she spits, flinching away from me.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I challenge. “You barely knew Dolly. Need something to publish in that rag of yours? Had to settle for an obit?”

“The Red River Zine is a respectable news outlet,” Maisy says hotly. “People rely on my journalistic integrity.”

“Sure they do, honey.”

A calloused hand encloses around my upper arm and drags me away. Uncle Kent, owner of said hand, doesn’t speak to me until we’re alone in mine and Winnie’s old shared bedroom. The walls are painted Winnie’s favorite shade of pink and plastered with posters of her favorite boy bands. The closet is full of her sparkly, sequined outfits from high school, including the peppy varsity cheerleading uniform. When I lived here, half the room was painted black and decorated with 80s rock paraphernalia. Now, there’s no indication I ever existed except for the leftover twin bunk beds.

“Get off me.” I shake off Kent and straighten my leather jacket. “Manhandle me again, and you’ll get a face full of fist.”

“Cute,” Kent sneers. “What are you doing here, Cal?”

“Paying my respects.”

“It’s a little late for that. Don’t you think?”

“Aunt Dolly raised me too,” I remind him. “I’m allowed to come to her funeral.”

Kent scoffs and crosses his arms. “After the hell you put us through, you’ve got balls saying that.”

“You sent a mentally ill child to prison to be tortured,” I say. “So you’ve got quite the pair yourself.”

“It was a reform school, and you were never ill,” Kent accuses. “Unless you count compulsive lying as an illness.”

“I didn’t lie!”

Uncle Kent slams his fist against the wall, and a corkboard pinned with Winnie’s Polaroids falls off its hanger and hits the floor with a bang. “Damn it, Cal! We can’t keep having the same conversation. You need to go.”

“I want to know what happened to Aunt Dolly.”

“She died.”

“How?”

“She had an aneurysm.” Kent lowers himself to the bottom bunk. Grief fills his crow’s feet and laugh lines. “It ruptured. She was dead within seconds. We never could have saved her.”

“That’s the story you gave the cops,” I say. “I heard you refused an autopsy. What’s the truth?”

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Don’t make this about you, Cal. My wife died a perfectly, normal death, and if you imply anything else—”

“She was healthy,” I say. “There was no indication that she was ill. This wasn’t an aneurysm, Uncle Kent. It was a—”

“Don’t say it!” Kent stands so abruptly that the bunk beds shake. Spittle flies from his lips, and I dodge away from the splash zone as he waggles a finger in my face. “Don’t you dare say it, Cal. My wife was not killed by a ghost. That’s impossible, and you are a damned liar.”

3

Most children can see ghosts. I don’t have a scientific explanation for this fact, but my guess is that when reality sets in as we get older, we lose our ability to commune with the dead. That’s why you hear stories about children who say creepy things about “the man in the closet” and stare blankly at empty corners of old houses. They’re seeing dead people.

When this happy gift doesn’t go away, such as in my case, you end up labeled a mentally disturbed juvenile delinquent or, as Uncle Kent likes to call it, a liar. Once I turned seven and still urgently informed my parents of the dead kid who lived in our house, I was told to stop telling lies. Three years later, after an accident that left me and Winnie parentless, I was sent to a psychiatric rehabilitation facility for young children, where they supposedly cured me of my trauma.

I lived briefly with Aunt Dolly and Uncle Kent before I experienced another “episode.” This unfortunate incident landed me in prison for teenagers, the place Uncle Kent referred to as reform school. There, I learned to keep my mouth shut about paranormal activity, though the sleepaway school was full of tortured ghosts begging for help. They released me after two years, and I returned to Aunt Dolly and Uncle Kent’s for the rest of my truncated high school career, no less traumatized than before.

All in all, none of these extraordinary measures solved my problems. I see dead people wherever I go. If I’m lucky, they ignore me, and I can go on pretending that I’m normal. If not, I do my best to quickly solve their problem so they leave me alone.

Though I made a vow never to mention ghosts to Aunt Dolly or Uncle Kent, the time has come to reevaluate my decision. Aunt Dolly was not the type of lady to keel over for no reason. She ate organic, exercised regularly, and slept like the dead. I strongly suspect that her cause of death was not a ruptured aneurysm; she must have run into a volatile spirit. People in my family have a history of dying from paranormal attacks because of my stupid decisions.

If Uncle Kent isn’t going to talk, I need to find someone who will. Winnifred James is twenty-one years of perky, cheery perfection. Everyone in Red River loves Winnie as much as they hate me. She was prom queen, valedictorian, and crowned Miss Congeniality at the Red River Summer Splash four years running. She’s also the sole person in the entire world who doesn’t believe I’m crazy.

As I abandon my old bedroom, I run into the same handsome Black man who kept staring at me during the funeral. He tips his hat and opens his mouth to speak, fixing me with that same stern gaze, but I don’t give him time to talk. Whatever he has to say can’t be good, and I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with his beef right now.

After swiping the keys to Uncle Kent’s rusty truck and a full bottle of whiskey from his secret liquor cabinet, I leave the wake. A palpable tide of relief washes over the crowd as I fire up the blue-and-white pickup and peel out of the dirt driveway. In the rearview mirror, a few people give me the finger from Uncle Kent’s front porch. I give it right back.

Main Street is popping with busybodies. They wave, recognizing Kent’s truck. When they spot me in the driver’s seat, their expressions turn sour. I sweep the sidewalks for Winnie’s signature fishtail braid and the streets for her bright blue Jeep Wrangler. When I reach the end of Main Street, I pull a U-turn and do a second sweep without luck. Time to start asking the locals for intel, though the thought makes me gag.

I park outside the local bar, aptly named the Saloon for its Old West roots, and head inside. The smell of hops and cheap cigars engulfs me like a plume of smoke as my eyes adjust from bright sunshine to dingy gloom. Dust floats lazily through the thin lines of sunlight that make it through the slatted shades. Even in the middle of a weekday, the bar is full of greasy-haired, tobacco-spitting regulars.

Winnie isn’t here, but seeing as she struts around town like a living rainbow, someone at the Saloon has probably seen her lately. I approach the first stranger I see, a woman whose frizzy gray hair resembles barbed wire.

“Have you seen Winnie James around?” I ask. “I’m her sister.”

The woman swigs a shot of bourbon. “Her sister?” she says, turning to me. “I’ve heard about you. If you harm a hair on Winnie’s head, the whole town will have you hanged.”

“And I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt Winnie,” I say. “Where is she?”

The woman shrugs. “No idea.”

“Yeah, right. Just tell me.”

“Calamity James!” someone booms. “Is that you?”

Boone Westfall drapes his meaty, tattooed arm around my shoulders and pulls me away from the unfriendly local. With his free hand, he taps the bar and orders two shots.

“I haven’t seen you since—” Boone begins.

“High school.”

“I was gonna say since Nash Adams ended up—”

“Have you seen my sister?” I push Boone’s beefy bicep off of me. “She wasn’t at my aunt’s funeral or the wake. Do you know if she’s okay?”

Boone’s seedy, mud-brown eyes travel up and down my body. “She’s around somewhere. Damn, you got hot. You wanna get out of here?”

“Funny,” I say. “You didn’t pay me any attention in high school.”

“No one wants to sleep with the weird girl,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Besides, Nash punched any guy who looked at you, and I’m too pretty to get punched. Sorry about your aunt, by the way. She was a nice lady.”

“What do you know about her?”

“I help Kent around the farm,” Boone says. “Dolly brought us lemonade and lunch every day. Chicken salad sandwiches. I’m the one who found her body.”

My blood stiffens in my veins. “You found her?”

“Yeah.”

Pasting on a smile, I take Boone’s shirt and pull him closer. “You know, all this grief is really getting to me.”

Boon’s sausage-like fingers travel to my waist. “I can help you process that if you want.”

I push him into the bathroom and check the stalls to make sure we’re alone. When Boone’s hot mouth makes contact with my neck, I shove him against the wall.

“You know, I like it rough,” he says. He reaches for me again, and I flick a switchblade from my pocket. Boone freezes, eyeing the sharp knife with uncertainty. “Not that rough.”

I hold the knife at his chest. “What really happened to Aunt Dolly?”

“She died of an aneurysm. I thought you knew that.”

“That’s the story Uncle Kent is telling everyone,” I say. “What did you see?”

Boone lifts his hands as the switchblade nears the patch of skin peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt. “I heard screaming, so I ran and called the sheriff. When I got to your aunt, she was already dead.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know.”

I press the knife to his throat and make the tiniest knick.

“Ow! She died at your old house, Cal!”

“At my parents’ place?” I say. “Show me where.”

“I’m not going back there.”

“Yes, you are. You’re in this with me. No one’s going to save you.”

The door bangs open with enough force to knock over a house, and all five feet and three inches of whoop-ass, Winnifred James, storms into the bathroom, drawing a switch knife identical to mine.

“Except his girlfriend!”

Boone ducks out of the way as Winnie pins me against the wall and grips her knife with the exact same style as me—just the way Daddy taught us. I could defend myself, but something says knocking my little sister to the bathroom floor won’t get me the warm hug I’ve been missing for years.

“What?” I say as the flat side of her cold knife kisses my throat. “No welcome wagon?”

Winnie’s golden-brown eyes widen as she recognizes me. “Calamity?”

“What are you doing in town?” Winnie demands as she slides under the bar and pours a beer for me. “Besides my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t going to do Boone,” I say. The man-child in question slinks toward the pool tables like a puppy with a tucked tail. “I was trying to find out what happened to Aunt Dolly. Oh, and you can do better.”

“It’s a small town, and I’ve swiped through all my Tinder options.”

She moves down the bar to help another local, wearing a Saloon employee shirt tied above the belly button, so everyone has a clear view of her flat, tanned stomach. When she serves a whiskey neat with her classic, mind-blowing smile, the grumpy customer straightens up and attempts a polite grin. Another guy leaves ten extra dollars as Winnie cashes him out.

“Keep the change, darlin’,” he tells Winnie with a wink.

She pockets the bill. “You’re too good to me, Stan.”

“You work here?” I ask. “Win, you gotta get out of this craphole of a town. You can’t waste your brains and good looks as a barmaid.”

“I have a college degree,” she reminds me. “I can leave Red River whenever I want.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Winnie comes around to my side of the bar and smacks my arm. “Come here, jerk.” She hugs me tightly and doesn’t let go. “It’s been four years since I last saw you. You couldn’t have told me you were coming?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say. “Then I heard about Dolly. Why weren’t you at the funeral?”

Winnie’s eyes grow misty. “I couldn’t handle it. First Mom, then Nash, now Aunt Dolly? I’ve had enough death for a lifetime. I’ll pay my respects when the rest of Red River isn’t around to watch me cry.”

“Do you believe Uncle Kent?” I ask. “About the way Aunt Dolly died?”

“Why?” she says, going still. “Have you seen her?”

She means Dolly’s ghost. I shake my head. “No, but I’m worried she was killed by a vengeful spirit meant for me. It’s happened before.”

Winnie squeezes my forearm reassuringly. “No one’s died mysteriously in Red River since you left. I don’t think Aunt Dolly’s death had anything to do with you.”

Sunlight pours across the dusty bar floor as someone new comes in. The bulky silhouette solidifies, and I recognize the Black man from the funeral and the wake. He catches my eye but doesn’t approach. Instead, he sits at the end of the bar and watches me without ordering anything from Winnie. The locals greet him with amiable respect, but he doesn’t engage in conversation with anyone. He nods politely to those who pass and continues observing me like a bird watcher with a penchant for my breed of rare vulture.

“Okay, I’ve had enough,” I say, getting off my bar stool.

“What are you doing?” Winnie asks as I head toward the man. “Where are you going, Cal?”

I lean against the bar, close enough to the man to make him uncomfortable with my presence. “Listen, mister. If you’re gonna stare that hard, you’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

Winnie hurries toward us. “Hi, Sheriff Miller,” she says with a pointed look that clearly means, Shut up, Cal. “What can I get you?”

“Water’s fine, Winnie.” Sheriff Miller moves over to make room for me. “Take a seat, Calamity.”

Winnie’s eyebrows raise, warning me not to walk away from this request. Gritting my teeth, I take the stool next to the sheriff. This might be worse than being stuck on a bus for twenty straight hours.

The sheriff offers me his hand. “I apologize for staring. I had to make sure I knew who I was talking to. It is Calamity James, right? Ford James’s granddaughter?”

“Cal,” I mutter, shaking his hand. “Everyone calls me Cal.”

“Everyone calls me Sheriff Miller,” he jokes. “But you can call me Dean. I’m glad we met. I have a request for you.”

I shift my weight on the stool. “What kind of request?”

“I need your help with a case,” he says. “A woman from town went missing five days ago, and my department hasn’t been able to find her. I thought you might be able to shed some light on the situation.”

I snort, nearly shooting snot into my beer glass. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I am not.”

“I’m a delinquent,” I remind him. “Not a detective. Surely, you’ve heard about my record.”

“Juvenile records are expunged five years after you finish your time in reform school,” Sheriff Miller informs me. “That’s long past for you.”

“Sure, my juvenile record.”

“You got a current one?”

I get up, but Sheriff Miller keeps talking.

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” he says to my back. “I need someone like you on this case. You’re the only one I can count on.”

“Sorry, Sheriff,” I say. “It’s been a long time since anyone could count on me.”

4

There’s one motel in Red River, and it’s no place for the rich, famous, familial, or modest. Half of the motel’s guests are businessmen from out of town, and the other half are sex workers hired by those businessmen. Red River’s tourism industry is alive and well, but no one ever stops here overnight. Our town is a one-and-done situation. You don’t need more than a day to absorb its seedy history and quaint existence.

The AC unit buzzes and snaps like it’s a second away from starting an electrical fire. The air blows semi-warm and fills the drab room with the scent of stale cigarette smoke. There’s a blotchy stain on the dark green carpet that I hope isn’t blood or something worse. The toilet takes ten minutes to swallow anything you drop in it regardless of consistency, and the blankets are scratchier than Uncle Kent’s five o’clock shadow. One night is more than enough.

But after I shoulder Mara’s leather jacket and pack my meager belongings, I tell the bug-eyed lady at the check-in desk that I might be staying in Red River for a while longer. Then I take Kent’s truck—which he hasn’t reported stolen yet—into the hills until the land flattens out again. As I drive over a familiar ridge, the old homestead comes into view.

My childhood house, a two-story ranch home that looks like it was built at the turn of the century, sits on several acres of dry, parched land. A long time ago, the barn held chickens and horses. My grandfather and his father, so on and so forth, used to grow and sell hay. Now, the house and the barn are as dried and cracked as the earth around them.

I have few fond memories of this place. Most of them involve Winnie, not my parents. The first time she came home, wrapped in a silky green baby blanket. The time we snuck out in the middle of the night to watch a meteor shower from the barn roof. The time we stole change from Dad’s pockets to pay for a slice of pizza in town. Almost every lousy idea was mine, and when we inevitably got caught, I was the one who paid the price.

I park the truck and let myself into the house. After all these years, it still smells faintly of Mama’s jasmine perfume. The windows are bashed in, and half the walls are covered in mildew, but the foundation and layout trigger childhood recollections: my parents screaming at each other for petty reasons, Winnie falling down the steps and hitting her head after I accidentally tripped her on the second floor, and Nash Adams sneaking into my bedroom window because he liked my house better than his own.

Here’s the foyer where my father announced he was leaving. He packed his bags while my mother begged him not to go. Winnie and I stood at the top of the steps and watched. She cried, pleading, “Daddy, don’t leave.” I said nothing, and when he looked at me with his hand on the doorknob, I nodded as if to say, Might as well, Daddy. You’re already gone to me.

In the corridor outside the master bedroom, I remember the violent attack that led to Mama’s lasting coma less than a year later. Winnie and I say she’s dead because it’s easier to face than the truth. In a long-term care facility near Denver, Mama lies in a vegetative state, unable to move, speak, or care for herself. We lost her when I was ten years old. Winnie was only six. It’s my fault, but I don’t like to think about it.

Every horrible thing that happened on this land always seemed to be my fault. When I was seventeen, Nash Adams picked me up from Aunt Dolly and Uncle Kent’s house in the middle of the night, and we drove out here to be alone. When the sun came up, Nash was dead, and the police arrested me for murder. I don’t like to think about that either.

The urge to run fills my chest, but I stick around long enough to comb the house for clues. If Boone’s right and Aunt Dolly’s death wasn’t due to a ruptured aneurysm, then there must be evidence of the truth around here somewhere. But the house has been undisturbed for years. The layer of dust that coats every surface is equally thick throughout, and there are no signs of struggle or a break-in. Maybe Boone was yanking my chain.

With nothing but tragedy at the old house, I decide to leave. A small, cold hand slips into mine by the door, and the familiar chill of a nearby ghost fills my being. A little boy with orb-like eyes and disheveled curly hair has appeared by my side, sucking his thumb and peering up at me with familiar curiosity. He’s no more than four years old.

“I know you,” I say, kneeling to his level. “You were my first one.”

The boy, dead as dead can be, nods.

“Why are you still here?”

He shrugs.

“I tried to help you,” I tell him. “But you never crossed over.”

The boy gazes vacantly at me. He’s pretty well-preserved, considering he’s been haunting this house for longer than I’ve been alive. Normally, ghosts who don’t cross over immediately after their deaths deteriorate as the years go by. They begin to show signs of decay as if their ghostly image reflects the state of their actual body.

I have a hunch as to why this happens. The ghosts who don’t decay have no desire to move on to whatever world exists beyond this one. They have come to peace with their death, and they don’t mind hanging out with us living folk. The ghosts who do decay want to cross over, but something is keeping them here. Usually, they’ve died too early, their death was a homicide, or they need to pass on a message to someone alive before they cross over.

If a ghost recruits me to do their bidding, I can deal with the first and third problems, but anyone who’s been murdered needs to contact their local authorities.

“Are you okay?” I ask the boy. “Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head and gives my hand a squeeze as if to reassure me. It’s almost like, after all these years, he only appeared to welcome me home.

Dusk settles on Red River like a dusty pink blanket as I head into town for a bite to eat. A gaggle of men in fishing shirts and camouflage caps smokes and drinks beer in the diner’s parking lot. As I pass them, I recognize a few familiar faces and pull my hat low to avoid being noticed. It doesn’t do the trick.

“Is that you, Calamity James?”

Trip Jones hops off his tailgate and lazily ambles toward me. His good looks have receded since high school, as has his hairline. The washed-up tight end finishes his beer and smashes the can on his head.

“It is you,” he says. “Man, we got bones to pick with you, Cal.”

Two others—Dane Grecko and Connor Bassett—appear behind Trip. A long time ago, we were all in the same grade. While Trip, Dane, and Connor played varsity football and hooked up with the popular girls every Friday night, I robbed the liquor store. But what the boys didn’t want their cheerleading girls to know was that they liked hooking up with me the most.

“Oh, goody,” I say dryly. “It’s the whole senior class. Excuse me, boys. I’m just here for dinner.”

Connor blocks the path to the diner. “Leaving so soon, Cal? Let’s catch up.”

“No, thanks.”

“Connor’s right,” Dane chimes in. “We haven’t seen you since they found Nash on your mama and daddy’s property. It’s about time you answered to us.”

“I don’t have to answer to anyone,” I say. “Least of all, you morons. Let me pass.”

Connor steps closer, looming over me. “You killed Nash.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, really? Tell that to your mama.”

“Get out of my way, Connor.”

The trio encroaches on my personal bubble, cutting off any escape routes. Onlookers watch from the diner windows and across the street, but no one intervenes. This is between my high school classmates and me.

“You really thought you could murder our best friend and run away?” Dane hisses. “Nash was our star player. Quarterback. Prom King. He would’ve been president if you let him live that long.”

“But you didn’t,” says Trip. “Nash is dead, and you got away. You made a mistake coming back to Red River, Cal.”

They jump me before I can reply. Thankfully, I’ve been in the middle of three men before, and not in a sexy way. I drop low, causing the boys to knock their heads together, and escape through the gap between Trip and Dane’s legs.

Connor recovers first and uses the tassels on my leather jacket like horse reins. He yanks me back into their circle, and Dane lands the first punch to my stomach. I tighten my abs at the last second, but his knuckles still knock the wind out of me.

Bracing against Connor, I lift my legs and kick Dane in the chest with both feet. The air exits his body like his lungs are popped balloons, and his low back slams against the open tailgate of his truck.

Connor locks his arm around my neck. I toss my elbow back and catch his eye. He grunts but doesn’t let go. I bite down on his arm, making sure to pull the skin away from the muscle. He howls with pain and releases me. Trip closes in, but he hesitates. His anxiety radiates off of him like skunk spray. Though he talks a big game, he has no follow-through—just like in high school.

Grinning, I lunge at Trip. He yelps, gets in his truck, and peels out of the parking lot, leaving Connor and Dane to fend for themselves.

Dane hasn’t recovered from the blow to his low back, but Connor is ready for round two. He’s stronger and craftier than the other boys, dodging my first punch and ducking below the second. When he tackles me to the ground, I laugh. My grappling skills are far better than my boxing.

Connor, who never wrestled a day in his life, tries to pin me with his bodyweight. Gravel scratches my elbows as I maneuver him into position for an armbar. When I threaten to break his elbow, he cries out.

“Wait!” he says. “I’m getting married. We’re taking engagement pictures tomorrow. If I have a broken arm, my fiancée will kill me.”

I force his arm a little farther. “Should’ve thought of that before you decided to beat me up, eh?”

“Cal, please!”

I release his arm and roll to my feet. Connor stumbles up from the pavement. His fiancée will be pissed anyway since his eye is already swelling from the elbow hit he took earlier.

“Don’t mess with me again,” I warn him. “Or you’ll end up with way more problems than a broken arm and an angry fiancée.”

The fight leaves me without an appetite, so I skip dinner and track down Winnie’s apartment above the Saloon. She’s not home from her shift at the bar, but it’s not hard to pick the lock on her door and let myself in. I make a mental note to install a better lock for her before I leave town.

The studio apartment is adorably quaint. Winnie’s essence is sewn into every detail, from the lacy curtains and embroidered bedspread to the scents of cinnamon and vanilla that radiate from my sister’s pores at all times. From the tall windows, I can see all the way to the farmer’s market at the end of Main Street.

The apartment is pristine and organized except for the corner near her desk. She has filing boxes piled four and five high. The desk is completely covered in textbooks, stacks of research articles, and Winnie’s handwritten notes. Out of curiosity, I pick up the first article and begin reading.

Winnie arrives home, humming happily. When she spots me, she sighs and says, “How’d you get in?”

“Picked the lock. Winnie, what is this?”

She eyes the article in my hand. “It’s research.”

“It’s about my condition.” I rifle through the rest of the materials on her desk, noticing a pattern. “Winnie, these are all about—”

“The ability to see the dead,” she finishes for me. “I’ve been researching it, trying to figure out if it’s something you can cure. Some people think it’s caused by a genetic mutation. Others believe it comes from having a near-death experience. Some people have been cured before. If you just—”

“Stop,” I say sharply. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what?”

“You’re supposed to be normal,” I shout. “This obsession isn’t normal.”

Winnie snatches away the psychology textbook that I’m holding. “I’m trying to help you, Cal. If I solve your problem, you can come back to Red River.”

“I’m never coming back to Red River,” I say. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and this time, you’re coming with me. Pack a bag. I’m getting you out of this hick town.”

“No way! I’m not going anywhere.”

“Winnie, a bunch of idiots attacked me in a parking lot half an hour ago,” I say. “I don’t belong here, and neither do you. We can do better. We can move to Mallorca! You love the beach.”

Winnie stomps her foot. “No, Cal. I’ve lived in your shadow long enough.”

“I’m leaving with or without you.”

“Then go,” she says. “You always leave anyway. Just like Daddy.”

The words send a sharp stab of pain through my heart. Winnie crosses her arms, silently daring me to stay, but I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I run out of her apartment, down the stairs, and into the Saloon, where the last thing I see before blacking out is a baby-faced cop with long red hair.

5

When I wake, my jaw is sore from sleeping on the stone bench in the holding cell at the local sheriff’s department. The same face from the Saloon last night is the first one I see this morning. The warm brown eyes, soft cheeks, and stern expression belong to a tall, stout woman in the unflattering, misshapen khaki pants of the Red River Sheriff’s Department. She sits behind the desk and examines a case file as her lower lip juts out in a pronounced pout. Her red hair is braided more tightly than her tense aura. Oh, and she has a dead friend.

The cop’s translucent buddy is a little girl with long, dark hair. She sucks her thumb and cradles a teddy bear, leaning against the cop’s outer thigh. The cop shivers and scratches her leg, completely unaware of her expired companion. There’s gotta be a story there.

“Hey,” I call through the cell bars. “I’m ready for parole. Let me out of here.”

The deputy rearranges her expression to practice her bad cop face, adjusts her belt, and brings a clipboard to the holding cell. “Full name?”

“Everyone knows me. You must be new in town, Gingersnap.”

“It’s Teddy.” She immediately changes her mind. “Officer Burke, to you.”

“All right, Teddy.” I stick my face between the bars. “Full name is Calamity Wisdom James.”

Her lips twist into a wry grin. “Yeah, right. What’s your real name?”

“That is my real name.”

“Nice try.” She tosses the clipboard aside. “Guess you’re trapped in there until you give me the truth.”

“Don’t you have my wallet?” I say. “Or did someone else empty my pockets before you dragged me in here for no reason? Seriously, check my ID.”

Officer Burke slumps behind her desk again. The little girl sits on the floor, props her chin in her hands, and gazes up at the deputy with a long face. Is she Officer Burke’s daughter? A sister, maybe? Whoever she is, she refuses to leave the cop’s side.

“I dragged you in here because you were making a fool of yourself at the Saloon last night,” Officer Burke says. “I could charge you with public intoxication and indecency.”

“You’re allowed to be intoxicated at a bar. One might say it’s encouraged.”

“You are not allowed to pee on the curb outside of the bar,” Officer Burke counters as she wearily reviews a stack of paperwork. “Or vandalize the jukebox when it doesn’t play the song you want. Or climb on the bar, remove your shirt, and declare the place a new strip joint.”

“Wow, I was busy last night, eh?”

Officer Burke surveys me with an expression as bland as raw chicken. “Do you think this is funny?”

“It depends. What song was playing on the jukebox?”

“Are you going to tell me your name or not?”

“I already did.”

“Your real name.”

“Who’s on first, what’s on second, I don’t know is on third.”

“Stop it,” she snaps.

“My name is Cal James,” I try again. “If you don’t believe me, call my sister. I get one phone call, right?”

Officer Burke picks up the desk phone. “Who’s your sister?”

“Winnifred James.”

She glances up. “From the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Winnie James is your sister?”

“Are you deaf, or is your processing chip malfunctioning?” I ask. “Yes, Winnie James is my sister. Can you call her to get me out or what?”

As if summoned by the sound of her name, Winnie pushes through the police station’s clear doors. Since it’s her day off, her shimmering, golden-brown hair is free of its usual fishtail and floats delicately around her shoulders like a caramel waterfall. Ethereal as ever, she marches right toward the holding cell.

“How could you get arrested on your first night back in town?” she demands. “Why can’t you stay out of trouble for five minutes?”

“Poor genetics?” I say. “How did you know I was here?”

“The Saloon’s owner told me,” Winnie says. “Everyone’s talking about your behavior last night.”

Officer Burke clears her throat and offers her hand to Winnie. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I’m Teddy Burke. You must be Winnie James. Miss Congeniality, right?”

“That’s just a silly town thing,” Winnie says, blushing.

“So, the good girl thing is just an act?” Burke asks.

“Winnie’s as good as they come,” I say. “Teddy Bear, let me out.”

Winnie can’t tear her gaze from Officer Burke’s chocolatey eyes. “I suppose I’ll post bail for Cal, though she doesn’t deserve it.”

“That’s not necessary,” Officer Burke says. “She can go as long as she’s sobered up.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously? You tortured me for nothing?”

Officer Burke smirks as she unlocks the holding cell.

“Thanks for getting her out of trouble,” Winnie tells the deputy. She scoots me behind her as if to hide me away. “I owe you one.”

“How about a coffee?” Officer Burke offers. “I get off at four.”

Winnie’s cheeks turn pink as she stutters, “Oh, I can’t. I have plans. With a boy—a man. My boyfriend. I’m dating someone. I’m not available.”

“Are you having a stroke?” I mutter in Winnie’s ear.

“No worries.” Officer Burke hands Winnie her business card. “Some other time, then.”

I steer Winnie away from Officer Burke and into the hallway. She gazes moony-eyed over my shoulder, having completely forgotten her indignance over my arrest. I snap my fingers for her attention.

“Are we okay?” I ask. “After last night, I’m surprised you came to my rescue.”

Winnie’s starry expression fades, and she goes back to the stern, tight-lipped face she always uses when she looks at me. “Just because we had an argument doesn’t mean I’m going to renounce you as my sister. We made a pact, remember?”

“I remember, but considering I don’t often uphold my end of the bargain, I wouldn’t expect you to, either.”

“Well, you’re mistaken,” Winnie huffs. “I don’t break my promises.”

“On that note, I want you to stop looking into my condition,” I say, glancing toward the sheriff’s office in case of eavesdroppers. “It’s none of your business, and I don’t need answers. Or a cure.”

“It is my business,” she says. “Because it makes you break your promise to me.”

“Digging into my problems is only going to create trouble for you,” I remind her. “Look at my past. I’ve been in juvie and committed to psych wards. Everyone thinks I’m crazy. You don’t want to associate yourself with that.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” I say. “Getting out of Red River would be better for both of us, but I can understand if you don’t want to come with me.”

Winnie rubs my shoulders then plays with my jacket tassels. “Red River is my home, Cal. It’s yours, too. You can’t leave your past here. It will follow you wherever you go.”

The bell over the door chimes like a sad parakeet as Sheriff Dean Miller reports for his daily duty. Unlike Officer Burke, he fills out the khaki pants and navy button-up shirt with heavy muscle and a little bit of fat. To top off his lawman look, he wears a white stetson as if he pulled up to the sheriff’s office on his pony.

“Is your steed waiting outside, Sheriff Miller?” I ask in an exaggerated imitation of an old Western accent. “I hear there’s a duel at the watering hole ‘round noon.”

“Calamity,” Winnie hisses in shock.

Miller takes off his hat and drops it on my head. It falls over my eyes, and as I scramble to see again, Miller shoves me. Groping blindly for something to hold on to, I grab Winnie’s shirt to steady myself. I lift the sheriff’s stetson and see him grinning at me.

“Come on inside,” Miller says, patting my shoulder with enough force to sink a fence post into dry earth. “I need to talk to you.”

“Actually, Winnie and I have plans for breakfast.” I rub my stomach. “Gotta soak up last night’s booze. You know what I’m saying?”

“Winnie doesn’t mind waiting. Do you, Miss James?”

“Take her,” Winnie says. “She could use a good talking-to.”

“That’s settled. Come on, Cal.”

Glaring at my little sister, I follow the sheriff back inside the cop shop. Officer Burke lounges with her boots on the desk, but when she spots Dean Miller, she shoots to her feet and smooths her collar, startling the dead girl with the teddy bear.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Burke says. “I’m working on today’s papers. I’m only halfway through, but I can probably have these finished by noon. I noticed Matty’s out sick today. If you need an officer in the field, I’m happy to jump in.”

“Sit down, Burke,” Miller barks, and the deputy obeys. He drops a thick pile of files on her desk. “These need to be digitized, and don’t ask about working in the field again. You know the drill. You’re on desk duty until I say you’re not.”

“Yes, sir,” Officer Burke mutters.

Sniggering, I lean over Officer Burke’s desk. “You must’ve done something horrible to get stuck on desk duty until further notice.”

She fixes me with an empty-eyed smile. “Back so soon, Cal? You must really like it here. I’d be happy to show you to your cell.”

Miller snaps his fingers. “Cut the petty chitchat. Burke, get back to work. James, move your ass into my office.”

Like scolded children, Burke and I hasten to fulfill the sheriff’s requests. Miller herds me into his office. It’s bigger than Winnie’s apartment, complete with a minifridge, framed artwork and Red River memorabilia, and a floral print couch big enough to sleep on.

“So this is what our tax dollars are paying for?” I ask Miller, flopping onto the couch. “Your home away from home?”

“As if you pay taxes.” Miller settles into the chair behind his desk with a tired groan. “Have you thought about my request?”

“This again?” I ask. “I thought you were going to charge me for last night’s incident.”

“What happened last night?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Miller goes to the storage cabinet behind his desk and unearths a thin file. “This is everything we have on Loretta Gunn. It’s not much, which is one of the reasons I need you on this case.”

“Did I stutter when we last spoke?” I say. “I’m not a detective. I’m not even a cop. I can’t do this job for you, but the eager rookie sitting on her ass in the bullpen seems like she would happily help.”

“Burke’s on desk duty for a reason.” Miller slaps my knee with the file, forcing me to sit up. “I believe you have unique qualifications that might help me solve this case.”

“I am uniquely qualified in two subjects,” I tell him. “Drinking and one other thing.”

“Is that other thing police work?”

“It most certainly is not.”

Miller removes another file, three times as thick as Loretta Gunn’s, from the cabinet. “This is your file. Let’s see what we got here.” He flips through the first few pages. “Some concerned notes from various psychologists and psychiatrists about your behavior, a report for larceny, and a warrant for a recent breaking and entering incident that apparently got violent. Did you punch a cop?”

Nerves bundle like knots in my stomach. “That was a misunderstanding.”

Miller squints at another page in my file. “What about the armored car robbery? Was that a misunderstanding too?”

“I wasn’t convicted for any of those crimes.”

“Yes, I understand you bribed the officers and witnesses involved with your second talent,” Miller says. “I can assure you that won’t work on me. I’m a married man.”

“No ring, though.”

“Don’t pry,” he scolds. “It’s unbecoming of you. Are you going to work this case with me or not?”

“Not.”

He picks up the phone. “You leave me no choice, then. Let’s see what this warrant is all about.”

“Whoa!” I reach across his desk and slam the phone down. “Are you serious? You’re blackmailing me into working with you?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Something tells me you don’t have a problem with illegalities.” Miller offers me Loretta Gunn’s case file. “Look through the information. If you come to the office tomorrow morning and agree to work with me, I’ll see about clearing your name. If you don’t show, I’ll put in a call to the big guys. You’ll be responsible for fines and probably jail time. It’s your choice.”

Miller’s ultimatum isn’t much of one. If I stick around, he’s not guaranteed to wipe my dicey history clean. If I leave Red River as soon as possible, the “big guys” will have one hell of a time tracking me down. I’ve been running from the law practically my whole life. Miller’s a joke if he thinks I’m going to stop now.

There is one thing I have to do before leaving Red River in the dust. If I don’t say goodbye to Winnie, she’ll never forgive me. She didn’t wait for me outside the sheriff’s department, so after packing my stuff at the hotel, I head to Uncle Kent and Aunt Dolly’s house. I have to return Kent’s truck anyway.

My senses tingle as soon as I turn into the driveway. Something’s wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on what. I turn off the truck and wait, scanning the front porch for signs of trouble. Then I see it; the front door is slightly ajar.

I take the revolver that Kent keeps in his glove box. I don’t like guns, and I’d rather not touch one if I can help it, but some situations are less scary when you have a firearm in hand. Creeping from the truck, I inch up the creaky porch and into the house. It’s deadly quiet.

Someone groans in pain. I dash to the kitchen where Uncle Kent is lying in a pool of his own blood.

6

“Uncle Kent!”

I press two fingers to his neck and find a steady, beating pulse. The blood is coming from an impressive gash on his forehead and another on his shoulder. Both are superficial, not deep enough to cause permanent damage, but he’ll need stitches regardless. I’m most worried about the bump on his head, which is likely indicative of a concussion or something more serious.

“Cal,” he coughs, spraying bloody phlegm across my jacket. “Make sure it’s gone.”

Though I have no idea what he’s talking about, I take the revolver for a quick tour around the house. The place is silent and empty. Whoever attacked Kent is long gone, so I slip the gun into my belt and return to my uncle.

“Hold still,” I order as he attempts to roll on his side. “You’re making it worse.”

“Is it gone?”

“No one’s here, Uncle Kent. Can you tell me what happened?”

He pats his chest and coughs again, making me wonder if he has fluid in his lungs that isn’t supposed to be there. I grab a throw pillow from the living room and slip it under his head. As I do so, I notice a mark etched behind his left ear: a delicate, cursive L with extra emphasis on the loops. The calligraphed scratch has already scabbed over, which means it’s either an older wound or it’s been delivered by someone not of this earth.

I’ve seen more than my fair share of ghostly attacks. Spirits turn violent or vengeful more often than you think. When they do, they gain the ability to touch all living beings versus just the ones with my happy power. As a general rule, they use this ability to cause harm. Sometimes, as I’ve come to learn, that harm is fatal.

As a rule, when a vengeful ghost attacks someone, they knowingly or unknowingly leave a mark on their victim. Once, I encountered a jeweler after two men robbed her store and left her for dead. Two days later, both men and the jeweler’s cheating husband were found murdered. Each man bore a lipstick kiss on his right cheek. The police were positive that the jeweler was the culprit, but how could she have killed the men when she was already dead? The case was never solved. Not officially, at least.

After dialing 911, I work on keeping Uncle Kent awake and alert. If he does have a concussion, I don’t want him to fall asleep. He might never wake up, and then Red River would blame me for yet another death in the family.

“Stay with me, Uncle Kent.” Reluctantly, I take his calloused hand, so he knows I’m here. “I’m right here. It’s Calamity.”

“Is it gone?” he says again. His eyes have begun to glaze over.

“It’s gone,” I say. “You’re safe. What was it? What attacked you?”

Uncle Kent shakes his head. “I’m going crazy. That couldn’t have happened.”

“Kent, tell me what happened.”

“I was heading outside to work,” Kent finally manages. “Something attacked me. I couldn’t see or hear anything. I tried to hit back, but I got nothing but air. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, half-conscious. Then you came in.”

“You didn’t see anyone?”

“No, but someone must have been there. Someone attacked me.” He pounds his chest again, and his pupils grow larger. “Cal, who was it?”

Someone dead, that’s for sure. I don’t bother saying this to Uncle Kent. He won’t believe me anyway. As it is, he’s already making excuses to explain the bizarre attack.

“I must’ve hurt my head,” he says, touching the gash on his head. His fingers come away bloody. “I was seeing things.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Uncle Kent.” When I hear the ambulance in the front yard, I holler for the paramedics to find us. “We’re in here!”

As the emergency services team secures Uncle Kent’s neck and loads him onto a backboard, a flash flood of concern nearly knocks me off my feet, but not for Kent.

“Uncle Kent, where’s Winnie?” I ask, following the paramedics as they take him to the ambulance. “Was she at the house when you were attacked?”

Uncle Kent tries to shake his head, but the neck brace keeps him firmly in place. “She had a date with Boone today.”

“Where?” I say. “She’ll want to know you’re okay.”

“They went hiking,” Kent replies. “I think he’s going to propose to her.”

“Heaven help us,” I mutter.

The paramedics lift Kent into the back of the rig then pile in. One of them, a guy with a squirrelly nose and thick red hair, says to me, “You can meet us at the hospital if you like.”

“I have to find my sister,” I tell him. “Besides, I don’t do well in hospitals.”

First, Aunt Dolly. Now, Uncle Kent. If a vengeful ghost is targeting my family members, Winnie is in trouble. Aunt Dolly’s death was a huge blow, and if Uncle Kent dies too, I won’t be happy about it. Losing Winnie, however, would be like taking a battering ram to my chest. I can’t imagine a world where my sister doesn’t exist.

I need to get to Winnie as soon as possible, but the problem is I’m not much of a hiker. Red River is surrounded by miles of mountains and forests. The people who live here are all about the great outdoors. They declare their love for hiking, biking, and swimming through vigorous purchasing of sporting equipment and a variety of ugly bumper stickers. I, conversely, got bit by a tick once and decided never to hike again.

On the upside, Boone also lacks the propensity for hiking. Though he can bring a calf to its knees in seconds, he’s no use past the farm’s fences or outside the rodeo circuit. With Boone in tow, Winnie is likely to stick to the simplest hiking path, narrowing my search grid to Hummingbird Way, the easiest route up the mountain.

Aunt Dolly’s hiking boots still sit in the mud tray by the front door. Bless her heart, we have the same shoe size. I kick off my biker boots and slip my feet into Dolly’s shoes. Then I swap my leather jacket for a long-sleeved UV shirt hanging by the door and steal one of Kent’s several baseball hats to protect my face from the sun. Though it’s not quite summer yet, it’s getting too hot to be outside without adequate equipment.

The entrance to Hummingbird Way, just outside of town, is framed by thick trees and brambly vines. Winnie’s Jeep is parked in the dirt lot. So far, so good.

Wildflowers sprout along the wide path, luring hikers into the forest’s depths. Frowning, I pop my shirt collar to stop any bugs from jumping in and begin my journey upward. After a short distance, the path branches into three. The leftward route snakes slowly upward and eventually passes through a wide field of flowers where hummingbirds like to gather, hence the path’s moniker. The right pathway leads to an intermediate hiking trail that’s also popular with mountain bikers. If I go that way, I’m likely to get run over by an overeager seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to use his gear shifts.

Straight ahead, the path steepens and heads directly to the tallest viewing platform on this side of the mountain. A beat-up wooden sign warns potential hikers of this route’s pitfalls: it’s unmaintained by the county, prone to rock falling and landslides, and features elements that even experienced hikers might find challenging to scale. It’s the fastest way to reach Winnie, but if I die on the way up, I won’t be able to save my sister. Agitated, I take Hummingbird’s Way and break into a jog.

Despite the subtle incline, my quads begin to burn after ten minutes or so. When the trees thin out, the sun beats on the back of my neck. I seek shadows wherever I can, enjoying a few seconds of coolness before returning to the heat. After a while, I stop glancing up the mountain to check my progress because every time I do, it seems like the viewing platform isn’t getting any closer.

When something enormous crashes through the trees, I don’t take any chances, leaping off the path to hide behind a bush. In this area, we’re no strangers to bears, and I’m not about to become a midday slap fest to some hungry mama who’s ready to swat at anything to defend her cubs. Holding my breath, I watch the trees shake until the “bear” emerges. It’s Boone.

He looks like hell. His face and arms are scratched from barrelling through branches, and his hair is covered in leaves and cobwebs. With round, panicked eyes, he stumbled down Hummingbird Way toward my position, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Boone!”

When I step out from behind the bush, Boone claps a hand to his chest and falls right over. Regaining his footing, he staggers toward me.

“Cal,” he gasps. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“That’s not a reaction I get every day. Where’s my sister?”

Boone gulps and points up the hill. “She’s up there. I’m sorry. I couldn’t—I had to get out of there.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He plants his hands on his knees and heaves for breath. “All of a sudden, something was attacking us. I think it was a bear.”

“You left Winnie alone with a bear?”

Panting, he jogs past me. “I gotta go. I’m sorry. You should call animal services or something.”

Gritting my teeth at Boone’s stupidity, I step off the path and follow the trail of broken branches and upturned earth that he’s left behind. My feet grow heavier with every step, but I don’t stop. If I stop, Winnie could die.

I doubt the attacker was a bear, but I mentally prepare myself to find my sister ripped to shreds. Some people survive bear attacks. Some people survive ghost attacks. The statistics aren’t exactly recorded on the latter, but I’m betting Winnie would have a better chance of squaring off against a bear than a ghost. Unlike Boone, she knows not to run and scream like an idiot in the presence of intimidating wildlife.

On the other side of Boone’s manmade route, Hummingbird Way ends at one of the viewing platforms that overlook Red River. At first, I don’t see Winnie, and my heart flutters with another rush of panic. Then, I spot her huddled between a boulder and the barrier that prevents people from falling or jumping off the platform. Over Winnie’s head, a ghost—barely visible in the glistening sunlight—attempts to force my sister from her hiding spot.

A deluge of adrenaline hits my bloodstream, and I forget how tired and sore I am from jogging up the path. I close the distance between me and the ghost, leap from the boulder, and tackle the spirit out of midair. She’s a thin little thing, but that doesn’t mean much in the afterlife. Ghostly strength depends on the intensity of the ghost’s grudge. A higher grudge level equals heavyweight boxer abilities.

This woman—whose blunt haircut and dainty cardigan look vaguely familiar—has enough leftover animosity to put some power behind her punches. As we roll across the viewing platform, she lands two uppercuts to my rib cage. I anticipate the third and fourth, blocking both blows before disentangling myself from the ghost.

When she steps in again, I let her fist slip past me before hitting her with a double jab to the face and a heavy hook to the body. She reacts like a living human would, doubling over as imaginary breath leaves her chest. When she looks up, I put my hands up in the guard position, readying myself for another round. To my surprise, the ghost vanishes. She wasn’t expecting this kind of fight.

“Winnie!”

I run to my little sister and pry her from between the boulder and the barricade. Shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, she throws herself into my arms. From what I can tell, she’s unharmed.

“Cal,” she whispers. “I knew you would come.”

7

Winnie trembles under the flickering fluorescent lights in her apartment’s bathroom. I throw a towel around her shoulders to keep her warm and search for a first aid kit. Though Winnie was smart enough to hide from the vengeful spirit, she didn’t quite escape the confrontation unscathed. The arm she used to guard her head is scratched and bruised from the ghost’s repeated attempts to harm her.

I ease Winnie’s arm under the running water and gently wash dirt and dried blood away from the scrapes. She’s better off than Uncle Kent. An update from the hospital told us that he has a broken wrist and a concussion. Despite my rocky relationship with my uncle, I’m hoping he pulls through. Winnie’s lost enough people, and I’m counting on her existing support system to keep her safe.

The water runs red, then pink, then clear as I tend to Winnie’s arm. Once the wounds are clean, I slather them with antibacterial ointment and wrap everything in soft gauze. By the time I’m finished, Winnie’s exhaustion kicks in, and she falls asleep against the bathroom counter. Gently, I lift her off the closed toilet lid and help her to bed. When I turn to leave, her fingers wrap around my wrist.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs sleepily.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I pull a flowery armchair over to Winnie’s bedside. “I’ll be right here for as long as you need me.”

“I get it,” she says, eyelids fluttering.

“Get what?”

“Why you run away all the time,” she whispers. “Why you left home. This happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? That’s why you have so many scars that you can’t explain.”

I glance down at myself. Typically, I don’t give a second thought to the map of faded marks and pale lines that remain of past injuries. I’m covered in scars ranging from pea-sized nicks to long, jagged flaws. When I was hospitalized, the doctors and nurses were convinced that I was self-harming, but only other people—living and dead—have made marks on my body.

“You’re always in danger,” Winnie continues, and I lean forward to catch her muted words. “You’re afraid to put other people in danger. Like me. That’s why you won’t stay in Red River.”

“Among other reasons,” I say. “Go to sleep, Winnie. You need your rest.”

She pries her eyes open to watch me. “You left to keep me safe.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Don’t leave again,” she pleads. “I can take care of myself. Promise you won’t leave.”

I look away from Winnie’s quivering chin. “I’ll do my best, Win.”

While Winnie rests, I run a safety check in her apartment. No security alarm or door lock can keep a vengeful ghost out, but I can at least make sure that no idiot humans will harm my sister. I fix the deadbolt on the door, check the battery on the smoke alarm, and replace the air filter in the ceiling. Then I pick up her dirty clothes, tidy the bathroom, and put the rest of her things away. After the apartment is clean, I sit and watch Winnie sleep as helplessness slips a hood over my head and begins to suffocate me.

I can’t stay by Winnie’s side twenty-four-seven to prevent another ghostly attack. A plan like that is as unrealistic as being handcuffed together. Neither one of us could function normally if we were glued to each other’s sides.

I have to find out whose ghost is haunting my family. If I can force the vengeful spirit to cross over, Winnie and Uncle Kent won’t have to deal with additional attacks. That is, until the next ghost with a problem decides to target them.

Despite my promise not to leave Winnie, I plant a kiss on her forehead, put a fresh glass of water by her bedside, and ease out of her apartment. I don’t believe in coincidences. If a ghost is attacking my family, it has something to do directly with me. It’s time to track down the angry spirit.

A few places always attract ghosts, especially when they’ve recently parted with their bodies. Churches, synagogues, and other religious buildings are popular, as are the graveyards and mausoleums in the backyards of such structures. In Red River, the population is predominantly Christian, so a single church in the middle of town serves most worshippers. If you’re Jewish or Muslim or anything else, you have to drive to another city for your weekly dose of prayer.

Red River is also home to a Native American burial ground. Half of this sacred land is covered by a barbershop and a café, but after a big protest that garnered national attention, the rest of the burial ground was preserved and protected. Though multiple construction companies have attempted to build there, no one has succeeded due to a series of misfortunes. Ordinary people call these misfortunes “accidents.” I call them run-ins with unhappy ghosts. I pray my family’s attacker isn’t Native American, as those guys have knowledge of the spiritual realm that I can’t begin to grasp. You don’t play with Natives.

I walk to the church first, where the midweek service is just letting out. The congregation throws me dirty looks as they pass. Once the church is empty, I head inside, where the heavy perfume of incense makes my nostrils uncomfortable. In the pews, two or three living people kneel in prayer, but there are far more dead in attendance.

Most of the glowing, transparent spirits ignore me as I make my rounds, checking body shapes and faces for the woman who attacked Winnie on Hummingbird Way. Occasionally, when a ghost realizes I’ve made eye contact with them, they disrupt their prayer in favor of staring at me. Sometimes, it’s more of a shock that someone among the living can still see them.

For the most part, ghosts that hang out in churches fall under the first category: they have acknowledged death but prefer to spend their afterlife on earth. Their silvery bodies remain intact unless I look too hard, possibly getting a glimpse of whatever killed them. These people are at peace, even if they haven’t crossed over to the next realm.

I clear the church and step beyond the back door. A stone footpath leads to the cemetery, where the grass between the headstones is overgrown. Wildflowers bloom near certain markers while other graves go undecorated. A few spirits in various states of decay hover above their etched names and dates. Unlike those inside the church, these ghosts are too afraid to pass over and fully embrace death. These are the ones that will plead with me to help them as soon as they realize I can see them.

For that reason, I do my best to avoid looking at any spirit for too long. I glimpse the man with a bullet wound to the head, the middle-aged woman clutching her chest as she relives the heart attack that killed her, and a small girl who is riddled with sickle-shaped blood cells. I linger a moment too long on a woman who appears unharmed, and she notices my gaze.

“Can you see me?” she asks, her voice muted and bubbly as if she’s speaking to me from underwater. As her voice echoes through the cemetery, every other ghost turns toward me.

“Crap,” I mutter, freezing in place. I avert my eyes, hoping the woman will think she’s made a mistake. Instead, she zooms toward my face, and I can’t help but instinctively raise my arms in case she attempts to hurt me.

“You can see me!” she declares, shaking my arm. “You have to help me. I think I’m dying. I was walking along the mountain path to fetch tubers. There’s a steep incline, where the path overlooks the lake. I think I fell. I think I’m drowning. You have to help me.”

I dislodge the ghost from my arm, acutely aware of the others that watch us. “You already drowned. I can’t save you. I can only help you cross over.”

“No,” she howls, gripping me tighter. “Help me!”

“I can’t. You’ve been dead a long time. Longer than I’ve been alive.”

The other ghosts close in, crying similar pleas for assistance. My head fills with wails of pain, suffering, misunderstanding, apologies, and prayers until the dissonant chorus forces me to my knees. Those who died recently and haven’t found their voices yet pound on my back with their fists. They are the most insistent.

“I am not your god,” I yell. “I can’t help you!”

My words echo like thunder rolling across flat plains, and the ghosts fall silent. Gradually, they drift away but keep their eyes on me as if to ensure I won’t assist one of them without assisting the rest.

“I’m looking for someone,” I announce. “A woman. She’s thin with blond hair cut short around her chin. I’m guessing she passed recently. Does anyone know who or where she is?”

An older man who must have died of natural causes floats to the front of the crowd. “The new spirit is non-Christian.” His voice is strong and clear, indicating he’s been dead a long time. “She has not passed this way.”

“Have you seen her at least?”

“She loiters near the police station,” the man replies. “And follows a teenaged boy through town when he walks home from school.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry for troubling you.”

“Your presence doesn’t trouble me,” the man says. “But you may certainly find concern among the rest of Red River’s citizens, living or dead.”

The man’s words echo through my head as I leave the cemetery and cross the street. No ghosts linger around the police station’s front doors, so I trek through the overgrown weeds in the sideyard and enter the alleyway behind the building. As I step onto the cracked pavement, someone lands a nasty slap to the back of my head.

This time, I don’t hit back. Instead, I take a protective stance and check the identity of my attacker. Sure enough, it’s the woman I’m looking for.

“Stop!” I hold up my hands as she swoops toward me again. “I’ve been looking for you. I want to help you. You know who I am, right?”

The woman pauses, one fist raised, and nods. Unlike the much older ghosts at the cemetery, she has no voice, which means she died sometime in the past ten to fifty years.

“Have you been attacking my family to get my attention?” I ask. “Winnie? Uncle Kent?”

She nods again.

“Aunt Dolly?”

She shakes her head. Aunt Dolly’s death is still a mystery.

“You need me,” I say. “What for? What do you want? I’m listening. You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

The ghost narrows her eyes as she scans me from head to toe, trying to figure out if I’m really here to help her. Now that she’s still, I get a better look at the woman. She’s relatively young, early forties, with a thin frame and gaunt cheeks. The loose skin around her neck and arms indicates that she once appeared healthy and plump, but illness or stress shaved fat from her body before she died. I wonder if she had cancer, but her ghost would likely show symptoms from chemotherapy if that were the case.

When I read the words stamped on her crimson T-shirt—Red River High School PTA—my heart sinks. This lady was a mother, and her kid is probably wondering what happened to his mom. Does her child know she’s dead?

“What do you need?” I ask the ghost softly. “Show me.”

She disappears through the brick wall of the police department. Since the back doors are locked, I run to the front and let myself in. Thankfully, Officer Burke is not at her desk. The bullpen is empty except for one officer whose head is bowed so low over his paperwork that he doesn’t notice me.

The ghostly woman appears in the hallway that leads away from the bullpen. I tiptoe after her, and she floats through the door to Sheriff Miller’s private office. I knock first, praying that Miller has left for lunch. When no one answers, I check the door handle. Naturally, it’s locked.

“Hey,” I whisper sharply to the ghost in the office. “I can’t get in. You have to unlock the door for me.”

New ghosts can touch living humans with relative ease because we’re all made from the same energy. However, it takes some time for spirits to learn how to manipulate non-human items like doorknobs and whatnot.

The knob rattles as the woman attempts to unlock it. My pace quickens as a deputy passes the end of the hallway. Thankfully, he doesn’t glance my way. A short click indicates that the ghostly woman has succeeded. I quickly enter the sheriff’s office and shut the door behind me.

“What now?” I ask the ghost.

She floats toward Sheriff Miller’s desk and opens her mouth as if to let out a mournful wail. I shuffle through the many papers and files on Miller’s desk in an attempt to help identify the source of the woman’s discomfort.

“What is it?” I say. “This is a speeding ticket. Here’s an accident report, but no one died, so that probably doesn’t pertain to you. This is a missing person case—”

A gust of ghost-created wind sweeps the file out of my hands and onto the floor, casting the papers across the ugly teal-and-cream checkered tiles. Muttering swear words, I kneel to clean everything up. As I collect the papers, I see the name on the file.

“Loretta Gunn,” I say, getting to my feet. “Is that you?”

The woman nods right as Sheriff Miller enters the office. If he’s surprised to find me snooping through his files behind a locked door, he doesn’t show it.

“That was quick,” he says. “Have you made your decision already?”

“Maybe.” I hand him Loretta’s file. “First things first, you’re not looking for a person. You’re looking for a body. Loretta Gunn is dead.”

8

“Let’s get some coffee.”

This is Sheriff Miller’s first reply to my declaration. He swings his coat over my shoulders and beckons me from the office, leaving Loretta’s haphazard file on the desk.

Loretta’s ghost floats solemnly alongside us as Sheriff Miller leads me to the café on the burial grounds. As soon as we enter, I spot a dead chief in full regalia complete with a feathered headdress, sitting at the counter like he’s waiting for the barista to make him a cappuccino. I avert my eyes and pray he doesn’t notice me. I have no power over the café’s infernal presence on his sacred land.

Miller sits at a two-top table near the front windows, where he can see almost all of Main Street from his chair. If anyone runs the red light at the intersection or cuts someone off in the roundabout, they’ll have to answer to the sheriff.

“Sit down, Cal,” he says, kicking the other chair out from beneath the table. “Let’s talk.”

“Haven’t we already?” Reluctantly, I settle in the offered seat. “If we’re going to do this again, I need caffeine.”

“That can be arranged.”

Sheriff Miller flags the barista. Normally, customers order at the counter, but Sheriff Miller has perks in town. The barista—a plump girl I recognize as one of Winnie’s old friends—comes to the sheriff. Miranda, I think, is her name.

“What can I get you, Sheriff?” she asks, pen poised over her notepad. Her eyebrows lift when she recognizes me. “Cal?”

“Hi, Miranda. Long time, no see.”

“It’s Amanda,” she corrects, planting one hand on her sassy, tilted hip. “You’ve known me since second grade.”

“Forgive me,” I say. “All the flogging has made my head go fuzzy.”

“Don’t talk to Calamity,” Sheriff Miller advises the barista. “She hasn’t got much to say that’s useful.”

“Funny,” I say. “Considering you’re so interested in what I’ve got to say.”

“I’ll have a black coffee, Amanda,” Miller says, ignoring my comment. “Same for you, Cal? Black like your soul?”

“Har, har. Never heard that one before.” To Amanda, I say, “Does this hick town have cold brew, or are you still grinding beans by hand?”

“One black coffee and a cold brew coming up.”

“I’ll take a turkey club, too,” Sheriff Miller adds. “Thanks, honey.”

As a rule, I hate when men call younger women any kind of pet name, but the sheriff uses his words with pure, fatherly affection. I pride myself on my ability to read vibes, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, Sheriff Miller seems like an okay guy. Maybe, just maybe, I can consider trusting him.

The sheriff peruses the menu as if he hasn’t already ordered. “I heard about your uncle’s accident this morning. You want to fill me in on what happened?”

“I don’t know what happened,” I reply. “You were busy blackmailing me at the time, remember?”

“Vaguely,” Sheriff Miller says. “I sent a few officers to the hospital to keep an eye on Kent. You okay with that?”

“Whatever.” I pick up the sticky, plastic menu and hide behind it under the pretense of studying the café’s lunch choices. “If it was an accident, I don’t know why my uncle needs a protective unit.”

“Was it an accident?”

“How should I know?”

Miller uses a butter knife to push the menu away from my face. “Cal, if we’re going to work together, you’re gonna have to learn how to tell me the truth.”

“Telling the truth hasn’t worked out well for me in the past,” I say. “Plus, I never agreed to work with you.”

“You haven’t left town,” he points out. “So, I’m guessing you plan on sticking around.”

“I didn’t leave town because my sister needs my help,” I say. “Not because I’ve decided to become your errand boy.”

Miller folds his hands in his lap and gazes serenely across the table. “I don’t need you to run my errands. I need you to find Loretta Gunn.”

When she hears her name, Loretta’s ghost hovers behind Sheriff Miller’s chair. Hope blossoms in the corners of her eyes, where crow’s feet were beginning to deepen while she was alive. She clasps her hands together, pleading silently with me to accept the sheriff’s terms, whatever they may be.

Sheriff Miller reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. From the billfold, he removes a picture of a teenage boy and slides it across the table.

“That’s Dusty Canton,” he says. “He’s Loretta’s son.”

I don’t want to look at the picture. I hate looking at kids who have lost parents as much as I hate looking at parents who have lost kids. The living pick up leftover grief and guilt like dogs with fleas. When kids are involved, that grief and guilt increase tenfold.

If Winnie wasn’t at stake, I would have left Loretta to figure out her mysterious death by herself. Since I made a promise, I pick up the photo.

“He’s fifteen,” Sheriff Miller says. “His parents are divorced. His mom has full custody, but since her disappearance, Dusty has been living with his grandfather.”

Dusty is the spitting image of his mother. They share the same sharp cheeks and inquisitive brown eyes. At fifteen, he’s on his way out of the awkward pubescent phase of life. His baby fat has begun to melt away, revealing a strong jaw. His teeth are almost perfectly straight, so he’ll get to lose the braces soon. He’s even got a decent sense of style for someone his age, evidenced by his clean, white Nikes, well-fitted jeans, and smooth, short-sleeved henley.

“His last name is Canton,” I say. “Did Loretta drop her husband’s surname after the divorce?”

Sheriff Miller nods. “You’re sharper than you look. Gunn is Loretta’s maiden name. We’ve got a long line of Gunns in Red River, just like we got a long line of Jameses.”

Amanda delivers our coffees and Sheriff Miller’s sandwich. Miller stops talking and digs in, leaving both me and Loretta in the lurch.

“And?” I prompt. “What else?”

“I don’t mix business and lunch,” he says. “We’ll talk more after I eat. I suggest you order something too. You need to keep up your strength.”

Annoyed, I settle back in my chair and wait for Miller to finish, so we can get this show on the road. He eats slower than a cow chewing cud, masticating each bite for several long seconds before swallowing. The sound of his grinding teeth gives me the willies.

“Come get me when you’re finished,” I tell the sheriff.

I order a BLT wrap and some water to wash down the sharp bite of cold brew at the counter. Surprisingly, Amanda doesn’t give me any crap as she prepares my food. I try to remember what happened between her and Winnie. They don’t hang out anymore, but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because everyone in this town except for my sister is insufferable.

Loretta sits in the empty seat next to mine, unaware that her presence affects the man behind her. While normal people can’t see ghosts, they can sometimes feel them nearby. It’s not the cliché cold gust of wind that most people expect. It’s more of a shiver that radiates through your whole body. I get it too, but at least I know where it’s coming from.

“You’re freaking out the customers,” I mutter to Loretta as the man behind her quivers. “You’re too close to them.”

Loretta rolls her eyes as if to say she doesn’t care. Impatiently, she taps my hand. That, in fact, does send a wave of chills across my skin.

“I can’t do anything without more information from the sheriff,” I say. “You heard him. We’ll find out more when he finishes his lunch.”

Though I’ve done my best to stay quiet, the man two seats away hears my whispered conversation. He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees who’s interrupted his lunch, his mustache twitches with glee and disdain.

“I shoulda known,” he drawls, turning toward me. “I heard Calamity James was back in town, but I didn’t want to believe it. You’ve got some gall showing your face around these parts.”

I recognize the man’s pockmarked face, sun-damaged nose, and waxed mustache, though the color of his hair has turned from gray to white since I last saw the old cattle rancher. Earl Stingus was the closest thing my father had to a best friend. Growing up, he was like my dirty uncle. No one really wanted him at family gatherings, but he showed anyway, usually with a cigar perched between his thin lips.

“Uncle Earl,” I say, drawing out the vowel sounds. “What a pleasure to see you again. It’d be nicer to see your back, though.”

Earl rests his hand on his gun.

“You don’t scare me, old man.” I pluck the toothpick out of my BLT wrap and take a big bite. “You never have.”

Earl creeps up behind me. I can smell the tar on his breath. Were it not for Sheriff Miller’s presence, I’d drill my elbow right into Earl’s solar plexus and make him regret getting so close.

“I remember different,” he whispers in my ear. “I remember when your daddy let me whip you for telling lies, and you cried all night for me to stop.”

“Get the hell away from me.”

“You gonna make me?”

Loretta slaps Earl across the face. Naturally, it doesn’t have the usual effect. Her hand sinks through his cheek and emerges on the other side, but Earl feels it. He staggers backward, trips over a chair leg, and lands in another customer’s lap. The customer knocks a coffee mug to the floor. The cup shatters, sending broken glass in all directions like shrapnel.

The customer shoves Earl off. Someone else steps on a piece of glass, resulting in a loud crunch. Earl hurtles toward me, drawing his gun from his belt. Though he doesn’t know what happened, he’s determined to blame it on me. I get off my chair, ready for a fight.

Sheriff Miller puts two fingers between his lips and whistles. The entire cafe falls silent except for one baby whose cries are totally justified, given that Miller has deafened the rest of us. The sheriff stands up, commanding everyone’s attention.

“I came here,” he begins, “to enjoy my lunch. I can’t do that if y’all act like a bunch of monkeys scratching their butts at the zoo. Earl Stingus?”

Earl straightens his spine and lets his hands hang loosely by his side. His gun holster remains unbuttoned, which is enough for Sheriff Miller.

“If I see you draw that gun in the presence of other civilians again, I will put you in prison,” Miller warns. “We may have open carry in the state of Colorado, but Red River is my town. I will alter our weapons regulations as I see fit. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“But what?” Miller challenges.

“The girl isn’t supposed to be here,” Earl says, jerking his chin toward me. “She’s caused this town enough pain and suffering. You’re parading her down Main Street like a prized pony.”

If I was on the other end of the stare that Sheriff Miller directs at Earl, I’d already been running. I remind myself to ask Miller how he manages to convey so much loathing with a simple lift of his upper lip. Under the sheriff’s terrifying gaze, Earl manages to stand his ground without peeing his pants.

“I’m just saying,” Earl says, digging his hole deeper. “The girl killed a boy, drove her father out of town, and put her mother in the hospital. Now, her aunt’s dead too, and I hear her uncle might follow shortly. She’s trouble, and no one wants her here.”

Sheriff Miller adjusts his belt and clears the turkey club from his throat. “Let me make myself perfectly clear to everyone here. Feel free to spread this message to your friends and family too. Calamity James is under my personal protection. She is to be left alone for as long as she remains in Red River. I don’t care if you think she’s killed your cow or your kid or your dog.”

“Take it down a notch, Sheriff,” I mutter, bowing my head as low as possible.

“If you’ve got beef with Cal, you’ve got beef with me,” Miller continues. “If I hear about one more of these confrontations, those involved will have to answer to me. I promise you won’t be happy about the consequences. Is that clear?”

The cafe patrons mutter general agreements and go back to their lunches. The baby keeps crying.

“As for you, Earl,” the sheriff says, coming over to the greasy old man. “Consider this your verbal restraining order. If I see you within a hundred feet of Calamity, I’ll find a reason to make your life a living hell.”

“You got nothing on me, Sheriff.”

“Really?” Sheriff Miller leans over Earl. “How ‘bout that little patch of marijuana you got growing in the back corner of your farm? I can smell it when the wind shifts. You got the right permits for all that weed?”

The color drains from Earl’s face.

“That’s what I thought,” Miller says. “Get out of here. Only civilized people eat in this cafe.”

Earl takes his leave, and Miller sits next to me at the counter.

“You do realize that you put a huge target on my back, right?” I say. “They won’t leave me alone just because you said so. They’ll attack me when you’re not looking.”

“I trust you can fend for yourself.”

“Why bother helping me?” I ask him. “You’ve seen my file. You know what I’ve done. Any other right-minded sheriff would run me out of town.”

“Maybe I’m not right-minded,” Sheriff Miller says. “Besides, I’ve got a hunch you’re not as rotten as everyone thinks.”

9

Winnie’s awake and walking around when I return to her apartment after lunch. She examines her scratched arm in the bathroom mirror. “You left,” she says with a hint of accusation. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I promised you I’d stay.” I lift a paper bag and a to-go cup of coffee as a peace offering. “I brought you blueberry scones and a flat white. That’s still your favorite, right?”

“I don’t eat dairy anymore.”

I peer into the coffee cup. “This is drinkable dairy. No eating involved.”

Winnie leaves the gauze off her arm and takes the scones from me. “I’ll make an exception for my big sister.”

Flopping on her bohemian patterned bedspread, I stretch my knees and shoulders until they make satisfactory pops. “How long has Dean Miller been the sheriff?”

“A few years.” Winnie wraps the first scone in a damp paper towel to microwave it. “I was surprised he won the election. The other guy was a local, and you know how loyal Red River is to our roots.”

“So, Miller’s an outsider,” I muse. “Where’d he come from?”

“No idea,” Winnie says. “He’s notoriously private about his personal life.”

“He says he’s married.”

“No one’s ever seen his wife.” She stops the microwave before the count reaches zero. “No one knows his address either. He’s like a hermit. A married hermit. Why are you so interested in the sheriff?”

I steal the crunchy corner of her warmed scone, knowing she prefers the softer interior bits. “He took me to lunch and stuck up for me when Earl opened his fat mouth.”

“Earl Stingus?” Winnie shivers. “I’ve hated that guy for as long as I can remember. Do you remember when he came to our house for Daddy’s poker nights? He used to blow cigar smoke into our bedrooms.”

“Yes, that Earl,” I say. “Miller threatened him and warned the whole town to leave me alone.”

“You’re kidding.” Winnie blows a deep breath upward, briefly lifting her wispy hair from her forehead. “He should’ve known that would do more harm than good.”

“I thought I had a target painted on my back when I first got to town,” I comment. “Now, I’m one massive bulls-eye.”

Her lower lip protrudes in an empathetic pout. “You shouldn’t be alone in Red River. Everyone who’s ever hated you will try to jump you in the dark.”

“That really bolsters my confidence. Thanks, Win.”

“What does Sheriff Miller want with you anyway?” She narrows her eyes. “Do you have outstanding warrants that I don’t know about?”

“Sweet, naive Winnifred,” I say, smiling. “What could you possibly mean?”

“I’m serious, Cal. Are you in trouble?”

“I’m always in trouble, but that’s not why Sheriff Miller has been courting me like a Regency-era virgin,” I tell her. “He wants me to help solve a missing person case.” Upon seeing Winnie’s bewildered expression, I add, “My face also looked like that when he told me.”

“I don’t get it,” Winnie says. “You have no detective experience. Why would he want you?”

“It feels like a set-up,” I mutter, plucking embroidery thread from the bedspread. Winnie swats my hand away before I ruin the fancy duvet. “I can’t shake the feeling that Miller knows more than he’s telling.”

“What do you mean?”

“The missing woman is dead,” I say. “Miller didn’t seem a tad surprised when I told him. It’s like he already knew.”

Winnie’s perfectly arched brows scrunch together. “Who’s the woman?”

“Loretta Gunn,” I say. “She’s also the spirit that attacked you and Uncle Kent earlier. She was trying to get my attention. I guess she knew I’d be able to see her.”

“Not Loretta,” Winnie says sadly. “She was always so sweet. I heard she skipped the last PTA meeting, but I didn’t figure she had gone missing.”

“How do you know she skipped the last meeting?”

“Because the parents always come into the Saloon afterward.”

“Of course, they do,” I say. “Anyway, I don’t know what Miller expects me to do. I might be able to find Loretta’s body, but I’m no investigator. I wouldn’t even be caught up in this mess if I’d left town like I’d planned. Miller blackmailed me into working for him. He says he’ll get rid of my record if I help him.”

Winnie tosses her unfinished scone into the trash. “That’s why you’re staying? You’re afraid Miller will turn you in otherwise? I wish you weren’t so callous sometimes.”

“Can’t spell callous without Cal.”

“Don’t you ever do anything out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I brought you those scones.”

“They taste faintly of bribery,” she comments. “And guilt.”

“Those are my secret ingredients.”

Winnie throws away her patience with me as quickly as she tossed the pastries. “I have a half a mind to kick you out of here. Stop acting like a heartless crackhead.”

“Your arm is bleeding.”

What with her emphatic gesticulating, Winnie’s scrapes have opened up again. I fetch fresh gauze from the bathroom and gently blot the shallow grooves in her skin.

“These won’t close up if you don’t take it easy,” I advise. “Then you’ll have a bunch of ugly scars.”

As I quietly tend to Winnie, her fiery attitude burns off. She might have four Red River Miss Congeniality titles, but she also inherited our father’s temper. When she gets mad, it’s best to steer clear.

“The hospital called me,” she says. “Uncle Kent is doing fine. They’re going to release him tonight. Can you pick him up? I’d do it, but I’m exhausted.”

This is a test, one that Winnie has carefully devised to check my willingness to cooperate. If I agree to pick up Uncle Kent, I have to spend a good hour with him in the truck I stole. If I don’t get him, Winnie will know that I have no intention of playing nice with our uncle.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go get him.”

Someone knocks on the apartment door, and Boone enters without waiting for Winnie to invite him inside. He’s showered since our run-in on the trail. Though he looks less disgusting without a sheen of sweat on his brow, the scratches on his face and neck aren’t doing him any favors. His hair, usually gelled away from her forehead, flops limply across his face.

“Winnie, I’m so glad you’re okay.” Boone pushes me aside and lifts Winnie off her feet with no regard to her injured arm. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

Winnie wrestles free of Boone’s grip. “You were worried? Really? You were so busy running away that I couldn’t tell.”

“There was a bear,” he says stupidly. “I went to get help.”

“And did you?”

His mouth gapes. “I told Cal where you were.”

“I already knew where she was,” I say. “Nice try, though.”

“You left me alone with that—bear,” Winnie scolds, altering her language at the last second. Boone doesn’t need to know that their attacker wasn’t a member of the local fauna. “I might have died if Cal hadn’t found me.”

“Babe, I promise I went to get help,” Boone whines. “Don’t be mad at me. Everything turned out okay.”

“Okay?” she squeaks. “Have you seen my arm? Does this look okay to you?”

“I’m gonna go,” I say, edging out of the apartment so that Winnie can serve Boone the talking-to he deserves. The guy’s a coward, no matter how you swing it. “Catch you later, Win.”

When the hospital calls to let me know Uncle Kent has been discharged, I drive the truck to the Denver suburbs to pick him up. As the city blooms through the front windshield, the urge to stay outside Red River’s county lines blossoms too. It’s so easy to leave my hometown. It’s monumentally more challenging to go back.

I wait in the hospital pickup loop until a nurse pushes Uncle Kent to the truck in a wheelchair. Other than the bandage around his head and a new cast on his wrist, he’s no worse for wear. Loretta could have done a lot more damage if she’d wanted to.

“Cal,” Uncle Kent says as he heaves himself into the passenger seat. “I wasn’t expecting you. I see you’ve finally decided to return my truck.”

“Just borrowing it,” I say, holding in several potential comebacks that would have immediately soured the mood. “What did the doctors say?”

“Like you care.”

“Winnie will want to know.”

He grunts in acknowledgment and rests his gaze on the blurred landscape outside the window. “I’m supposed to rest for two days then gradually return to my normal activities. This wrist is going to be a problem, though. The cast won’t come off for six weeks, and I can’t spend a month and a half on my ass. I have work to do.”

“I thought Boone helps you.”

“I let Boone help me,” Uncle Kent corrects. “That kid needs to be doing something productive with his life, especially if Winnie insists on dating him. Otherwise, he’ll end up big and stupid like the rest of Red River. Did he propose to Winnie? Tell me she said no.”

“I don’t think he got the chance,” I say. “They ran into some trouble while they were hiking. Everyone’s fine, but Boone screwed the pooch. I wouldn’t be surprised if Winnie dumps him.”

“Good,” he says. “She can do better.”

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

For a good half hour, Uncle Kent and I drive in silence. I want to ask a hundred questions—about Aunt Dolly, my parents, Winnie, Loretta’s attack—but I know he won’t answer them. Uncle Kent doesn’t owe me anything. The reverse isn’t true, though I don’t like to admit it.

“Listen,” I say as the slick, maintained pavement of civilized society turns to the space between cracks and potholes. The closer we get to Red River, the more the world deteriorates. “I’m sticking around for a bit. The sheriff offered me a part-time job, and I want to make sure Winnie’s okay. If you want—” I force the next few words out. “I can help you out around the ranch too.”

Uncle Kent sucks his teeth. “Sheriff Miller really offered you a job?”

“Yes.”

He chuckles dryly. “That man is nuts.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“If you’re offering, I’m accepting,” Kent says. “But the second you cause me trouble, I’ll boot you off my land. I’m not paying you, either.”

“Like I expected you to.”

“Don’t ask about Dolly,” he adds. “Don’t ask questions at all. And don’t scare the chickens. They hate you enough as it is.”

“You got a lot of rules, old man.”

“If you follow them, I won’t kick your ass.”

He’s right about the chickens. When we reach the ranch, the hens have stockpiled enough eggs to vandalize the whole town. I duck into the coop and fill carton after carton, dodging the hens’ vicious pecks, so Uncle Kent can sell the eggs at the market tomorrow. Sweating and annoyed, I stack the cartons in the kitchen while Kent laughs at my pain.

“What else?” I ask, brushing dirt and chicken poop off my pants. “I don’t muck stalls, by the way. Get one of your farmhands to do that.”

“You’ll do what I say. Come back tomorrow,” Uncle Kent says. “The horses need grooming.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll find something.”

I root through the fridge and unearth one of the pity casseroles from the mourning neighbors. After warming up a plate for Kent, I get ready to leave.

“Don’t be too much of a man and overexert yourself,” I warn. “Go to bed early.”

“Get out of my house, scoundrel.”

Back at Winnie’s, I make a bed for myself on the futon. After she finishes showering, she runs through a face care routine that takes longer than a football game’s average runtime. Emerging dewy and glowing, she tosses a pair of clean pajamas onto my makeshift bed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” She smooths her hair, which looks twice as long when it’s wet, with a wide-tooth comb. “But you should probably find somewhere to stay if you’re going to be in town a while. If my landlord notices you, she’ll make you pay rent.”

“I’ll go back to the motel.” Swapping my jeans for Winnie’s borrowed pajamas, I notice the hems don’t quite reach my ankles. “What happened with Boone? Did you finally dump him?”

“No, why?”

“Because he left you on a mountain with a bear.” I use my fingers to air-quote the last word. “That’s grounds for a break-up, in my opinion.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is. Boone, you’re a small-minded idiot with no common sense. We’re done.”

Winnie shakes her head and slips beneath her duvet. “I’m comfortable with him. We’ve known each other since high school.”

“You’ve known everyone in this town since high school.” Forsaking the futon, I lay across the foot of her bed, draping myself over Winnie’s legs. “I don’t want you to settle. That’s all.”

“What if I like settling?”

“Do you, though?”

Winnie kicks me through the blankets. “I can help you with Loretta’s case. I took a forensics class online, and my research skills are unbeatable.”

“No way,” I say. “I don’t think Loretta’s death was an accident, and if there’s a murderer in town, I won’t put you in his or her path.”

“You don’t know that it was a homicide.”

“Not for sure,” I say. “But I’ve got a damn good hunch.”

10

Shortly before noon, I pace outside the police department, battling an internal war. This is my last chance to bail. I’m going against all my instincts by staying in Red River longer than two days. If I remain, I’m bound to run into more townies with grudges. If I leave, the ghost of Loretta Gunn might murder my sister. In reality, I don’t have a choice, but that doesn’t make walking inside the police station any easier.

“You’re late, James.”

Sheriff Miller’s basso profundo nearly knocks me out of my boots. He reaches past me to open the door then herds me inside. With a snap of his fingers, he orders me to follow him.

“I expect my deputies to arrive at eight o’clock sharp,” he says. “If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re early, you’re on time.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Rule number two—”

“Oh, great. There are rules.”

Sheriff Miller swings around, and I run smack into his chest.

“No backtalk,” Miller says. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Rule number three, if you finish the coffee in the breakroom, it’s your responsibility to make a new pot.”

Still dazed from rebounding off Miller’s impressive pecs, I ask, “Since when am I a deputy? I never even finished high school.”

Miller throws something shiny at me. I juggle the item before it settles in my palms; it’s a Red River Sheriff’s Department deputy badge.

“Consider yourself deputized,” he says. “If you stick around, I’ll get you some decent training. For now, I just need your brains. Officer Burke?”

The baby-faced redhead pops up from her desk and squares her shoulders. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“You’ll be working with James today.”

Burke’s eager smile disappears like a toddler in quicksand. As delighted as I am by her lack of enthusiasm, I can’t let this particular match-up continue.

Stepping between the sheriff and the rookie, I say, “Sheriff, no disrespect, but I can’t work with Burke. She arrested me, remember?”

“I agree,” Officer Burke adds. “I don’t work with criminals, no matter how petty.”

“You’ll do as I say,” Sheriff Miller booms. “You two should be happy I’m giving you second chances at all, given your histories. Now—” He slams Loretta’s file on Burke’s desk. “Get to work finding this woman. I want new leads by the end of the day.”

Wrinkling my nose, I steel myself for hours of pointed remarks and dirty looks from Officer Burke. She might be the one person in Red River who doesn’t know what I’ve done, but that hasn’t stopped her from hating me on principle.

“That’s my chair,” she says as I settle behind her desk.

“Get another one.”

Rifling through her drawers, I find a rubber band ball to toss to myself. As Burke drags a squeaky chair from another desk, her shadow—the little dead girl carrying a teddy bear—appears out of thin air. She sucks her thumb and watches Burke without any apparent anger or remorse. When Burke glances toward her, the girl brightens, but as soon as Burke turns away, the child’s face falls again. Obviously, she wants Burke’s attention and comfort, but the officer has no idea the ghost is even there.

“What’s your story?” I ask Burke. She pushes me away from the desk, so she can use the computer. “Why aren’t you allowed to work in the field?”

“None of your business.”

“Clearly, you screwed up big time,” I say. “Because the stick up your ass is Texas-sized, and Miller treats you worse than me, which is saying something.”

As Burke accesses Loretta’s information, her lips press together as she does her best to keep from swearing. She scrolls aimlessly on the computer without purpose or focus.

“Okay, I’ll guess,” I say. “Did you crash a police cruiser? Help run a drug front? No, that’s a crime. They wouldn’t let you keep working after that. Did you have a crisis of faith? A mental breakdown? Did you screw up an investigation and make a mistake that led to someone’s death?”

That hits Officer Burke like a bullet between the shoulder blades. She throws Loretta’s file into my lap like she’s hoping I’ll end up with enough paper cuts to drain me of my life force.

“Shut up and start dialing Loretta’s friends and families,” she orders. “We need to put together a timeline of the last day she was seen. Maybe we can figure out where she went.”

“That won’t help,” I say. “Loretta’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.” I dispose of the file. “This is pointless. We should be out looking for her, not sitting behind a desk.”

“Sheriff Miller said—”

“Miller said find Loretta,” I interrupt, standing. “Are you coming or not?”

Burke has no choice but to hurry after me as I leave the station. Loretta—the dead one—pops into existence outside. Today, her silvery form blends in with the darkening clouds, making it hard to keep track of her. I purposely let Officer Burke trot ahead so I can talk to Loretta.

“If I’m going to find out what happened to you, I need your help,” I tell the ghost. “Can you remember anything from the day you died?”

Unsurprisingly, Loretta shakes her head. After death, memories get hazy. They come and go like seagulls on the beach, swooping around people’s heads in search of french fries. In Loretta’s case, those french fries are flashes of her past life.

Ghosts generally remember big things. For instance, Loretta knows her own name. She knows her son, her ex-husband, and the layout of Red River. Details like what day it is, how long she’s been dead, and who killed her remain questions she can’t answer.

“I know you don’t want to, but you have to focus on your death,” I say. “Some ghosts get a feeling, like a gut instinct. Find that, and lead the way. Wherever we end up will probably have something to do with how you died.”

Loretta squeezes her eyes shut. Lightning flashes in the distance, signaling a storm to come. As thunder rolls, Loretta begins to float away like a cloud moved by the wind.

Officer Burke rolls up in her squad car and shouts through the window, “Are you coming or not?”

“Relax, Teddy Bear. I’m on my way.”

Somehow, I convince Officer Burke to follow my directions as Loretta leads us from the center of town. As rain patters against the windshield, it gets harder and harder to see the ghost. Officer Burke grows increasingly impatient with every wrong turn we take.

“Are you hazing me?” she demands after I correct our course once again. “Because if you are, I won’t hesitate to report you.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to concentrate. There!”

Through the steady drizzle, I spot Loretta lingering on the roadside. She peers between a gap in the trees, where a well-worn footpath leads upwards. Like Hummingbird Way, this is a regular hiking route, but it isn’t marked by the county. In fact, a rusty chain hangs between two trees to discourage visitors.

“Where are we?” Burke asks as she pulls over and parks on the shoulder.

I know exactly where we are, though I don’t want to say it. This path—which the locals have christened Goldminer’s Gulch—leads to the old mine that once made Red River a popular spot for wealth-seeking “businessmen.” Since its Wild West heyday, the mine has fallen into irrelevance. There’s no gold or jewels left to find, but that doesn’t stop idiots from venturing inside to make sure of it. Every year, a few people who are stupid enough to go in end up dead, trapped behind or beneath fallen rocks.

“Come on,” I say, bracing myself for the cold rain. “Let’s have a look.”

“Seriously?” Officer Burke points to the roiling clouds. “Do you see that? All hell is going to break loose any moment now. I’m not going hiking with you.”

“Fine, stay here. When we get back to the office, you can tell Sheriff Miller you sat in the car while I found Loretta Gunn’s body.”

I duck out of the squad car and dart between the trees. When I look back, Officer Burke is muttering to herself, no doubt cursing my name. With the ghost girl sitting in the back seat, it’s almost as if the two are conversing. Finally, Burke gets out of the car, wearing a large backpack, and stomps toward me.

“I’m only coming with you so you don’t end up dead,” she declares. “Shall we?”

Grinning, I lead Officer Burke through the thickly wooded forest. Grudging respect for the deputy begins to grow within me. She could’ve easily chickened out and reported me to Sheriff Miller. After all, she has no idea what’s compelled me to come out to the Gulch. She thinks I’m operating on hunches alone.

Little does Officer Burke know that Loretta is guiding us. Among the dark background of trees, the ghost is much easier to spot. While I pretend to read an old, faded trail map, Loretta pauses to gather more memories. I don’t rush her—there’s no way to push the dead to remember faster—but Officer Burke makes her complaints known to everyone.

“Why are we here?” she keeps asking. For the amount of commiserating she does, she’s a surprisingly adept hiker. She clears the uneven earth at a rapid pace, and her boots make almost no sound as her feet land. “This area is closed off to civilians. Loretta wouldn’t have come this way.”

“Plenty of people hike up here,” I say. “Especially the ones that like a challenge. You ever seen a flash flood, Officer Burke?”

“No.”

With a running start, I shoot up a steep ridge and scramble over the precipice. On the other side, the trees thin as the land slopes swiftly downward into a barren valley. The rain has already begun to collect in the natural basin, and the water dashes toward the river, creating a strong current. With a few more inches of precipitation, the valley will turn into a death trap.

“Neither have I,” I tell Burke as she clears the ridge and examines the situation below. “And I hope we don’t see one today. Welcome to Goldminer’s Gulch.”

“I’m not going down there, and neither are you,” she says. “It’s way too dangerous.”

“If Loretta’s body gets washed away by the storm, we’ll never find out who killed her.”

“We don’t even know that she’s dead!”

Loretta’s ghost and I exchange a long, annoyed look. Sometimes, I wish my ability was more commonplace. It would be so much easier to get this done if I could tell Officer Burke about Loretta’s current status without seeming crazy.

“We have time before the storm crosses the Gulch,” I say. “If we go now, we won’t run into much trouble.”

“What is much?” Officer Burke mutters.

“You don’t have to come.”

“You keep saying that,” she snaps. “But Sheriff Miller expects me to keep an eye on you, so shut up.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

I slide into the valley with a controlled fall, letting the incline lift me to my feet at the bottom. The muddy water sucks an inch of my boot heels beneath the earth’s surface, so every step takes twice the effort. To make matters worse, the rain falls at the perfect angle to pelt my face with thick, cold drops.

“Here.” Officer Burke, splashing along beside me, produces a baseball cap from her backpack. “Take this.”

Grateful, I lower the brim over my eyes while Burke pulls the hood of her coat up. She links her arm through mine, and we use each other’s body weight as leverage through the muck.

“I feel like we’re bonding,” I call over the rushing water.

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

The Gulch stretches across four miles. Getting out is a lot harder than getting in, something I didn’t think about before embarking on this quest. About a mile and a half in, I’m starting to regret my decision. The water around our ankles is getting deeper and moving quicker. I’ve lost my footing twice already, relying on Officer Burke’s quick reflexes to keep the current from washing me away.

“We need to get to higher ground,” she says as the rain worsens.

“The only path upward is on the other side of the Gulch,” I reply. “Everywhere else is too steep to climb.”

Burke scans the horizon and points to a blurry incline. “There are rocks under the dirt there. If I can climb high enough to attach my line to a tree, we can get out of here.”

“What line?”

She takes a harness, rope, and grappling hook from her backpack. “I heard you were unpredictable. You really thought I was going to hike out here unprepared?”

“Damn, what else do you have in there, Mary Poppins?”

Officer Burke steps into the harness and tightens the straps. We trudge as far as possible from the lowest point of the valley. Burke begins to climb toward the trees on all fours, using the rocks as hand and footholds. She makes it about halfway up before she runs out of things to grab onto. When she tosses the weighted end of the rope, the grappling hook catches around a thick tree branch. Burke gives the rope a mighty pull to make sure it’s stable. Resting her weight against the rope, she steadily treks to the top.

When she’s safely out of the Gulch, Burke steps out of the harness and throws it down to me. “Put it on,” she shouts. “I’ll pull you up.”

The harness dangles a good twenty feet out of my reach, and I don’t possess Burke’s rock-climbing skills. The water in the valley rises steadily. If I don’t move, I’ll be swept away with the current, all the way to the big river.

I mimic Burke’s technique, scaling the rocks up the hill. Each one is slick with rain, and the land beneath me feels unsteady. Somehow, I make it to the harness, but as I reach forward to grab it, the earth gives way. The resulting landslide sweeps my feet out from under me.

11

Pushing off the last bit of solid land, I leap forward and grab the harness. The buckles and straps bite into my hand, but I hold on as the hillside disintegrates around me. Mud pours over my head and slips into every crevice it can reach. I hold my breath, one hand wrapped in the harness and the other guarding my head while I wait for the natural pounding to cease. The earth settles a few moments later, and I feel a tug on the climbing rope.

“James!” Officer Burke shouts from the safety of the trees. “You still alive down there?”

“Questionable. Pull me up!”

The veins in Officer Burke’s arms pop like tree roots as she hauls the rope toward her, hand over hand. My legs shake as I find my feet and climb upward, using Burke as a counterweight. Near the top, we clasp arms, and she pulls me onto solid ground.

“You look great,” she says. “I hear mud is the new pink.”

I scoop a glob of wet dirt from my shirt and toss it at her pants. She deftly steps away, and the mud splatters across her boots instead.

“That’s no way to treat your rescuer,” Burke says. “Have you reconsidered this insane trip yet? The rain’s not letting up anytime soon. We won’t find Loretta’s body in this mess, especially if it’s in the Gulch.”

Loretta’s ghost glows between two towering oak trees. She swoops closer to me, examining my muddy body for harm. Satisfied that I’m in no real danger, she nods and beckons us along.

“No,” I tell Burke. “We’re on the right path. I know it.”

As she shakes mud from the rope and loops it around her elbow, she asks, “Do you know the sheriff personally?”

“I met him two days ago. How personal are we supposed to get?”

“I’m just wondering how I ended up working with a random civilian whose record is longer than my hair,” she says casually. “I don’t know any other ex-cons who magically became law enforcement without any training.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Wiping mud and gravel from my face, I pick my way through the thick woods. This is why everyone travels through the Gulch to reach the mine. The flora is so dense that it’s nearly impossible to find a walkable path in this part of the forest. “If things went my way, I’d be on a beach in Jamaica by now.”

A shiny blade whistles past my face and hacks through the roots blocking my route.

“A machete?” I ask Burke as she swings the knife in large arcs. “You really brought a machete? Who are you—G.I. Jane?”

“So you didn’t pay Sheriff Miller any favors?”

“What are you implying?”

She shrugs, her back to me as she continues clearing a path through the brush. “I’m curious. That’s all. I can’t figure out why Miller—the toughest guy I’ve ever worked for—gives you a free pass while I’m—”

“Rotting behind a desk?” A sneer peels my upper lip away from my teeth. “I didn’t bribe Miller with sex if that’s what you’re asking. I hope you don’t call yourself a feminist.”

Officer Burke’s expression shifts from accusatory to understanding. “I do, actually. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have considered it.”

As I point Burke in Loretta’s direction so she can hack through the next bramble, I say, “Miller offered to clear my name if I helped him find out who killed Loretta. He threatened to turn me in if I didn’t. As for why he thinks I can do the job, I have no idea.”

“Neither do I,” she says with underlying humor. “All you’ve done so far is get us lost in the woods. If we followed protocol—”

“If we followed protocol, we would be no closer to finding Loretta.”

“Like we’re close now.”

She whips the machete with a practiced wrist flick, clearing a wall of vines. As the vines fall, they reveal the mine entrance, a dark mouth carved from the earth and framed by decaying wood beams.

“What was that again?” I cup my ear and beckon for Burke to repeat herself. “Did you say we weren’t close?”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t take the bait. When I step toward the mine, she grabs my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going inside.”

“You can’t go in,” she says. “That thing is one pebble away from collapsing on itself. We dragged some idiot tourist out of there a month ago. He had a traumatic brain injury. He’ll never be the same.”

“I didn’t come here to stand around outside.” I swipe the LED flashlight off her equipment belt and shine it into the mine. “You can stay here. I’ll be out soon.”

“James, I swear, if you set one foot—”

My boot crunches several pebbles to dust as I step over the large boulders that half-block the mine’s entrance. “Too late, Burke. Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t expect me to follow you!”

“I won’t.”

“Because I’m not coming in.”

“Whatever you say, Teddy Bear,” I call over my shoulder.

Burke’s ghost appears. She clambers onto a rock to reach Burke’s shoulder, which she then pats affectionately. I’m not sure her presence soothes the deputy. Burke shivers and rolls her shoulders as if to ward off an oncoming ache.

In the mine’s complete darkness, my borrowed flashlight struggles to penetrate the heavy gloom. The underground cavern bears marks of abuse. Brown and green glass from broken beer bottles glisten and sparkle like undiscovered gems. The walls are decorated with rough gouges from past prospector’s pickaxes. Fallen rocks create a complex maze that would be impossible to map if the mine branched in separate directions.

I pick my way cautiously through the dark, taking care not to dislodge any precariously balanced rocks. Loretta flickers in and out of existence. That’s not a good sign. If I’m getting closer to her body, her ghostly presence should be strengthening instead of fading. As I round a corner, she vanishes altogether.

I get as far as the mineshaft. The operational elevator is a feat of historical mechanics, but I don’t dare step onboard. The cage is covered in rust, and the pulley wheel desperately needs lubrication. Shining my flashlight downward, I see nothing but darkness. This is where stupid people accidentally end their lives. I won’t be going any further.

“Loretta?” I call, and my voice echoes eerily from the shaft. “Am I in the right place?”

When no one answers, I grit my teeth and turn around. Burke’s going to haul me over the coals for dragging her along on this misadventure. I hate being wrong.

As I approach the mine’s entrance, a wide-brimmed leather hat with a silvery glow moves behind a massive boulder. The ghost to whom it belongs sinks lower as I glance in his direction.

“I can see you,” I say. “You might as well come out.”

The dead man steps out of hiding. From his suspenders, heavy boots, and bushy beard, I can tell he hasn’t been alive for at least a century. Regardless, he’s unable to speak to me. Some ghosts never do.

“James?” Officer Burke’s voice echoes from the mine entrance. “Is that you? Are you coming out or what?”

“In a minute,” I call back. To the dead prospector, I say, “I’m looking for a woman named Loretta Gunn. Have you seen her?”

The prospector points to me then deeper into the mine.

“Did she fall down the mineshaft?” I ask. “Did someone drop her body down there?”

He vigorously shakes his head and points outside. Then he mimes writing something on a piece of paper.

“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” I say. “Did you see Loretta or not?”

The prospector nods.

“Where did you see her?”

He points outside toward Burke.

“She didn’t come into the mine at all?”

The prospector shakes his head. Once again, he mimes writing something down. He points to his invisible paper, then to me, and back outside. When that doesn’t help me understand, he places his palms together, opens them, and pretends to read.

“A book?” I guess.

He nods emphatically.

“You want me to write something in a book?”

Head shake. He points to me and repeats the open book action.

“Does this have to do with Loretta or not?”

The prospector sighs.

“James!” Burke hollers from the mine’s mouth. “What’s the hold-up? Who are you talking to?”

“Wait here,” I tell the prospector. Near the entrance, I stick my head through a medium-sized hole in the rocks. “Burke, can you shut up and give me a pencil and paper?”

“What makes you think I have a pencil and paper?”

“Don’t you?”

Grumbling, she takes a small journal from her overstuffed backpack and hands it to me through the opening. “If you don’t hurry your butt up, I’m coming in after you.”

“Keep your panties on.”

As I withdraw, I accidentally clip the rock with my elbow. For a split second, I see panic spread across Burke’s baby face as the unmistakable rumble of moving earth fills my ears. With my arms overhead, I run deeper into the mine as the rocks fall from the ceiling and rearrange themselves. Debris bounces off my mud-covered arms, painting me with welts and bruises. At least my head is safe.

When the dust settles, I check the path to the mine’s entrance and swear beneath my breath. My exit is completely blocked. I’m trapped inside.

“James! Are you dead?”

On the upside, I can still hear Officer Burke’s annoying voice. That means the blockage isn’t too thick. From my side, I shift some of the smaller rocks aside, managing to clear a softball-sized opening in the wall.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I say to Burke.

Her pale face regains some color as she breathes with relief. “Thank God. Miller would’ve killed me if I lost you.”

“Sure, make this about you,” I say. “Can you get me out of here? I’m not claustrophobic, per se, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life in an abandoned mine.”

Burke claws at the boulders around the opening to expand it. “I told you not to go in there. This is going to take forever.”

“Whatever. Just get me out.”

As I turn away, she says, “Whoa, where are you going?”

“I have business to attend to,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

“James,” she shouts at my back. “James! Man, I hate you.”

When I return to the prospector, he wrings his hands and repeats the book-reading mimicry. I sit on the ground, lean against a boulder, and take out my journal.

“I’m guessing you know a thing or two about Loretta, or you wouldn’t have shown up here,” I say, tracing a general outline of the prospector’s head. “If I can figure out who you are, maybe I can find out how you’re connected to all of this. Can you hold still, please?”

Though it might be a surprise to the general population, I’m one hell of a sketch artist. Were it not for my checkered past, I could have worked for the FBI or gotten a job in forensics. Drawing is one of the only things I’m good at, and it also soothes my mind when my thoughts get too loud or obnoxious.

The prospector stays completely still as I fill in the details of his weathered face. Sketching dead people is harder than sketching live ones; ghosts’ silvery glow sometimes makes their features blend together, and they don’t catch shadows like a regular person does.

Relaxed and focused, I outline the prospector’s hat and fill it in. My tongue sticks out between my teeth as it always does when I’m particularly fixated on something. Winnie thinks it’s hilarious. When we were younger, she snapped Polaroid pictures of my focus face. I bet she still has them somewhere.

As I draw, Officer Burke works to free me from the makeshift prison. Every once in a while, I hear a clatter as she shifts another rock out of the way. More light enters the mine as the opening widens, and Burke’s annoyed mutters reach my ears.

“Absolutely insane,” she says to herself. “I mess up one time, and I get stuck with Calamity freakin’ James. I knew I should’ve quit when I had the chance. Stupid—freaking—rocks—”

With a final strained grunt, Officer Burke rolls the largest boulder from the mouth of the mine. Sunlight streams in; the storm has passed. I’m free to leave when I please, but I linger a moment longer to make sure I’ve got the prospector’s likeness correct. When I’m satisfied, I lift myself from my rocky armchair.

“I’ll be back,” I assure the dead man. “When I figure out who you are.”

Officer Burke waits for me outside the mine, picking raw skin from her palms. Sweat mingles with rock dust on her forehead and arms. Wild strands of red hair escape from her usually perfect braid.

“Well?” she demands. “Did you find Loretta’s body?”

“No, but I got this.”

She snatches the drawing from me. “What does this guy have to do with our missing person case?”

“No idea.” I take the journal and tuck it into my back pocket. “Come on, Officer Burke. It’s a long hike back.”

12

Officer Burke sinks into a surly silence when we finally reach the car. She’s even less pleased when I leave mud and dust all over her passenger seat. Though we didn’t locate Loretta’s body, I’m satisfied with the prospector’s sketch. Now, I have to convince Burke that he actually means something.

“Drop me off at Winnie’s,” I tell her.

“We need to get back to the station.”

“I need a shower.” Rolling down the window, I let the breeze blow dirt out of my hair. It swirls past the cage that separates the front from the back seat and settles on the floor mats. “And I need Winnie. She’s obsessed with Red River’s history. If anyone can tell me who this guy was, she can.”

Officer Burke glances at the drawing clutched in my hand. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me a straight answer, but where exactly did you find this guy’s likeness?”

“You’re right. I won’t give you a straight answer.”

“So we’re chasing nothing again.” She shakes her head. “If this is our first day working together, I can’t wait for whatever the future holds.”

“Aw, I didn’t take you for a romantic, Officer Burke.”

Main Street appears on the horizon as Officer Burke steers toward the center of town. The late afternoon sun spreads pink and orange lines across the sky like colorful condensation trails. As people get off work and head to the Saloon, Winnie is preparing for her night shift. She may have already left her apartment to start serving the regulars.

Officer Burke makes the turn toward Winnie’s building before I give her directions. She leaves the car running as I get out.

“Are you coming?” I ask.

She hesitates. “I don’t think I should be in your sister’s apartment without her permission. It seems like a violation of privacy.”

“Burke, it’s fine. You’ll attract more attention sitting on the curb.”

Reluctantly, she gets out of the car and follows me up to Winnie’s apartment. Once inside, she links her hands behind her back and scans Winnie’s charismatic home. Her eyes linger on the boho-chic bedspread, macrame plant hangers, and crystal collection. Then she points to the pile of pillows and unmade blankets on the futon.

“Are you staying here?”

“Not for long,” I call from the bathroom. “I’m going back to the motel tonight. Winnie doesn’t deserve me sticking around.”

“I doubt that,” Officer Burke says. “I hear people talk about her. Apparently, she mentions you a lot.”

I stick my head into the main room. “What are people saying about Winnie?”

“The usual,” Burke says. “She’s nice, pretty, and generally likable. All the things they don’t say about you.”

“Shut it, Burke.”

It takes three shampoos to get the mud out of my hair and a hearty scrub with Winnie’s body sponge—I’ll have to buy her a new one—to find my skin beneath the dirt. I emerge pink and raw but refreshingly clean. After getting dressed, I herd Officer Burke from Winnie’s apartment. We arrive downstairs at the Saloon just in time for happy hour.

The bar comes alive with the clink of beer bottles, the sizzle of onion rings dropping into a hot fryer, and the crooning of Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline. Middle-school kids whose parents couldn’t find babysitters loiter around the jukebox, playfully shoving each other for the next turn to drop a quarter in and pick a song. The hoppy smell of beer mingles with briny sweat and burned grease. When I get a much-appreciated whiff of Winnie’s vanilla perfume, I follow my nose to my little sister.

Winnie handles the busy crowd with practiced ease, taking orders while pouring beer and serving cocktails. She doesn’t write anything down, memorizing every patron’s request. She runs back and forth from the kitchen but never drops a plate or spills a drink. She wipes wet hands on her black half-apron, but her cut-off Saloon shirt remains perfectly white and unstained. The locals look at her with worship-worthy admiration and hope, especially the boys. Almost every man between the age of eighteen and sixty smiles at her until she turns away, praying he might be the one to earn her undying affection.

“Teddy!” Winnie says, grinning widely at Officer Burke as she scoops ice into a glass. “What can I get you?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” I ask. “I’ll take a whiskey neat.”

“No, she won’t,” Burke says. “We’re here on business. Do you have a minute, Winnie?”

Winnie pours straight tequila over the ice and slides the glass to a woman at the other end of the bar. “Not really. We’re busy tonight. My break’s in ten minutes, though. I can talk then.”

“Great.” Burke slides onto a recently vacated stool. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Winnie beams at Officer Burke then saunters off to serve another customer. She either forgets my whiskey or actually listened when Burke said no.

“Since when are you and my sister on a first-name basis, Teddy?” I say to Burke.

“We had coffee the other day.”

“You did? When?”

“I just said—”

Before she finishes, Earl Stingus stumbles up behind me.

“I’m watching you, James,” he slurs, absolutely crapulous. “Sheriff Miller don’t scare me. If you don’t toe the line, I’ll kill you myself.”

Officer Burke stands and rests a hand on her gun. The gesture is more to scare Earl straight than to actually prepare for pulling the weapon. “You’ve had too much to drink, Stingus. Get out of here before I lock you up.”

Earl gives Burke a long stare before he stumbles out of the Saloon.

“He gets a warning?” I say. “Dirty Earl? You didn’t give me a warning before you dragged me to a holding cell.”

“I gave you four warnings,” Burke says, reclaiming her seat. “Then you passed out, and I had no choice. Tell me, why does half the town hate you?”

“It’s the whole town,” I correct. “Everyone except Winnie.”

“Did you piss in the beer vats or something?”

“No, I killed Red River’s star quarterback ten years ago,” I say. “Or at least everyone thinks I did.”

Burke rests her elbows on the sticky, peanut-covered bartop, then quickly reconsiders this decision. “I definitely need to hear this story.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Reaching over the counter, I grab a glass and serve myself the Saloon’s home-brewed beer, aptly named Seaweed because it tastes like the Little Mermaid’s abandoned flippers. Officer Burke doesn’t stop me, but from the look on her face, this appears contingent on whether or not I divulge my darkest secrets. “I knew this guy, Nash Adams, since we were kids. He had crappy parents, and so did I. We bonded over it. He snuck into my house almost every night. We were best friends, and yes, we occasionally reaped the benefits.” I wet my throat with a swig of Seaweed and keep talking. “Things changed, as they do, in high school. I spent two years in a school for mentally ill ‘at-risk’ youth while Nash joined the football team and got popular.”

“So, he started treating you like crap?”

“Never.” My throat closes up as I dredge the old memories. “He threatened anyone who made fun of me. People whispered behind my back, but they knew better than to mess with me. If they did, they answered to Nash. We never hung out at school, but that first night I came back to Red River, he knocked on my bedroom window and climbed through. He didn’t treat me like some crazy person, even after what happened to my mom—”

“What happened to your mom?” Burke asks.

“None of your damn business.”

“Fair enough. Back to Nash.”

“We made it to senior year,” I say. “He was every high school girl’s dream boy. Homecoming king, first-string quarterback, and in line for valedictorian. He fell for a cheerleader. Meredith Galvez.” My lip curls away from her name. “She played him like a set of drums, hammering away at his psyche until he couldn’t dream of leaving her. Then, on prom night, she broke up with him.”

“Ouch,” says Officer Burke, wincing. “What for?”

“She didn’t want to be ‘tied to her hometown’ in college,” I say, mimicking Meredith’s tinny voice. “Nash was heartbroken, so he picked me up from my aunt and uncle’s house, and we drove to my old home in the middle of nowhere.”

“You didn’t go to prom?” she teases.

“I don’t look good in ruffles.”

“Mm. What happened at your old house?”

I refill my glass and stare into the amber liquid, wishing I could dive into the foam and never surface. “We fell asleep in the bed of Nash’s truck. When I woke up, he was dead. I made a run for it, but the cops found me pretty quickly. They arrested me for first-degree murder.”

“How’d they jump to that conclusion?”

“They interviewed Meredith and Nash’s friends, who all lied about me,” I reply glumly. “They told the cops I’d been planning to kill Nash since sophomore year. Combined with my juvenile record, that was enough for the police to arrest me. I was seventeen, but they tried me as an adult.”

“But you weren’t convicted,” Officer Burke reminds me.

“There wasn’t enough evidence to support the charge,” I say. “No murder weapon. No sign of struggle. No witnesses. None of my DNA anywhere on Nash.”

“How did he die?” Burke asks softly.

I look straight at her. “Someone slit his throat while I slept right next to him. I woke up with his blood in my shoes.” I power down the second glass of beer. “Anyway, that’s why I’m the town pariah. One of the reasons, at least. After that, I left town and didn’t come back. Never finished high school either.”

It’s high time the conversation steers out of my depressing, historical cul-de-sac, especially since Officer Burke has adopted the signature eyebrow tilt of pity. I almost say something rude, but then I spot Burke’s little ghost. The girl hugs Burke’s legs underneath the bar, wincing every time someone shouts or sets down a glass too firmly.

“Your turn,” I say, watching the little girl. “Don’t tell me you’re free of tragedy, Burke. I can smell it on you.”

Officer Burke immediately relinquishes her pity in favor of performed ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please,” I say. “You’re drowning in guilt and shame, but you keep it all zipped up underneath that uniform, don’t you?”

She raises her hand for Winnie’s attention. My sister rushes toward us.

“I’ll take that drink, after all, Winnie,” Burke says politely. “Gin and tonic, please.”

Winnie swiftly makes the cocktail, presents it to Burke, and dusts her hands. “I’m officially on break. What do you guys need?”

I show her the sketch of the dead prospector. “I need to identify this man. From his clothes, I’m guessing he lived around the 1800s. Got anything in those insane research stacks you’ve been hoarding?”

“Maybe,” Winnie says, blushing. “Come up to my apartment. Teddy, bring your drink.”

Back in her apartment, Winnie unlocks a massive antique trunk that sits beneath the corner window, revealing an impressive collection of old newspapers, photographs, clippings, and books about Red River. She hands me a leather-bound book roughly the size of the Yellow Pages.

“That’s a handwritten census from 1852,” she says. “See if any of those names sound familiar. It doesn’t list Black or Native American people, though.”

“My guy’s white,” I say, skimming the first page. “But I don’t have his name, so this won’t help.”

“Let me see the sketch again,” Winnie says. After examining it, she points to a detail in the drawing and asks, “What’s this?”

“He had a handkerchief tucked into his pocket,” I say. “Embroidered with the initials, C.C.”

“His initials?” Winnie guesses.

“Most likely his wife’s or girlfriend’s,” Officer Burke says. “Back in the day, ladies gave favored men a handkerchief as a love token.”

I opened the census again, carefully turning the fragile pages until I reached the list of C’s. Only one person’s name matched the initials. “Cecelia Collins,” I say, showing Burke and Winnie. “It says here that she was married to a guy named Birch Collins. Do you think that’s our guy?”

“Birch Collins?” Winnie dives back into the trunk. “I think I might have a picture of him somewhere. He owned the old barbershop. Here—” She emerges with an album full of black and white photos, sorted alphabetically by names and places. Flipping to the C’s, she draws one out and frowns. “No, this isn’t him.”

“Let me see,” I say.

Birch Collins most definitely does not match the dead man I saw in the mine. He sports a freshly-trimmed mustache and wears the barber’s traditional vest and trousers. The dead prospector looked as though he hadn’t visited a barber in months.

“Definitely not him,” I tell Winnie.

Winnie hands the album of pictures to Officer Burke. “Well, I got you started. Feel free to skim through the rest of those pictures. I gotta get back to the bar.”

“Bye, Winnie,” Officer Burke says.

Winnie smiles. “Bye, Teddy.”

I snap my finger in front of Burke’s glazed eyes. “Hey, what’s your deal? Help me find this guy.”

Sitting on the floor, we split the stack of photos into two piles and start going through them. Halfway through my pile, my neck starts to ache. Groaning, I stand up to stretch.

“This is pointless,” I say. “We’ll never find him.”

Officer Burke holds up a photograph of four women ready to be hanged on a platform in Red River’s old town square. “Au contraire. Look at the caption.”

“Pearl Dumont sentenced to death for armed robbery—blah, blah, blah,” I read. “Cecelia Collins was sentenced to death for committing adultery. Wanted for questioning: Tobias Welch.”

“Wanna bet he’s our guy?” says Burke.

“We need proof. Keep looking.”

Officer Burke nurses her gin and tonic as we dig through Winnie’s research for the next two hours. Finally, I catch a glimpse of the prospector’s likeness in a file of obituaries.

“Here!” I show the obituary to Burke. “It’s him. Tobias Welch. He died in the mines. That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

“Great,” Burke says, brimming with enthusiasm. “Now, what’s the connection between Welch and Loretta?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Do I look like Yoda?” I say. “Identifying him was only the first step.”

Burke pushes herself off the floor. “That’s it. I’m done. If Sheriff Miller asks, tell him I did my best to work with you, but you literally drove me to drink.”

13

Though Officer Burke has no faith in me, I’m positive that I’m on the right track. Unfortunately, there’s no way to confirm this as Loretta hasn’t shown her ghostly face since she disappeared in the mine. One might mistake Loretta’s random vanishing as a good sign, but at this point in my investigation, it means one thing: her body is not where she thinks it is.

This is why I don’t do homicide investigations. I’m totally cool with delivering messages from the dead to the living or helping ghosts complete unfinished business in the event of their untimely death. When it comes to murder, I don’t like to get involved.

Of course, there’s no proof that Loretta Gunn was murdered. Not yet, anyway. Officer Burke and Sheriff Miller might be combing the town for clues and hints, but my gut tells me Loretta’s death wasn’t an accident or a suicide. The graveyard ghost who’d spoken to me yesterday reported that Loretta followed her son on his walk to school every day. No woman who loves her teenage son that much would kill herself. Not to mention, suicide victims don’t often become ghosts. They’re ready to cross over, and they do it almost instantly.

I clear the pictures of Winnie’s high school glory days—a group of cheerleaders in a pyramid during a football game, Winnie in a stunning, emerald green prom dress and a silver crown, Winnie and Boone kissing—from her corkboard. In the middle, I pin the copy of Loretta’s missing person report. Off to the side, I stick up the prospector’s sketch and Tobias Welch’s obituary. With some red embroidery thread from Winnie’s abandoned arts-and-crafts bin, I link Loretta and Tobias together.

After a quick trip downstairs to the Saloon for the whiskey that Officer Burke refused me, along with a plate of fries, I dig through Winnie’s research, scanning every picture and page for more information on Tobias Welch. His obituary cites his cause of death as a mining accident, though I question if this is accurate since Tobias’s ghost didn’t sport any visible injuries. Besides his taboo relationship with Cecilia Collins, I can’t find any other connections to Red River’s historical population. He died an unmarried man and left no known heirs in his wake. The obituary does not mention parents or friends. It seems the old-time prospector lived quite the lonely life.

It’s a stretch to link a modern-day woman to a man who lived and died in the 1850s. If I want to connect Loretta to Tobias, I need more information about both of them. For the first time, I open the file that Sheriff Miller first gave to me. In addition to Loretta’s missing person report, the file contains Loretta’s marriage license and divorce papers, her son’s basic information, interview transcripts from Loretta’s boss and ex-husband, and a few handwritten assumptions from Sheriff Miller’s brilliant mind.

I’m primarily interested in Loretta’s ex-husband—James Canton. Good ol’ Jimmy is Sheriff Miller’s number one suspect, and when I see an old mug shot in the file, I immediately understand why. Jimmy’s eye bags are darker than charcoal, and two of his upper incisors are chipped like he got punched in the mouth and never went to the dentist. The collar of his white T-shirt is stained yellow, and he has a slightly crazed look in his eye. Those shiny, blown pupils mean one of two things; Jimmy was either high when this picture was taken, or he’d recently suffered a head injury. I’m betting it’s the former.

Jimmy’s initial arrest had nothing to do with his late wife. Roughly eighteen months prior to Loretta’s disappearance, Jimmy drunkenly broke into a neighbor’s car and stole the radio. The neighbor’s security cameras caught him on tape, but they didn’t press charges. The arrest report states that the neighbors were satisfied with the safe return of the car radio, and that they didn’t want to cause Jimmy and Loretta “any more trouble.”

Jimmy and Loretta, it appeared, had a reputation for being loud, troublesome neighbors. If this is the case, I automatically pity their son, Dusty. Bad neighbors generally make bad parents. The fact that Dusty is living with his grandfather instead of Jimmy backs up my assumption. Where exactly is Jimmy, and why doesn’t he care that his ex-wife is dead?

The interview transcripts partially reveal this answer. I skim through Sheriff Miller’s questions and Jimmy’s flighty responses.

Sheriff Miller: When was the last time you saw Loretta?

James Canton: Thursday. No, Tuesday. I don’t keep track since we got divorced.

Sheriff Miller: You share custody of Dusty. You don’t see Loretta when she drops him off at your place?

James Canton: Dusty comes and goes when he wants. He rides his bike. His mom doesn’t drop him off unless it’s raining.

Sheriff Miller: So, you can’t tell me anything about your wife.

James Canton: She threatened to leave me years ago. I guess she finally did it. I’m just surprised she didn’t take Dusty with her.

Sheriff Miller: You think she left town?

James Canton: I don’t know, man.

Sheriff Miller: Did she leave a message, asking you to take care of Dusty?

James Canton: Sheriff, if she had, I would’ve told you about it.

Sheriff Miller: I’m not so sure about that.

The rest of the interview proceeds in a similar manner. Despite Sheriff Miller’s best attempts, Jimmy gives vague, unhelpful replies. He clearly hasn’t cared for Loretta in quite some time. Though his answers seem dodgy, I’m not convinced that Jimmy killed Loretta. Fishing Sheriff Miller’s business card out of my jacket pocket, I call his number.

“Hello?” he answers groggily. “Who’s this?”

“Are you sleeping, Sheriff?” I ask. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting the town or whatever?”

“Not at ten o’clock at night,” he rumbles. “That’s second shift’s job. What do you want, James?”

“Did anyone ever report domestic disturbances at the Cantons’ house?” I say.

“Not that I can recall.”

“So Jimmy doesn’t have a history of violence or abuse?” I say. “Did Loretta ever have bruises? Did she wear long sleeves a lot or make excuses as to why she couldn’t do things in town?”

“Loretta was very involved in the town,” Miller says. “She showed up to every PTA meeting. She helped plan town events. She was on the HOA committee for her neighborhood. She didn’t show signs of abuse.”

“Then what makes you think Jimmy killed her?”

The sheriff groans, making the bedsprings squeak as he sits up. “I never said Jimmy killed her, but we’d be remiss not to suspect him. How’d it go with Officer Burke today?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Not well, then?”

“Night, Miller.”

Now that I’ve got a better hold on who Loretta was, it’s time to do the same for Tobias Welch. Lamentably, it’s much harder to profile someone who died almost two centuries ago. Luckily for me, though, it’s not impossible. Since Tobias was a Red River citizen, he is most likely buried somewhere in town. Donning my leather jacket, I tuck Officer Burke’s borrowed flashlight into the pocket and head outside.

The Saloon is still in full swing. Through the front windows, I spot Winnie lining up a row of tequila shots for a group of rowdy college students who most likely road-tripped from Denver. I pause briefly to ensure that everyone is treating my sister with the respect she deserves, but my worries are unfounded. This town of hicks and morons agrees on a single rule: don’t harass the bartender. If you break the rule, you won’t be allowed back in the bar.

Behind the church, the cemetery is quiet. Despite presumptions, dead people don’t throw wild graveyard parties à la the Haunted Mansion. While ghosts do come out more often at night, it’s mostly so they don’t have to deal with the living. After all, we can be a handful. Tonight, a few silvery beings rest on or around their graves, gazing at the sky. The earlier storm washed all the clouds aside, leaving nothing but an unbroken stretch of navy blue and twinkling stars.

The Red River Cemetery is broken up into several sections. Those who have died recently are buried closer to the church. If you continue up the stone pathway to the left, you’ll find the grandmothers and grandfathers of current locals. However, if you stride straight ahead, through the wall of trees and moss, over the trickling creek, you’ll end up in Red River’s original graveyard where cowboys, gunslingers, and lawmen lay six feet under. Some of the graves are marked, and some aren’t. The crumbling headstones bear signs of age and occasional vandalism. Actually, the faded red spray paint on one ancient rock reminds me of a past misadventure.

As I examine the grave markers for dates that match Tobias Welch’s birth and death, I imagine what Officer Burke might say if she’d tagged along on this leg of my investigation. Pairing her with me was Miller’s mistake. She would be better off stuck behind a desk than dealing with my seemingly senseless deductive methods. If Miller forces us to keep working together, I’ll have to make excuses for my behavior. It’s not like I can tell Officer Burke that I’m interviewing ghosts from the nineteenth century.

Slowly but surely, I move through the graveyard. For stones with engravings that have worn away, I take etchings—rubbing the soft edge of my pencil lead across the paper—to more easily read the names and dates. Eventually, I find my own history buried deep beneath a crooked pine tree.

My family arrived in the United States fairly early on, establishing roots in Virginia around the 1600s. They moved west with the expansion, following the quest for gold, and eventually ended up in Red River. My great-great-great-grandfather, Calvin James, was a gunslinging cowboy who herded cattle for competing ranch owners. More than once, Calvin got caught in the crossfire between owners, as he only completed the job for the highest bidder. Other rumors speculated that Calvin acted as a bounty hunter, but it was harder to distinguish criminals from innocent people back then.

Stories about Calvin and his Wild West ways trickled down through the paternal side of my family. Up until Winnie and me, the James men always fathered sons. Personally, I didn’t find the tales of Calvin’s casual murder that appealing despite the reverent tone my father used when he spoke of our ancestor. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think killing random people for gold and sport is honorable or justifiable.

Calvin wasn’t the only man in Red River with an inflated ego, a lasso, and a cowboy hat. He led a gang of men with similar professions, all of whom ended up in early graves. Three of Calvin’s closest confidantes are buried beside him: Joseph Goodnight, Jack Bassett, and Edwin Levy. Daddy’s stories often featured the fearsome foursome, but I tuned out most of the gory details. By happy chance, none of the cowboys’ ghosts linger in the area. At least, not that I’ve seen.

I finish checking headstones without locating Tobias Welch’s grave. If he died in the mine, perhaps there wasn’t a body to bury. Annoyed with the lack of progress, I turn to leave, but there’s one marker—the largest one—I haven’t checked yet.

Most cemeteries feature statues of angels or saints, but the stone monstrosity overlooking Red River’s dead is a likeness of one Winfield Marlow. Don’t ask me who the hell Winfield Marlow was because the ridiculously excessive sculpture doesn’t tell me anything apart from his birth and death dates: 1803-1852. The version preserved in stone wears a brocade vest beneath a long coat, boots meant more for fashion than work, and a tophat. Marlow either possessed a great deal of wealth, or he wanted everyone else to think he did.

Funnily enough, I’ve met Winfield Marlow once before. During a midnight outing with Nash around junior year, we dared each other to climb the statue and touch Marlow’s tophat. Halfway up, Marlow’s ghost emerged from the stone and threatened to beat the crap out of me. Though Nash couldn’t see him, he didn’t question me after we sprinted from the graveyard. Since then, I haven’t given Marlow a second thought. Maybe it’s time that changed.

“Hey, Marlow.” I pick up a big stick and tap the statue’s face. “Wake up, buddy. I got questions.” The statue remains quiet, so I pick up a few pebbles and toss them at Marlow’s nose. “Marlow! You’re ugly. I bet you were broke. Your outfit sucks. Your mama’s so stupid, she went to the dentist to buy a Bluetooth.”

The statue roars to life, or rather, Marlow’s awakening spirit makes it appear as such. The stone seems to quiver as Marlow wrenches himself from the grave. With a thunderous cry, he stretches toward the sky and bellows, “Who dares speak ill of my mother?”

“Hi,” I say, waving. “Down here, buddy.”

Marlow glances down his nose and points one dramatic finger. “You shall pay for your insolence!”

“Yeah, whatever. Do you know who Tobias Welch is?”

Instead of answering, Marlow zooms toward me and lets out a war cry. Not entirely surprised, I sidestep his first attack. When he swings around for another try, I slam my fist into his nose. From the bent cartilage, it looks like someone did the same thing when Marlow was still alive.

The massive ghost ricochets across the cemetery, eyes wide with shock. I beckon him back to me, challenging him to try again. Marlow’s brows knit together with recognition.

“You,” he spits. “I promised to tear you limb from limb if you ever dared cross me again.”

“I didn’t really listen to that whole speech,” I say, shrugging. “Bygones, eh? Besides, I’m bigger and stronger, and I know what I’m doing now. We can fight all night, and I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

“What’s your name?” Marlow asks.

“James,” I say. “Calamity James.”

Without another word, Marlow zooms over to my ancestor’s grave, where he spits on all four headstones: James, Goodnight, Bassett, and Levy. I have a feeling I won’t be getting any answers tonight.

14

Winfield Marlow doesn’t let me go easy, but after I land a few more punches to his nose, he eventually gives up on trying to intimidate me. Once finished with the supernatural grudge match, I walk back to the Saloon, exhausted, irritated, and aching. As I pass the bar, I spot Uncle Kent sitting at the counter and chatting with another old-timer. Too late, I remember that I’m supposed to be helping Kent around the ranch. I head inside.

“Hey, old man,” I say, taking the empty stool next to Uncle Kent. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to abstain from alcohol after a head injury?”

“It’s soda water,” he says and passes me the glass. “Take a whiff if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. Did Winnie finish her shift?”

“Not quite yet. She’s getting more bourbon from the stockroom.” Uncle Kent leans back so the man beside him can see me. “Henry, you remember my other niece, right? This is Cal.”

Henry Carillo might be the one person in Red River besides Winnie who doesn’t automatically treat me with disdain. He’s also immortal. Well, not really, but it seems like he never ages. Maybe it’s because Henry has been old and weathered for as long as I’ve known him, which is since birth. His bushy white beard, crinkled blue eyes, handmade poncho, and scarred stetson make it look like someone plucked Henry from a history textbook and set him down in modern-day. He even carries an antique Colt on his hip, though no one has ever seen him fire it except me.

Henry is known as a local peacemaker. People don’t dare to make trouble when he’s around. When I was a kid, Henry saved me from a horde of horrible teenagers who cornered me in an alley and almost beat me to death. He’d shot the Colt straight up in the air, sending my attackers running for their lives. I tried to thank him, but Henry had already disappeared by the time I found my voice. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a ghost.

“Of course,” Henry says in a voice like rich, golden butter. He tips his hat. “Doing well, Calamity?”

“Relatively speaking,” I say. “Kent, I was working with Sheriff Miller today. That’s why I didn’t get a chance to swing by.”

Uncle Kent snorts and reaches into his coat pocket as if to grab a tin of chewing tobacco. When he comes up empty, he sighs longingly. “Make all the excuses you want, Cal. I didn’t expect you to help out anyway. You grooming horses? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I said I’d help,” I insist. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother.”

“She says she’ll be there, Kent,” Henry Carillo adds. “So she’ll be there.”

The way he speaks makes every sentence sound like a premonition. Now, I can’t not show up at Uncle Kent’s tomorrow. Kent nods at Henry, solidifying my fate.

“Leave me hanging again, and you might as well get out of town,” Uncle Kent warns. “Your job with Sheriff Miller be damned.”

“Relax, old man,” I say. “Do either of you know who Winfield Marlow is?”

“You don’t?” Uncle Kent asks. “Boy, the legends really have fallen from grace. Wouldn’t you say, Henry?”

Henry lifts his glass in a mock toast. “Yes, sirree.”

“Who was this guy?” I ask. “He must have been pretty important, or else he wouldn’t have that giant ugly statue in the cemetery.”

“He was self-important,” Uncle Kent replies. “But if we’re talking about the Marlow Challenge, I’m gonna need some more peanuts.”

“What’s the Marlow Challenge?”

Uncle Kent flags the second bartender for another basket of roasted goodies, and he refuses to answer my question until the peanuts have been delivered. Happily cracking a shell open, he says, “Winfield Marlow owned a gold-mining business in the 1800s. He put Red River on the map, claiming the hills around here were rife with money. Marlow’s wealth was well-known. He owned half the land and most of the buildings. If you paid rent, you most likely paid Marlow. Like most businessmen, Marlow wasn’t honest or pure. He liked to toy with the less fortunate. Even got a kick out of it,” Uncle Kent continues. “He died pretty young, but that wasn’t much of a surprise back then. That’s when the rumors started.”

“What rumors?” I ask.

“Word spread that Marlow issued a challenge with his dying breath,” says Uncle Kent. “According to the rules, the man who found Marlow’s true heir would be rewarded with unending fortune, so long as the champion brings the child to the location of Marlow’s spirit.”

“That’s stupid as hell.”

Uncle Kent lifts his shoulders. “That’s the Marlow Challenge.”

“So, a bunch of idiots in the 1800s ran around looking for Marlow’s kid?” I ask. “Did anyone actually succeed?”

“No, ma’am,” Henry chimes in. “That was the catch. Everyone in Red River combed far and wide for Marlow’s heir, and they all came up empty-handed.”

“Marlow didn’t have an heir,” Uncle Kent says, chuckling. “He made up the challenge on his deathbed to torture the locals.”

“That’s it?” I prompt. “Nothing happened?”

“The challenge caused plenty of trouble,” Henry explains. “As if there wasn’t enough drama in the west, Marlow’s Challenge pitted long-time friends against each other, made decent people into kidnappers, and tore families apart. A few cowboys dedicated their entire lives to finding Marlow’s heir. They drove themselves crazy looking for the kid. Eventually, they got old or died, and people started forgetting about the challenge. Now, it’s no more than a tale for telling around the campfire.”

“Or at a bartop,” I say. “Does anyone still know about the challenge? Do people still look for a Marlow heir?”

“Everyone knows about it,” Uncle Kent says. “But no one wastes their time looking for someone who doesn’t exist.”

“How can you be sure that Marlow never had children?” I ask.

“I suppose you can’t,” Henry replies. “What makes you so interested in Winfield Marlow all of a sudden?”

I rap the bar with my fingers to expel excess energy. “I can’t shake the feeling that he has something to do with my job for the sheriff.”

“A feeling, eh?” Uncle Kent shakes his head. “Can’t bet on a feeling, Cal.”

“Gamblers do it all the time.” I stand on the stool rungs and peer over the heads of everyone at the bar. “Winnie’s been gone a while. Shouldn’t she be back from the stockroom by now?”

Henry ambles off his chair. “I’ll give it a look.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’ll check on her.”

Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to the stockroom in the basement of the building. Once below ground, cases of shiny liquor bottles glint at me in the dark, but Winnie is nowhere to be found.

“Win?” I call out for good measure. “You down here?”

The silence presses in on me, and a shiver crawls up my neck like a spider. I take the stairs two at a time, grateful to return to the Saloon’s din. Leaning over the counter, I wave at the second bartender until he comes my way.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“Nothing. Where’s Winnie?”

“She went up to her apartment with her boyfriend half an hour ago,” he says. “Totally left me hanging. When you see her, tell her Boone’s fine butt is not worth losing her job. Unemployment is skyrocketing in this hellhole—”

I leave the Saloon through the back door and take the outdoor staircase up to Winnie’s landing. Inside, Boone and Winnie’s voices echo into the hall.

“I never said you couldn’t be pretty and smart,” Boone yells. “I’m just saying that if you spent a little less time staring at your books and a little more time with me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!”

“I like reading,” Winnie growls. “I don’t have to spend every waking moment with you, Boone. We’re not glued together.”

“No, but lately, you haven’t spent any time at all with me,” Boone shoots back. “Ever since Cal got back into town, you’ve been totally ignoring me! For what? Your crazy sister?”

“My sister’s not crazy,” Winnie says, and a little stream of pride shoots through my heart. “If you think that’s true, you can get out now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“This is my apartment. You’ll leave when I say you will!”

“I just want to understand,” Boone pleads. “We were doing so good, Winnie. Now, it’s like you’re not even interested in me. Don’t these guns turn you on anymore?”

I hang my head with secondhand embarrassment. I can practically picture Boone flexing his biceps as he poses that question, truly believing his “gun show” might help him keep Winnie.

“Did you ever wonder why we got together?” Winnie asks earnestly.

“Because we complete each other.”

Winnie snorts. “Because it was convenient. I don’t want to settle for convenience anymore, Boone. I want—I deserve more than that.”

“Of course you do, baby. I can give you that. Tell me what you want.”

“I just did!”

Boone pauses. “Right, but I’m gonna need a little more information to work with and some sugar to jog my brain. What do you say, babe?”

“Boone, get off. I’m serious. Boone, stop.”

I kick open the door. Boone has already stepped away from Winnie, so at least he’s not as gross as I thought. Unsure of who’s breaking in, he cowers behind my sister, who automatically draws her knife.

“Good evening,” I say cheerily. “It’s your friendly, neighborhood Calamity.”

Winnie sighs and puts the knife away. Then she pushes Boone out from where he’s hiding in her curtains. “Get out, Boone.”

“Come on, babe,” he says, pouting. “We can talk about this.”

“Out,” she says again as if disciplining a dog.

Boone sinks to his knees, clutching Winnie’s belt loops. “Please, Winnie. I’ll do anything for you. Anything!”

“Oh, really?” she challenges. “Remember when I caught you in the bar bathroom, making out with my sister?”

Boone glances my way. “Uh… no?”

“Just to clarify,” I add, “that only happened because I needed information.”

“Shut up, Cal,” Boone hisses. “This is none of your business.”

“On the contrary.” I grab his collar and drag him away from Winnie. His boots scrabble across the wood floor. “She politely asked you to leave, and you didn’t. When your presence becomes unwanted, it is my business.”

Boone gets to his feet and shakes out his wrinkled shirt. “Fine, I’m going! You know, Cal? One day, someone’s going to hit you back.”

“That day has come and passed. Have a good night, pal.”

Winnie sinks onto her bedspread and sighs with relief as I close the door behind Boone. “Thank you. He wouldn’t leave.”

“You guys have been fighting a lot.” I tuck a strand of hair back into her fishtail braid. “Don’t you think it’s time to break it off?”

“I will,” she says. “I have to make sure of something first.”

“Make sure of what?”

“Never mind.” She smiles. “You’re up late. Do you need something?”

“Yes, actually. Do you have any records for a guy named Winfield Marlow?”

“The statue guy?”

“That’s him,” I confirm. “I don’t recall seeing anything about him in your research pile.”

She pulls apart her braid, running her fingers through her hair until the strands separate. “That’s because he was notoriously private. He didn’t keep records of his wealth.”

“Why not?”

“My guess is that he was scamming everyone in town,” Winnie says. “He probably lied about his income and net worth. That’s why Red River had that economic slump at the end of the 1800s. Marlow kept telling everyone how much gold there was here, convincing big businessmen to invest in his corporation.”

“Wait, Red River didn’t have gold?”

“We did,” Winnie says. “But not as much as Marlow originally thought. His prospectors dug most of it up in five years. After that, there was nothing left to find.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“No one does. It’s considered one of Red River’s greatest mysteries.” She massages her scalp. “Why do you want to know about him? Is he linked to Loretta and Tobias Welch?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“But you’re following this train of thought anyway?”

I gesture to my gut. “I just have this feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah.”

Winnie nods like she knows exactly what I mean. “Can’t let something like that go to waste.”

“I won’t. What about Calvin?”

She purses her lips. “Great-great-great-grandpappy Calvin? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“Marlow spit on his grave an hour ago,” I say. “I’m guessing the two of them weren’t exactly besties.”

“You saw Marlow’s ghost?”

“You bet.”

“Check the library tomorrow,” she suggests. “That’s where I stole—I mean, borrowed—most of my research from. They keep extensive records of Red River’s history, but none of it is digitized or organized or even alphabetized.”

“Super,” I say dryly. “Sounds like fun.”

“It’s your best shot.” She checks her watch and groans. “I’ve got to go downstairs. Brady’s probably wondering where I am.”

“The other bartender? Oh, yeah. He’s totally pissed at you.”

15

An unearthly shriek echoes through my motel room, and my chest heaves like my heart is attempting to escape its boney prison. I fall off the edge of the bed and hit the smelly, mildewed carpet. As I kick myself free of the blankets and grope blindly for any kind of weapon, Loretta’s ghost appears above the rickety AC unit as if she’s arisen from the vents.

“Jeez,” I gasp, clutching my chest. “Was that you?”

Loretta makes a garbled choking sound, eyes watering with the effort, but she hasn’t found her voice yet. She points to the moonlight that creeps through the gaps in the curtains, blatantly concerned with something outside.

I go to the window and push aside the curtains. On Main Street, a lone figure sits on the curb outside the gas station. Every other minute, a glowing red cherry—the end of a cigarette—appears in the nighttime. The figure glances up as the streetlight flickers.

Loretta moans, motioning for me to meet the figure. I have a feeling I already know who it is, so I pull on a pair of jeans and jog outside. Loretta bobs along after me. The figure rests his head on his knees, the lit cigarette dangling from between his fingers. I roll my shoes across the pavement, making almost no noise as I approach him.

“It’s Dusty, right?”

Loretta’s son jumps at the sound of my voice. He immediately flicks the cigarette away and braces himself against the curb, like he’s preparing to run. Squinting at me, he asks, “Are you a cop?”

“Not exactly.” Chuckling, I sit next to him, resting my feet in the gutter. “Sheriff Miller asked me to help find your mom. That’s how I recognized you. I’m Cal.”

Loretta hovers above her son. She reaches out to stroke his messy, overgrown hair, but I shake my head. Dusty will spook if he feels her cold, bodiless touch. Wearing her emotional pain, Loretta reluctantly withdraws.

“I heard the PTA moms talking about you,” Dusty says. “They say you’re a homicidal pervert.”

“I’m touched.”

“It’s not true?” Dusty asks.

“Dude, do you think Sheriff Miller would have hired me if it was?” I say. “I promise I’m neither homicidal nor a pervert.”

Dusty blows his bangs out of his face and gazes longingly at the cigarette he discarded in the gutter. From the smell, it has more than just tobacco in it. Did Loretta drag me out here to scold her son for a little bit of weed? When I catch her eye, she nods.

I pick the joint off the road. “Where did you get this?”

“There’s a senior at school who sells it.”

“Did you know marijuana can mess with brain development?” I ask, flicking the joint into the storm drain. “Your brain isn’t fully finished cooking until you turn twenty-five. Until then, don’t waste your potential.”

“I don’t even like it,” Dusty admits. “It smells gross, and it tastes worse. I only do it because it helps me feel empty.”

Though I often employ emptiness myself, it’s not something I want for a fifteen-year-old kid who doesn’t know his mom’s dead. I like to quash my emotions with liquor and avoidance tactics, but if someone had been compassionate enough to teach me otherwise, I might be leading a very different life.

“Empty, huh?” I offer Dusty an unopened bottle of water from the motel. “I remember wanting to feel like that.”

“Really? When?”

“My best friend died when I was seventeen,” I explain. “By then, my dad had already left us, and my mom was stuck in a hospital for the rest of her life. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. It felt like no one loved me anymore.”

Dusty drinks and stares glumly into the half-empty bottle. “That’s how I feel.”

“I ran,” I tell him. “As soon as I could, I left town and branched out on my own, but I left behind the one person who did love me. Somehow, she still loves me, even though I abandoned her.” I nudge Dusty’s shoulder. “Don’t empty yourself of emotions. You’re allowed to feel sad and crappy. It sucks at first, but it goes away after a while. You realize that other people are in your corner, like your grandfather and your friends. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“Your mom loves you too, even though she’s gone right now.”

Dusty looks up hopefully. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

I can’t help glancing up at Loretta’s ghost. Silent tears well in her eyes as she clutches both hands to her heart. Her heartbreak is unimaginable, yet I feel the weight of her agony like a dull cramp in my abdomen, almost as if we’re connected.

“No matter what happens,” I tell Dusty, “your mom will always be around to protect you. She’ll love you forever. Do you believe that?”

“Yeah,” Dusty says. “I do.”

Loretta’s ghostly eyelashes can no longer dam the flood of tears. She lets them fall, lingering near Dusty as closely as she can without actually touching him.

“You know what’s weird?” he says. “Sometimes, I can feel her nearby. I look over my shoulder and expect to see her there.”

“See, that’s why you shouldn’t smoke,” I tease. “Because your mom’s watching even when she’s not around.”

This pries a tentative grin from the teenager. Standing, I offer him my hand and pull him up from the curb.

“Why don’t you let me walk you home?” I say.

“Sure. That’d be nice.”

After depositing Dusty safely at his grandfather’s house, his quest for emptiness keeps me awake until dawn when I give up on the notion of a restful night. Now that I’ve met Dusty, finding out what happened to Loretta feels significantly more critical. In the past, I’ve made a point of avoiding kids with dead parents, telling myself they wouldn’t benefit from my input. The idea that I’ve done this selfishly—to stop myself from feeling, to ignorantly remain in that gulch of emptiness Dusty spoke off—makes me restless. I twist and turn until the sheets wrap around my ankles and hold me against the bed.

When the sun creeps over the horizon, I whip the blankets off and rip the curtains open to let the light in. The view of Main Street from this side of town is quite dismal. Commuters buy sad breakfast sandwiches at the gas station before puttering off to their day jobs. A colossal storage facility blocks most of the sunrise. The ugly red sign flashes StoreSafe until it’s burned into my retinas. In the alleyway, a homeless man awakes beneath the drip of a leaky gutter. He shakes off the dampness and asks a passing commuter for change. The woman, bagel in hand, pretends not to see or hear him.

“I gotta get out of here,” I mutter.

Doubly motivated to close Loretta’s case, I head to the library on Winnie’s suggestion. The Red River Library might be the prettiest building in town. The red brick building features stunning white columns and a marble statue of a woman wearing a buckskin dress with intricate beading around the collar. The plaque at the base of the statue identifies her as Red River’s “First Wife,” a member of the Ute tribe.

As the story goes, Red River was initially Native American territory. The English and Spanish men who first traveled here were met with violent opposition. Supposedly, the Ute tribe stole horses, poisoned food, and killed men in their sleep. Then, the chief’s daughter fell in love with one of the Englishmen, Amos Poole, who was later credited as Red River’s founder. The couple married and created a truce so everyone could live together peacefully.

It’s essentially Red River’s local version of Pocahontas and John Smith, but if you know the truth about those two, you can deduce what really happened in Red River too. Likely, the First Wife, who goes unnamed in history, was coerced into marrying Poole. Then a bunch of crappy treaties allowed the new Americans to steal native land out from under the rightful owners. Red River, like almost everywhere else in the United States, is built on purloined property. They got a pretty statue out of it, so no hard feelings, right?

Due to my unending string of bad luck, the librarian on duty is none other than Maisy Sellers, who I’ve already pissed off by insulting her magazine. Since her journalistic aspirations don’t pay the bills, she’s stuck memorizing the Dewey Decimal System in her own version of purgatory.

“Oh, this ought to be good,” Maisy says as she spots me at the front desk. “Can you even read, Calamity?”

I produce a fake, strained laugh. “Good one, Maisy. My sister said you have records of Red River’s history. Where can I find them?”

With a hand on her hip, she says, “Those records are fragile. What do you want with them?”

“Not that you need to know, but it’s for a case I’m working on with Sheriff Miller.”

Maisy shrieks with laughter. “You’re working for the police force? This place really is going to the dogs.”

“The dogs were well-fed before I got back into town,” I say. “Can you point me in the right direction, or shall I wander around until I find what I’m looking for? Fair warning, the second option puts me in your direct path for the better part of the morning, so choose wisely.”

Sneering, Maisy trots off. She leads me through the main library, down a set of stairs, and into a basement hallway. The fluorescent lights give me an immediate headache.

“Are you gonna kill me and bury my body down here?” I ask.

“I wish, but I don’t like getting blood on my clothes, and I left my apron at home.” She opens an unmarked door and gestures me inside. “This is the records room. Have fun.”

When she shuts me in, I test the doorknob to make sure she hasn’t locked it. Then I turn around to see what I’m dealing with. The answer is not pretty.

As Winnie promised, the record room boasts no signs of organization. Shelves fill the floor space from wall to wall, leaving aisles far too narrow for the average American to shimmy between. The documents range from loose-leaf paper to leather-bound tomes, stacks of new magazines to yellowing daily newspapers, and recent textbooks to outdated academic essays. Also included in the library’s collection are a small printing press, several stetsons in glass cases that undoubtedly belonged to influential Red River citizens, and a dead librarian.

He lingers in the shadowy space between the back shelves, reading a Harlequin romance novel that features a studly cowboy on its cover. I automatically draw away—ghosts that can hold and manipulate real objects with ease tend to be older and stronger than most, and this guy’s turning pages like he still owns a physical body. Hearing my footsteps, he glances up through the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose.

“Hi,” I say tentatively. “I don’t suppose you can tell me where I might find records of one Tobias Welch, could you?”

The librarian closes his book and rises slowly from his faded armchair. “These are my documents. I protect them.”

“That’s totally fine,” I say. “Continue protecting them. I’m just here to look. Do you mind?”

The librarian hurtles toward my face as I reach for the closest book. “No one,” he bellows, “touches my documents!”

“Maisy said I could,” I offer, unfazed by his display of ghostly superiority. “She’s the current librarian. If she gave me permission, that means she trusts me to handle your documents with care. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The librarian’s harsh stare softens momentarily. “Maisy sent you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose that’s all right, then.” He glides back to his armchair and returns to the romance book. “But don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to.”

I have no idea how to separate what I’m allowed to touch from what I’m not allowed, so I start with the shelves farthest from the dead librarian’s line of sight. It takes me a solid hour to skim through a single pile of old books and newspapers. Apparently, the Red River librarians saved any and every piece of literature that might be considered historical. I find several issues of a gossip rag printed in the late 1860s, fashion magazines for “the daily frontierswoman,” and advertisements for barbershops, weapon parts, and animal feed.

Another hour later, I’ve made virtually no progress, but I rein in my irritated sighs when the dead librarian shoots me narrow-eyed looks. At this rate, it’ll take weeks to find any relevant information in the records room, but what choice do I have?

I toss a handbound booklet into my rejection pile, and it falls open. Each page lists a name, a date, and a price—the booklet is a collection of receipts, but for what service? Curious, I retrieve the delicate document and turn to the front cover. In the same pretty handwriting, the owner has written her name: Lottie Lane. Next to each receipt entry, she’s also listed a time stamp. Routinely, an eight-hour period cost ten dollars, and every customer was male.

“Lottie Lane, the soiled dove,” I say.

In the American West, prostitutes were not uncommon. If I check, I’m sure to find dozens of similar receipt books in the record room. However, as I flip through Lottie’s transactions, I realize this is the one I need: Tobias Welch’s name is entered in the booklet at least once a week.

I check the shelf for more of Lottie’s receipt books, but this appears to be the only one. However, an old newspaper article with Winfield Marlow’s name printed in the headline catches my eye. As I pull it out, the stack of books resting on the article tumbles to the floor.

The mistreatment of “his” documents brings the dead librarian to my location faster than a wheel of Gloucester cheese rolling down Cooper’s Hill.

“Did I stutter?” he demands. “Do not touch my documents!”

As he descends upon me, fists raised, the door to the records room opens, and in walks Officer Teddy Burke.

16

I have to defend myself against the psychotic librarian. After yesterday’s mudslides and rockfalls, my body is a patchwork quilt of bruises and scrapes, and purple isn't really my color. I have no choice but to ward off the librarian’s chaotic flurry of punches as he corners me in the narrow aisle between shelves. Stepping this way and that, I duck and dive beneath the librarian’s fists. Though he’s strong, his technique lacks finesse. Each time I see an opening, I deliver a quick jab to his abdomen, nose, or cheek.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Officer Burke as she watches the scene with a dropped jaw. Her eyes follow the movement of a heavy book as the librarian lifts it from the shelf and batters me with it. My teeth bounce against each other when the book lands on my head. If we keep this up much longer, I’ll have a lot to explain.

The librarian winds up for another attack, swinging one arm way above his head in preparation. His other hand hangs by his side, leaving his face and chest vulnerable. As he closes in, I land a massive uppercut under his chin that snaps his head up. Following through, I plant my foot on his chest and push-kick. The librarian’s powers do him a disadvantage as he smashes into the shelf behind him, which tips over and causes a domino effect through the records room.

I grab Lottie Lane’s receipt book and the article about Marlow, then dive from the room, tackling Officer Burke out of harm’s way.

“Make a run for it, Teddy Bear!” I call as the records room smashes itself to pieces.

Without question, Officer Burke sprints after me. I check over my shoulder to make sure the dead librarian hasn’t come through the walls, but the basement hallway is empty. He’s probably too busy lamenting the rise and fall of Red River’s literary history. As we emerge topside, Maisy waddles toward us.

“What did you do?” she demands. “I heard that racket from up here!”

“Bad news, Maisy,” I say. “An earthquake hit the records room. Tread carefully down there. It’s a disaster area.”

“You did this on purpose, Cal,” she accuses. “I warned you—”

“Excuse me?” I clutch the receipt book and article behind my back where Maisy can’t see them. “That entire room is a death trap. Those shelves should be bolted to the walls, so they don’t tip over. I could sue the library for personal injury. Officer Burke, back me up.”

“Cal’s right,” Burke says. “I saw the shelves tip. It wasn’t her fault. They should have been better secured. I’ll have the fire department swing by to help clean up and conduct a safety review.”

Maisy squeezes the bridge of her nose as if to keep her melted brain from running out through her nostrils. “Just tell me how bad it is, on a scale of one to ten.”

“Ten,” Officer Burke and I say.

“Thanks for your help,” I tell Officer Burke once we’ve cleared the library steps. “If you hadn’t been there, Maisy would have called the cops on me. Oh, wait—you are the cops.”

Burke steps directly into my path, and I nearly trip over her long legs. Swiftly, she takes the receipt book and the article from my grip.

“You’re not getting off so easily,” she says, examining the items. “What the hell did I see in that basement?”

“You said it yourself,” I reply. “Those shelves weren’t secure.”

“You were doing some weird crap way before those shelves fell,” she reminds me. “It looked like you were fighting someone. That book flew through the air and hit you out of nowhere.”

“Officer Burke, are you feeling okay?” I touch her forehead with the back of my hand. “It’s a pretty hot day. I think the heat is getting to you.”

She whacks my hand away. “I’m not overheated, and I know what I saw. Explain yourself. Now.”

I click my tongue, stalling for time. “Would you believe… bees? A whole swarm of bees. I don’t know how they got into the basement, but they were not happy when I found their hive behind some books—”

“I’m not laughing, James.”

“Neither am I. I’m allergic.”

“Fine,” she says. “Don’t tell me what happened, but I’ll find out eventually. What did you steal these documents for?”

I show her the receipt book. “Tobias Welch was a regular customer of this prostitute, Lottie Lane. I think if—”

Officer Burke groans and knocks the receipts aside. “You’re still going on about that old prospector? This has nothing to do with Loretta’s case.”

“What if it does?”

“Look, I spoke to Sheriff Miller today,” she says. “He’s convinced, like you, that we should be looking for a body. I got a list of places to check. Please, just get in the squad car and act like a normal human being for once.”

I spot the police cruiser waiting for us on the library’s curb. “I thought you quit working with me. Wasn’t that what you said when you walked out of Winnie’s the other night?”

“Sheriff Miller didn’t like that, even when I offered to go back to desk duty,” Burke says with pink cheeks. “I’m stuck with you. Are you going to help me find Loretta’s body or not?”

“That depends. What’s on the list of places?”

She digs a sticky note out of her pocket and hands it to me.

“Loretta’s old home address, place of work, the woods behind her ex-husband’s trailer,” I read off. “Loretta’s ex-husband may look dumb, but if he did kill her, he’s not stupid enough to drop the body in his backyard.”

She snatches the list back from me. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Right on cue, Loretta appears next to Officer Burke’s cruiser. At once, I notice that Loretta’s features have changed ever so slightly. Her sharp nose has rounded out, and the corners of her eyes are less pointed. The lines of her face look smoother as if she’s been buffed with a pumice stone.

“She’s underwater,” I murmur.

“What was that?” Officer Burke asks.

Marching to the squad car, I get into the passenger seat. “She’s underwater,” I say again as Burke joins me. “Someone dumped her body in running water. Let’s check the creek.”

“Slow down, skippy,” Burke says. “Where did you get this hunch? Is this another one of your gut feelings?”

“Maybe.”

“The last time I let you do things your way, we almost got caught in a flash flood,” Burke says. “Today, we’re following protocol. I say we check the ex-husband’s yard first.”

“Okay, then.” I get out of the car. “Do it your way.”

Burke drives slowly beside me. “What are you doing? Get back in!”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “Not unless you agree to check the creek first.”

“The creek goes on for miles,” she insists. “How do you expect to find Loretta’s body in miles of running water? Hell, how do you know she hasn’t washed into the river by now?”

Loretta floats next to me, her features growing less distinctive by the minute. My guess is she’s been stuck underwater for a while, and her spirit is showing signs of her body’s current condition.

“I’m hiking the creek,” I tell Officer Burke. “If you don’t want to come with me, have fun telling the sheriff you suck at your job again.”

Burke growls, stops the car, and gets out. Grabbing my shirt by the collar, she hauls me to the passenger seat and throws me inside.

“Calm down, mama bear!”

She slams the driver’s door shut and stomps the gas. “Shut up, or I’ll handcuff you and throw you in the backseat.”

“Duly noted. I see we’re heading north… toward the creek.”

“Shut up.”

The creek winds in and around Red River like a poisonous snake lurking in the grass. Some parts are perfect for a summer day’s outing, like the vast stretch that gushes lazily along behind the elementary school. On the warmest weekends, the water is full of kids and families drifting down the creek in colorful inner tubes and unicorn-shaped floaties.

There’s also a man-made pool, dug by some bored dads several years ago, where the creek slows down and swirls around like one massive toilet bowl before continuing. Red River’s locals refer to this location as the Speakeasy for two reasons. First, it’s a well-kept secret. No one under twenty-one is supposed to know about it. Second, admission to the Speakeasy is bought with booze. Parents have established a playful rite of passage for this area. When their kid turns twenty-one, they introduce him or her to the fun spot. Of course, plenty of teenagers sneak out to this part of the creek to throw underage parties. I attended many such soirées.

Other parts of the creek aren’t so fun and welcoming. A swift series of s-bends runs through the woods behind the old cemetery. If you dare hop in there, you most likely won’t resurface, as the current is deceptively strong. By the popular hiking paths, the creek entices overheated athletes to jump in and cool off, but the bottom is coated with sharp rocks in that area. The local walk-in clinic has sewn up more foot wounds than they can count. If you keep hiking, you’ll eventually reach the spot where the town not-so-secretly dumps raw waste into the creek. When you get there, you’ll know by the murky water and awful smell.

Officer Burke, ever a lover of protocol, wants to start at the creek’s northernmost point, where the water trickles off the ice caps in the mountains and begins its descent. If I didn’t have Loretta guiding me, I might agree to this plan. However, the creek starts about an hour’s drive outside of town, and I don’t feel like being stuck in the woods with Burke all day.

When we reach a rickety wooden bridge that crosses over the creek, Loretta’s face lights up. She bops me on the shoulder and gestures wildly toward the water on the bridge’s left-hand side.

“Let’s stop here,” I tell Burke. “We can hike up that way.”

“No, let’s go to the top.”

“It doesn’t make sense to start at the top,” I argue, unbuckling my seatbelt. “If someone dumped Loretta’s body there, it would have migrated down this way already.”

“You’re not going to listen to my logic at all, are you?”

“No.”

Defeated, Officer Burke parks the squad car on the unpaved shoulder. There are no access trails to the creek from here, so I walk back to the bridge and jog down the bank. Because of yesterday’s storms, the water runs deeper and faster than average.

Officer Burke loses her footing on the way down and splashes into the river. Without complaint, she pulls her wet boot from the water and gestures for me to continue on. I check Loretta’s position. The ghost lingers up ahead, waiting for us to follow.

The land slopes gradually downward, which makes for an easy hike. Overgrown trees shade us from the hot sun, and the cool mist from the creek keeps temperatures pleasant. If we weren’t looking for a dead body, I might actually be enjoying myself.

We run into one main obstacle: the local wildlife. Officer Burke shrieks when a harmless black snake slithers across her boots. I double over with laughter, but ten minutes later, a family of football-sized rats skitters by, and Officer Burke gets her own kicks while I cry like a baby. I freakin’ hate rats.

The bugs suck too. Every thirty seconds, I smack a mosquito off my arm. Giant gray spiders descend from the trees and land on us whenever they please. Swarms of gnats hover above the water’s surface while flies and bees buzz uncomfortably around our ears. For some unknown reason, bug spray is the one item that Officer Burke doesn’t carry in her Mary Poppins backpack.

I let Loretta do her thing. She floats to and fro, occasionally disappearing from the creek for minutes at a time. Eventually, the creek widens and deepens, forcing us to walk on the wooded bank rather than in the bed. I’m so focused on my feet that I don’t notice the land’s sudden drop-off until Officer Burke catches my shoulder.

“Waterfall,” she says casually.

Loretta has led us to one of Red River’s prettiest locales. The unexpected change in elevation results in a beautiful waterfall that cascades over smooth river rocks and into the pool below. Now that I’m here, I recognize this place as Red River’s most popular spot for engagement and wedding photos. Happy couples hike miles just to take pictures on the wide, flat bounder at the top of the falls, as well as on the bank below. Rowan trees frame the falls, blooming with clusters of small, white flowers. In time, the flowers will produce red-orange fruits, giving pictures a burst of color. If the photographer is savvy enough, she’ll catch the sunset as it sparkles on the water.

Enough people have hiked around here that a set of natural steps has been worn into the land. Officer Burke and I carefully make our way to the bottom, where I gaze into the water. Whitewash prevents me from seeing beneath the surface, but Loretta dawdles in one spot beneath the falls.

“I’m going in,” I say, pulling off my boots.

“Not so fast,” Burke says. “Decomposition would have filled Loretta’s body with gas. By now, she would have floated to the surface. There’s no point in getting wet.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s in there.”

“How could you know?” she challenges. “A feeling?”

“Are we arguing again? When did we get married?”

Burke rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Do what you want.”

Ignoring Burke’s disapproval, I wade into the creek. The water, though miles from its mountainous origin, is crisp and cold. Bracing myself, I dive below the surface. The current threatens to sweep me downstream, but I fight against it, pumping my arms and legs as hard as I can. Once I break through the falls, the water is slightly calmer. That’s when I see it: Loretta’s body, pale and bloated, pinned to the creek bed with heavy stones.

17

An hour later, the woods are swarming with Red River deputies and a team of crime scene investigators shipped in from the big city. They string ugly orange tape from tree to tree, roping off the entire area around the falls. As they work on extracting Loretta’s body from the creek, I sit on a rock, wearing a scratchy gray blanket like a cape, and tip my head side to side to clear the water from my ears.

Sheriff Miller barks orders at Officer Burke and the rest of his deputies. This is the first time I’ve seen him in action. Even the CSI team from Denver defers to the sheriff. They don’t touch anything unless Miller has approved it. The police sweep the entire scene from the top of the falls to the bottom of the creek. Officers use tweezers to pick up twigs and place them in zipped evidence bags. I’m not sure what good it will do. Whoever killed Loretta is long gone.

When he’s satisfied with his team’s progress, Sheriff Miller wanders over to me. “You should have called us and waited for the police diver.”

The police diver in question stands on the creek bank in full regalia with his tank and regulator ready to go, but he looks unsure of his next steps. His wetsuit is totally dry because his job—finding the body—has already been completed. When the CSI manager finally asks him to bring up the body, he puts on his mask with hasty relief. He’s not useless after all.

“To be fair, I didn’t know Red River had police divers,” I say, digging my finger in my waterlogged ear.

“We don’t,” Sheriff Miller says. “We’re borrowing Uhlig from the next county over.”

“Uhlig,” I snicker. “Sounds like you’re coughing up a wad of phlegm.”

Miller places his palms on his low back, fingers pointing down, and pushes forward to stretch his hip flexors. “Officer Burke reports that you’re impossible to work with.”

“What can I say? I was never good at group projects.”

“Got a call from Maisy Sellers at the library too,” Sheriff Miller adds. “Did you really trash the records room?”

I tilt my head and slap against the opposite side. Creek water rolls around in my ear canal but refuses to exit. “We should focus on the bright side here. I found Loretta’s body. Now, we can figure out which one of your constituents is a murderer.”

Officer Burke wanders over to eavesdrop. She dillydallies ten feet away and squats down to examine an irrelevant patch of moss. Sheriff Miller hasn’t kicked her back to desk duty yet, so she’s been reveling in the excitement of an active crime scene. Still, she avoids direct contact with Miller as if she knows he’s trigger happy with discipline.

“We will.” Sheriff Miller removes his stetson and dabs his sweating brow with a neatly folded handkerchief. “See? A few days as a cop, and you’re already turning up bodies.”

“I’m not a cop,” I remind him.

“You could be,” he says. “You have good investigative instincts.”

I glance at Loretta, who hovers above the creek while Uhlig, the police diver, works on extracting her corpse from the water. “It’s not instinct that’s guiding me.”

Sheriff Miller looks over his shoulder, following my gaze. “You do that a lot, you know.”

“What?”

“Stare at nothing.”

I rip my focus from Loretta. “Sorry. Bad habit of zoning out.”

“Sure,” Sheriff Miller says, not entirely convinced. He pulls the blanket over my shoulders in a fatherly gesture. “You should head home for a shower. Who knows what kind of bacteria Loretta’s body is leaking into that water? You didn’t inhale any, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Sir?” Sheriff Miller lifts an eyebrow, and he almost cracks a smile. “Don’t get polite on me, James. You need your edge to see this case through to the end.”

With a wink, Sheriff Miller walks away. Officer Burke quickly takes his place, her lips twisted into a grimace. Her ghost, the little girl, pops up beside my boulder as if she senses Burke’s unbalanced emotions.

“You’re Miller’s favorite little criminal, eh?” Officer Burke asks, unable to keep the envy out of her tone. “I never saw that coming.”

“Come here, you got something on your face,” I say. When she leans forward, I run my fingertip across her cheek and pretend to examine the results. “Never mind. It’s just jealousy.”

Officer Burke pushes me, and my damp pants slide across the slick boulder. I nearly fall into the dirt, but Burke catches me at the last second.

“I don’t get it.” Opening her backpack, she extracts a package of wet wipes and hands me one for my grimy face. “Ever since I was transferred to Red River, I’ve toed the line to a tee. Miller doesn’t notice. It’s like I don’t exist to him, even though I get paperwork done at twice the rate as the other deputies.” With a fresh wipe, she cleans the back of her neck. “Then, you roll into town—eternal black sheep that you are—and Miller acts like you’re God’s gift to police work. What’s with that?”

“Maybe it’s not about toeing the line,” I suggest. “I push boundaries. I always have. Guys like Miller appreciate it when you get work done. How you do it doesn’t always matter.”

“Oh, really?” Burke challenges. “Both of us came out here to find Loretta, but you’re the only one who got recognized for it.”

“To be fair, I dove into a creek with a dead body while you stayed nice and dry.”

“I didn’t think she was going to be down there!”

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re so busy following protocol that you don’t take chances on hunches. If we did things your way, we never would have found Loretta. You want to be a good cop? You need to put yourself out there.”

Burke takes the dirty wipe from me and tucks it into the backpack’s side pocket. “You know, I’m not a rookie. I’ve been working in this field for a few years. After what happened, they put me on probation, so I’m starting at the bottom again.”

“After what happened?”

“Nice try,” she says, smirking. “I used to be a lot more fast and loose with rules, and look where it got me. I guess we can’t all be like you, Cal.”

Sheriff Miller snaps his fingers and barks, “James! Burke! Quit flapping your lips and get your butts over here.”

The police diver has raised Loretta’s body from the creek. Carefully, the CSI team lays the corpse on a plastic-covered body tray and begins to snap pictures. Loretta’s ghost stares blankly at her blue skin, colorless eyes, and swollen lips. I’m pretty sure ghosts can’t go into shock, but Loretta’s trying to prove me wrong. I expect her to burst into hysterics at any moment.

“Step aside,” Sheriff Miller says to the CSI team. “I want my deputies to see what we’re dealing with.”

“Since when are you a deputy?” Burke mutters in my ear.

I don’t want to look at Loretta’s body. Sure, I’ve seen plenty of corpses in my time, but it’s not like I look forward to it. Regardless, Sheriff Miller pushes me to Loretta’s side, where Burke has already knelt to examine the body.

“What do you see?” Sheriff Miller asks.

“Throat’s cut,” Burke reports automatically. “We could probably get a time—”

“Not you,” Miller says. “I want James to tell me.”

I force myself to kneel beside the corpse. As Burke already noticed, Loretta most likely died due to the long gash that runs horizontally across her throat. The cut is deep enough to reveal the severed carotid artery. Organisms in the water have started eating the skin, indicating that Loretta has been dead for a while.

“The body’s probably been here since you realized she was missing,” I say. “About two weeks, right? The cause of death appears to be the slit carotid, but I’d do an autopsy to make sure. The wound could be intentionally misleading.”

Sheriff Miller crosses his arms and nods approvingly. “Nice job. We’ll get the body to the morgue and have forensics take a look at it. Burke, get James home for a shower. You’re done here.”

After enduring Burke’s surly silence for the hike and ride back to Red River, I step into the moldy motel shower and turn the water as hot as it will go. Steam ripples off my skin, filling the tiny cubicle until the air is thick with condensation, but I stand in the low-pressure drizzle for as long as it takes to feel clean again.

Loretta’s throat wound takes me back to prom night with Nash Adams. I spent that evening playing hide-and-seek with Winnie, knowing that if I’d gone to the dance, I would’ve been the girl that got pig’s blood dumped on her head. When Uncle Kent found Winnie hiding in an abandoned well, holding to the side like a monkey, he ripped me a new one for letting my little sister out of my sight. As usual, I went to bed feeling worthless.

But then Nash rapped on the window, still wearing his tux, and beckoned for me to sneak out. Together, we pushed his truck in neutral far enough from the house so that Uncle Kent and Aunt Dolly wouldn’t hear the ignition start.

“Let’s go to your place,” he said, eyes shining in the moonlight. “I miss seeing the stars there.”

We talked all night. Nash told me what happened at prom—that he’d been crowned king and promptly dumped by Meredith Galvez when some other girl won queen. He cried without shame, unconcerned that I would judge him for his supposed lack of manliness. He banged the steering wheel until his fist turned purple. He stood in the truck bed and screamed into the canyons, pounding his chest like a warring gorilla.

After letting loose, Nash fell asleep on the pile of blankets in his truck bed. I curled up next to him, listening to his heartbeat as his chest rose and fell with his breath. At least in slumber, he felt no pain.

To this day, Nash’s last day on earth haunts me. I relived that night over and over, wondering what I could have done differently to make it end another way. If I hadn’t dozed off, I might have caught Nash’s killer. If I didn’t agree to sneak out, he’d still be alive. No matter how I imagined it, the truth remained ugly and scarred: Nash was dead.

I remember praying that Nash’s spirit would appear so I could talk to him one more time. So I could ask who did this horrible thing to him. So I could have my best friend back. Nash crossed over instantly. I never saw his ghost.

With my hair wrapped in a towel, I fall into bed, hoping sleep will make me forget about everything I don’t want to remember. Right as I’m dozing off, Uncle Kent’s voice pops into my head: Leave me hanging again, and you might as well get out of town. Your job with the sheriff be damned.

Groaning, I get out of bed.

While Uncle Kent sits on his tractor and chews bubblegum instead of tobacco, I bale hay, muck stalls, and fill troughs for the entire afternoon. The reward comes in the form of another job: exercising Uncle Kent’s two gorgeous mares.

Sloth is a fat, brown lady who prefers eating to carrying riders. While I load her tack, I dodge her teeth and back hooves as she does her best to dissuade me from riding her. When I swing my leg over her back and settle in, she doesn’t move until I dig my heels into her ribs. Kent laughs as I lead her in a few slow laps around the paddock.

“Think I can get her to trot?” I ask Uncle Kent, urging Sloth forward.

“Good luck,” Kent says. “We named her after one of the seven deadly sins for a reason.”

With some encouragement, Sloth reluctantly picks up her feet and trots exactly twenty feet. Then she stops dead, and my forward momentum flips me over her ears. I land hard in the dirt while Kent guffaws uncontrollably.

“Told ya,” he wheezes as I dust off my aching legs.

Temperance, a mottled gray mare with lean flanks, is much more eager to leave her stall. Once a wild horse, Temperance bristles with the anticipation of running free. I give her what she wants, taking her beyond the paddock so she can gallop through the fields of freshly blooming wildflowers. My legs burn as I hold myself in position. I haven’t ridden like this in years, and I forgot how much I like it. Part of me wants to let Temperance take me back to whatever lands she came from. Unfortunately, we both have duties to attend to.

“I heard they found Loretta Gunn’s body, thanks to you,” Uncle Kent says while I brush the sweat from Temperance’s back in the barn. “Your partnership with Sheriff Miller seems to be going well then?”

“Yeah, but he’s making me work with an officer who second-guesses my every move,” I say.

“That’s good,” Uncle Kent grunts. “You need to learn how to work with others. That was never a skill of yours.”

“I asked you about Marlow, didn’t I? Actually—” I take Lottie’s receipt booklet from the safety of my jacket pocket. “Can you have a look at this?”

Uncle Kent wipes his hands and takes the booklet. Flipping through it, he says, “This is fascinating! Everyone knows the Parlor used to a be popular prostitution business, but we’ve never had actual evidence of it.”

“The Parlor?” I say. “That old house on Main Street?”

“It’s been renovated. The town uses it for fancy events now,” Uncle Kent says. “But it used to be where all the cowboys and businessmen could get their kicks. See?” He shows me a line of faded ink in Lottie’s booklet. “Right there. Dovetail Parlor.”

18

The Parlor is an old, three-story house that boasts its year of construction, 1842, on a plaque in the front yard. The Saloon and the Parlor are the oldest buildings in Red River. Both have undergone massive renovations, mainly to keep the structures standing. Technically, the date on the Parlor’s plaque is wrong. A fire burnt the house down to its foundation, and it was rebuilt in the early 1900s. Since then, the Red River architecture fanatics have performed several nips and tucks to keep the old lady looking good.

I’ve never been inside the Parlor, but my senior prom was held here way back when. For the most part, the Parlor is used for weddings since it has plenty of space for brides and grooms to get ready. Happy couples can choose between an indoor wedding in the Parlor’s great room or an outdoor wedding on the sweeping lawn, magically lit with fairy lights. Most of the locals get married here—my parents did, and so did Uncle Kent and Aunt Dolly—but many out-of-towners also get hitched at the Parlor. The venue is cheap and pretty, something you don’t often find when wedding planning.

The curb is lined with cars when I arrive. Either it’s afternoon bingo for the old-timers, or something else is already going on at the Parlor. Since I’m here during business hours, I don’t knock before stepping over the threshold.

I emerge in the sunny lounge, where customers of the extinct Dovetail Parlor once waited for their turn with whatever woman they’d paid for. Back then, the lounge would have been dimly lit and decorated with plush sofas so patient patrons could relax. Nowadays, the walls are a dull shade of greige, and the bland furniture has far less character. Across from the elegant staircase that leads to the upper floors is a check-in desk with no one behind it.

“Hello?” I call through the house, ringing the service bell. “Is anyone here?”

A gaggle of middle-aged blond women, who appear to frequent the same hair salon, parades into the lounge. As one entity, they shoo me toward the door. I stumble out of the lounge and onto the porch, pushed from the house by the throng of ladies.

“Out, out! This is a closed meeting!”

The woman heading the charge is none other than Lydia Parrish, who mothered a classmate of mine at Red River Elementary School. Lydia’s daughter, Colleen, called me a nasty name during recess in the second grade. I responded by guiding Colleen to a neighboring field, where I shoved her face in a pile of cow manure. The incident sparked a years-long feud between Lydia and my own mother. It’s safe to say that Lydia probably won’t rejoice in my presence.

“Hi, Ms. Parrish,” I say in my best imitation of politeness. What I really want to do is tell these ladies where to stick it, especially after they shooed me from the Parlor like a common cockroach, but I have to play nice. “I’m not sure if you remember me—”

“Calamity James.” Lydia taps her foot on the porch step, lording over me with a disappointed wrinkle in her brow. “I prayed I’d never have to see the likes of you or your mother ever again.”

“Well, half of your wish came true,” I say. “Why don’t you take that as a win?”

“What are you doing here, Calamity?”

“I’m helping Sheriff Miller with a homicide case,” I tell her. “I need to check inside the Parlor.”

Lydia crosses her arms. “For what reason?”

“I’m looking for clues.”

“You think someone was killed in the Parlor?”

“No,” I say. “Do you own this place? Why can’t I go in?”

“Because we’re getting ready for the annual Poker Gala for Charity.” Lydia puffs her bosom proudly, and the other ladies copy her. “We’re members of the community event planning society.”

“Super,” I say. “This won’t take long. I just need to have a look around, and I’ll stay out of your way. Continue planning your poker thing.”

“Poker Gala for Charity.” Lydia blocks me from stepping on the porch. “If the sheriff comes around, I’ll gladly let him in, but I won’t let you muss up our decorations. We’ve worked too hard to let Calamity James inside.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” I say. “This is strictly police business.”

“Too bad,” she says, pursing her lips. “Come back with Sheriff Miller, or don’t come back at all.”

The ladies of the community event planning society line up along the porch like they’re getting ready to play a particularly violent game of Red Rover. Each woman looks like a clone of the last, as they all wear a similar flowery sundress and a bob hairstyle. If I want to get in the Parlor, I won’t be going through the front.

“Fine,” I say, turning away from the society ladies. “I’ll come back with Sheriff Miller.”

I walk up the block to let the ladies think I’ve given up. When they disappear into the house, I make a U-turn and cut through someone’s backyard to approach the Parlor from behind. Diving into the thick bushes that border the house, I peek through an open window. In the dining room, the society ladies settle around an oval wooden table and go back to arguing about napkin colors.

“Now that’s taken care of…” Lydia scoots her chair in and holds up two identical fabric samples. “Cream or off-white?”

Rolling my eyes, I dart around the back of the house and check my options. The dining room features two windows, so I have to be careful if I don’t want the society ladies to catch me again. The back door is a possibility if I stay low and keep quiet. Once I get inside, passing the dining room unnoticed might be a challenge.

The second option is higher up. A stocky tree stands roughly ten feet from the house, but a thick branch extends right to a third-floor window. Even better, the window is cracked open for ventilation. If I can scale the tree and slip through the window, I can avoid the society ladies entirely.

Heights don’t scare me, but women like Lydia Parrish do, so I grab hold of the lowest branches and start shimmying up the tree. The climb isn’t bad. The tree provides plenty of handholds, and my jeans protect my legs from scratches as I squeeze through the dense foliage. When I’m level with the window, I test my weight on the protruding branch. It flexes but holds steady.

Cautiously, I inch toward the window. The farther away I get from the trunk, the less reliable the branch becomes. My weight forces the branch to drop several inches, putting the window out of reach. I have to jump for it.

I don’t let myself think too much. Pushing off hard, I lunge for the window. As the branch snaps, my fingers catch the window ledge, and I crash into the side of the house. Hanging limply, like a dead fish, my breath comes in wheezes. When it steadies, I hook my elbow over the ledge, force the sticky window out of my way, and tumble headfirst onto the third floor.

Standing, I find the corridor full of dead women.

Their dresses span decades of fashion, but many of the ghosts wear corsets and lace-trimmed skirts that were popular during the Dovetail Parlor’s 1850s heyday. The sheer amount of spirits—there must be at least twenty—nearly knocks me off my feet. Being a sex worker was never a safe profession.

The dead women show various symptoms of whatever killed them. Some cough blood into their handkerchiefs, having died from tuberculosis or pneumonia. Others are missing teeth and drooling excessively, signs of mercury poisoning. Back then, sexually transmitted infections like syphilis and gonorrhea were treated with mercury, but the substance was under-researched and poorly prescribed, resulting in a toxic “cure.” Two women bear bruised bodies or bent necks. These unlucky souls were most likely attacked by their customers and rendered dead. An additional three have blood running down their stockings between their legs—this trio died from failed, unsterile abortions.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and find my voice. “Hello, ladies. Can someone point me to Lottie Lane’s old room?”

None of the women speak, which feels sad and symbolic. Instead, they silently rotate toward the last door at the far end of the hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my boots as I pass through the procession of dead women. None of them follow me into Lottie’s old room, but their vacant eyes watch me from the open door. Shivering, I take a look around.

Since the Parlor has been renovated, Lottie’s room is now a place for brides to prepare for their weddings. A large vanity with giant lightbulbs is angled for good photographs in one corner. A half-sofa sits beneath the window, so the bride can gaze longingly across the lawns and contemplate her impending nuptials as the wedding guests arrive.

If Lottie Lane is one of the dead women in the hallway, she doesn’t make herself known. Unsure where to start, I cover the basics first and check the room’s perimeter. I peek into the wardrobe and knock on the walls in hopes of finding hidden secrets. The prep room, however, appears to hold none.

I step toward the hallway to ask the ghost ladies for more help, and a floorboard shifts underneath my heel. Looking down, I see a tiny hole in the wood. Using my pinky finger, I pry up the board. In the space below, nestled in old hay, is a trilogy of leather journals. When I open the first one, Lottie Lane’s familiar handwriting sprawls across the pages.

Quick footsteps enter the hallway, and the dead ladies scatter as live ones cross the third floor. I hastily shove Lottie’s diaries under my shirt and zip up my jacket, right as a group of women—younger than Lydia and her society ladies—enter the room.

“And this is the bridal suite,” says the woman leading the tour. “You’ll have full access to the bathroom, and—good heavens!” She clutches her heart at the sight of me kneeling on the floor. “Who are you? Identify yourself this instant.”

“No need for theatrics,” I say, standing. “I’m here on police business.”

The bride, identified by the white sash across her chest, steps in front of the wedding planner. “Calamity James?”

Her beady eyes, pointed nose, and thick brows trigger a barrage of unpleasant memories as I realize who I’m looking at.

“Meredith Galvez,” I say, as rage and shock run through me like fire and ice. “How long has it been?”

She rushes toward me, yelling maniacally, and tackles me into the vanity. The other women scream and yelp, but no one bothers to tear the crazy bride off me. Meredith isn’t the best brawler. She gets a few good slaps in before I shove her off. Meredith’s bridesmaids catch her and keep hold before she can attack me again.

“You slept with my boyfriend,” she howls. “Then you killed him!”

“I did not sleep with Nash,” I say, brushing Meredith’s smeared foundation off my jacket. “Not that night, at least.”

“You admit it!” Meredith says. “You killed him! And you made him cheat on me.”

“I am so sick of everyone acting like I’m the one who broke Nash Adam’s heart and left him for dead,” I growl. “You’re the one who dumped him at prom. That’s why he showed up at my house in the middle of the night!”

Meredith gasps and covers her heart. “I did not break up with Nash on prom night. She’s lying.”

The wedding planner and the bridesmaids glance between Meredith and me as if we’re playing a mean game of ping-pong.

“You stole my boyfriend,” Meredith cries, pointing a shaking finger at me.

“I didn’t steal anyone,” I say. “That was ten years ago. Can’t you let it go? You’re literally marrying somebody else.”

“Yeah, Connor Bassett,” Meredith says. “Who you punched in the face the day before our engagement photos. He has an ugly black eye in every shot!”

I can’t help but chuckle at this revelation. “You’re marrying Connor Bassett? That’s rich. Actually, it makes perfect sense. The two of you are made for each other.”

As Meredith lunges toward me, the wedding planner urges one of the bridesmaids from the room and says, “Call the police.”

“No need.” I lift my hands to show Meredith that I won’t engage. “I’m leaving.”

But Meredith can’t leave well enough alone. As I pass her, she grabs a lock of my hair and yanks, nearly scalping me. I react instinctively, swinging around and punching her square in the nose, as I would with any volatile ghost.

Meredith shrieks loudly enough to bring down the building, but her freshly broken schnoz doesn’t slow her down. She leaps onto my shoulders, locking her legs around my waist, and we careen into the hallway. Screaming bridesmaids scatter as we hurtle toward the stairs. Meredith yanks me off-balance, and I topple sideways, depositing the bride on the floor.

“Let it go!” I say. I don’t want to hit her again—I didn’t mean to in the first place—but if she doesn’t leave me alone, I’m not above defending myself. “Meredith, stop!”

“You broke my nose,” she wails. “You killed my boyfriend.”

Unsatisfied, she launches herself at me for the third time. In my attempt to dodge her, Meredith overcorrects her tackle and tumbles over the stair rail. I grab her arm, hoping to stop her from falling, but she mistakes this for another attack. She locks our fingers together and lets the total weight of her body drop, yanking me over the rail with her. We roll headfirst down the stairs to the second landing, where I land at Sheriff Miller’s feet.

“Calamity James,” Sheriff Miller says with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have expected anyone else.”

19

“You’d be doing me a big favor if you tried to make nice with the locals.”

Sheriff Miller bangs on the back doors of the ambulance—Meredith insisted on being taken to the hospital—and the vehicle dries off, sirens ablaze. I rub the sore spots on my elbows and jaw, which took the brunt of my fall.

“She started it,” I say. “Dredging up buried history like that. She had the nerve to say she never broke up with Nash. Ha! I remember that night like it’s burned into my brain—”

“James, I’ve never cared for high school theatrics, and I won’t be starting now,” Miller says. “As for your investigative tactics, tone it down a bit. The society ladies are ready to overthrow me to have you arrested.”

“They wouldn’t let me in even though I’m with law enforcement,” I say. “They were discriminating against me.”

“Discrimination?” He squares his shoulder. “I don’t know a thing about that. Tell me your sorrows, James.”

“The society ladies—” I shut up as Sheriff Miller’s joke sets in. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“There you go with the ‘sir’ again.” Miller guides me away from the Parlor while the society ladies glare at me from the porch. “Did you get what you needed, whatever that may be?”

I hold up Lottie Lane’s diaries. “Sure did.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Need a ride somewhere?”

“No, I’m heading to the Saloon. I can walk.”

Sheriff Miller tips his hat and gets in his car. I linger by the cruiser, and he rolls his window down.

“Something else I can help you with, James?” he says.

“Everyone doubts me,” I tell him. “You’re the only one who hasn’t questioned my methods. According to Officer Burke, you should be halfway up my butt. What’s with that?”

Sheriff Miller chuckles. “I trust you, Cal. You’ve got good instincts.” He begins pulling away from the curb. “Call it a gut feeling. You have those, right?”

He waves out the window as he drives back to the station. I wait for the cruiser to pull out of sight then head to the Saloon. The early afternoon crowd is less rowdy than the late nighters. They drink and smoke quietly, gazing vacantly around the bar, lost in thoughts and dreams that no one else can see. Winnie isn’t working yet—the tips in the afternoon aren’t great, and Winnie has enough sway over the Saloon’s owner to swing the good shifts.

Winnie’s asleep upstairs, exhausted from last night’s work, so I don’t bother her. In slumber, she appears far younger, like the little girl I remember from our ranch home. Back then, Winnie snuck into my room and crawled into my bed whenever our parents’ yelling got too intense. I tickled her and told her stories to make her laugh. Together, we forgot the raging argument beyond the safety of my bedroom until the following day.

One such night, little Winnie curled against me after a laughing spell, her eyelashes stuck together with tears of mixed emotions, and said, “Will you make me laugh forever?”

“Only if you make me laugh forever,” I replied, untangling her long hair.

“And always protect me?”

“If you always protect me.”

“Pinky promise?”

Winnie’s tiny finger emerged from the blankets, and I linked my own through it.

“I promise,” I said.

As Winnie recently reminded me, I’m not very good at keeping that promise. After what happened with Nash, I fled Red River without concern for my little sister. I automatically assumed she would be okay because no one thought she was a freak. No one thought she had killed a boy. Winnie was loved deeply by Aunt Dolly and Uncle Kent, and she was young enough to potentially overcome the trauma we’d endured at home. At least, that’s what I told myself to keep the guilt at bay as I hitchhiked out of Red River.

The last time I’d seen Winnie was shortly after her high school graduation. I’d refused to come home to watch her walk and turn her tassel. Instead, I invited her to join me in Mexico for a few nights of supervised debauchery. Of course, Winnie being Winnie, all she wanted to do was take tours of historical sites. I was bored the entire time, but it gave me a chance to catch up with my sister. Concluding that she was perfectly all right without me, I sent her back to Red River with a sombrero and a tan, then forgot to call her for the next four years.

This time around, I’m determined to do things differently. As soon as I solve Loretta’s case, I’m leaving Red River, but maybe I’ll settle down somewhere nearby, like Denver, so that Winnie can visit whenever she likes. If she needs me, I can be here in a little over an hour. I have to be better at keeping my promise.

For right now, I sit against Winnie’s trunk full of stolen research and read Lottie Lane’s diaries from cover to cover. If Lottie had not drawn the short stick of a career in prostitution, she might have become one of America’s foremost female writers. Her diary entries remind me of Civil War-era prose. She writes with a poetic flow, bringing Red River’s historical troubles to life with her words.

I’m halfway through Lottie’s second diary when Winnie wakes up. She yawns, rubs her eyes, and observes me with bleary indifference.

“Whatcha got there?” she asks.

“Lottie Lane’s diaries,” I say. “I was trying to find out how Tobias Welch might be connected to Loretta’s death. His name is written in Lottie’s receipt book almost every week for several months.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Loads. Are you interested?”

Her irises brighten as she shifts toward the end of the bed. “Tell me.”

“According to Lottie’s diaries, she and Tobias Welch were best friends,” I begin, flipping to the first page of Lottie’s journal. “I think he was probably in love with Lottie, but he respected her too much to push her into a relationship.”

“Pretty big for a guy around that time,” Winnie comments.

“Right?” I say. “Plus, he was one of Marlow’s lowly prospectors. Whatever gold he found in the mines went straight to Marlow.”

“He should have pocketed some,” Winnie says.

“Lottie writes that others tried,” I tell her. “But they were stupid enough to sell the gold in town, where Marlow immediately heard about it. He had thieves tortured and hanged in the town square.”

Winnie wrinkles her nose. “That’s lovely.”

“The way Lottie writes about him, Tobias sounds noble,” I say. “And Marlow sounds like the perfect villain.”

“Have you seen that statue in the cemetery?” Winnie asks. “Any man who wants himself preserved that much larger than life is definitely compensating for something.”

“Just you wait,” I say. “Lottie’s got the skinny on Marlow, but let’s talk about Tobias first. All those times he visited Lottie at the parlor? He wasn’t buying sex with her like the other guys. Lottie says he never tried to touch her. They just talked. After a while, Tobias admitted that he buys nights with her so she got a break from the other men. He was a broke prospector. He barely had any money, but he spent it to get Lottie a night off each week.”

Winnie clasps her hand to her heart. “That’s so romantic.”

“But it didn’t last forever.” I show her Lottie’s receipt book. “Look at this. Tobias disappears from Lottie’s receipts. So do her other customers.”

“Except one,” Winnie says, studying the booklet. “Who’s Wallace Monroe?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Winnie scoffs with realization. “Wallace Monroe. Winfield Marlow. Sheesh, he couldn’t have picked a pseudonym with different initials? Way to be obvious.”

“Lottie never uses Marlow’s real name in her diaries either,” I say. “She writes about a ‘high-profile’ individual who comes through Dovetail Parlor’s back door, so no one sees him. Apparently, Marlow cycled through all the parlor girls at least once. When he decided he liked Lottie best, he worked out a deal with the madam—the woman who ran the house and took care of the girls. Marlow wanted Lottie exclusively. The madam agreed as long as Marlow could match Lottie’s usual weekly salary.”

“Gross,” Winnie says. “He literally bought her.”

“According to Lottie, he wasn’t a gentle lover either,” I say. “He was incredibly jealous. He forbade her from seeing any other man, inside or outside of the parlor house. Marlow beat her anytime she was reported in the company of someone else. Tobias snuck in to see her once, but she was covered in bruises. To keep her safe, he stayed away.”

“Poor Lottie.” Winnie’s lower lip juts out. “It sounds like Marlow kept her isolated from the rest of the town.”

“She was essentially condemned to remain at the parlor house for as long as Marlow wanted her,” I agree. “Since she couldn’t see Tobias, she became depressed. When Marlow noticed, he abused her more. Back then, the best form of birth control was cycle-tracking. Prostitutes wouldn’t work if they knew they were ovulating, but Marlow forced himself on Lottie.”

“She got pregnant,” Winnie concludes.

“Yup, and she was terrified to tell Marlow,” I say. “She’d seen other women die from botched abortions, and she didn’t want that either. She wanted to keep her baby.”

Winnie lies stomach-down and props her chin in her palms, enraptured by Lottie’s story. “What did she do?”

“Well, Marlow died.”

“Aw, so she got to keep her baby and live happily ever after with Tobias?”

“Not quite,” I say. “If you recall, Marlow issued a challenge with his dying breath. Any man who found his heir and brought it to wherever Marlow’s spirit lay would be rewarded with unending fortune.”

“How did Marlow know about his kid?” Winnie asks. “Lottie never told him.”

“According to Uncle Kent and Henry Carillo, he didn’t know,” I say. “He issued the challenge to be a nuisance and create chaos. Decent people kidnapped random kids in the hopes of gaining Marlow’s fortune. The whole town was on the hunt for Marlow’s heir, and Lottie was very pregnant with the exact child they were searching for.”

Winnie’s eyes widen with fear. “Did anyone find out?”

“The madam of the parlor knew,” I say. “The parlor girls had to report any pregnancies to the madam so she could decide how to handle it. When Lottie told the madam, she—hang on, let me reread it.” I consulted Lottie’s diaries. “Lottie says she ‘saw a beacon in the madam’s eyes, a ray of hope and impending betrayal.’”

Winnie lets out a disappointed sigh. “In other words, the madam would be willing to sell Lottie out in the hopes of completing Marlow’s Challenge.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Lottie was scared that the madam would auction her baby off to the highest bidder. She had to run.”

“Did she make it out of Red River safely?”

“Good ol’ Tobias came to her rescue.”

Winnie’s dreamy, romantic look returns. “Of course, he did.”

“Tobias was the only one Lottie trusted,” I say. “As they planned Lottie’s escape, word got out that Marlow visited the parlor house frequently.”

“Thanks to the madam,” Winnie says with a rush of anger as if she were best friends with Lottie and considered the madam’s betrayal a personal slight.

“The town figured out that one of the parlor girls might be pregnant with Marlow’s heir,” I say. “If Lottie waited any longer, her belly would have made her a target. She and Tobias moved up their escape plan to leave Red River sooner.”

“And?”

“Tobias borrowed a friend’s horse and rode with Lottie to the nearest train station,” I say. “He sent her east to live with one of his sisters.”

“He didn’t go with her?”

“He planned on following her later,” I tell Winnie. “They thought if they both left town, it would raise suspicion and put a target on their backs.”

“So Tobias stayed behind. Then what?”

“Lottie gave birth to a healthy baby boy five months later,” I say. “She and her son were safe.”

“No one found out about them,” Winnie says. “That’s good, right?”

“That depends on your perspective,” I say. “Tobias Welch’s obituary says he died in a mining accident. I don’t think that’s true.”

Winnie’s brows scrunch together. “Why not?”

“Because his ghost is still here,” I tell her. “He has unfinished business.”

“You think someone killed him,” she says. “Because he helped Lottie leave town.”

“Exactly.”

Winnie rolls over and blows hair out of her face. “Poor Tobias. He didn’t deserve that. Wait—what does any of this have to do with Loretta Gunn’s death?”

I stack Lottie’s diaries and booklet into a neat pile. “I haven’t finished reading, but I’m almost certain that Loretta Gunn is a direct descendant of Lottie Lane and Winfield Marlow. Someone killed her to complete Marlow’s Challenge.”

20

I spend the rest of my day hoping to run into Loretta so we can get into the nitty-gritty of her ancestry, but the ghost has seemingly vanished from the earth. I know she hasn’t crossed over—whatever weird connection exists between us confirms that. If Loretta was gone, I would’ve felt it in my gut.

Without Loretta to confirm her parentage, I turn to the next best thing. The library keeps records of the original Red River families. If I can access those, I should be able to trace Loretta’s family line back to Lottie Lane and Winfield Marlow. Unfortunately, Maisy Sellers is not willing to cooperate when I arrive.

“No way,” she says, shaking her head as I approach the front desk. “Whatever you need, I’m not helping you.”

“Isn’t your job to help me?” I say. “What if I wanted a library card?”

“You need a permanent Red River address to apply for a library card.” She might as well stick out her tongue at me since her tone is childishly teasing. “Until you officially move home, I can’t help you.”

“Good thing I don’t actually want a library card,” I say. “I need access to Red River’s ancestry records. Where are those?”

“In the room you destroyed.”

“Oh.” I tap my fingers impatiently on the desk. “Any chance that room’s been restored in the last twenty-four hours?”

“What do you think?”

“Unlikely?” I guess.

Maisy points at the door. “Get out.”

I lean over the checkout desk. “Maisy, we got off on the wrong foot. I can atone for my sins. What did I ever do to you?”

She gapes at me. “You don’t remember?”

“If I remembered every horrible thing I’d ever done, I wouldn’t have room in my brain for new information,” I say. “Come on. Lay it on me. How have I wronged you? Let’s put it behind us.”

Maisy’s lower lip trembles. “You killed B. B. Bubbles.”

“Who?”

“My goldfish!” Maisy throws up her hands with disdain. “In second grade, I brought my goldfish in for show and tell. During recess, you snuck inside and knocked his bowl off my desk! By the time I found him, it was too late.”

“I did not,” I say indignantly.

“Yes, you did!” she cries. “Who else would have committed fish murder?”

“It wasn’t me,” I say. “I remember the day your fish died because I was beating up Arthur Cohen on the playground. When I got back from the principal’s office, your goldfish was already gone from your desk.”

Maisy sniffles and wipes her nose with a miniature pack of tissues. “Are you lying to me? It really wasn’t you?”

“I’m not lying,” I promise. “Arthur Cohen called my mom a nut sack. He had it coming. Ask Winnie. My dad beat the crap out of me when I got home that day.”

“Winnie was two when we were in second grade,” she reminds me. Stifling her tears, she adds, “I suppose if it wasn’t you, I have no reason to be upset.”

“That’s why you hated me all this time?” I ask. “Because you thought I killed your goldfish?”

“Yes, why else?”

“Everyone thinks I murdered Nash.”

“Who?” she says.

“Nash Adams,” I say. “Prom king, quarterback, almost valedictorian? Dead in my car the morning after prom?”

Maisy scoffs and dismisses me with a wave. “Oh, him. I was never popular in high school. I barely knew that guy.”

“Right. Can I see the ancestry charts now?”

“Not until we fix the records room,” she says. “It’s off-limits to everyone except volunteers. Would you like to put your name on the list?”

“What list?”

“To volunteer.” She offers me a clipboard with a form attached. “Some people offered to clean and organize the records room for free. We’re getting new shelves.”

I eyeball the clipboard. “Volunteering, huh? No, thanks.”

She shrugs. “No charts for you, then.”

“Ugh, fine. Give me the stupid sign-up sheet.”

As I scribble the first letter of my name, my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway, assuming it has to do with Loretta’s case. “Hello?”

“Is this Miss Calamity James?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“This is Mrs. Higgins from the front office at Red River High School,” the stern voice replies. “Dusty Canton got into a fight at school. We need you to meet with the principal to decide on an appropriate course of action.”

I wander away from the checkout desk, completely baffled. “You have the wrong number. You should be calling Dusty’s dad or grandfather.”

“You are Miss Calamity James, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re listed as Dusty’s primary guardian,” Mrs. Higgins says firmly. “Therefore, you are responsible for his actions while at school. We’ll see you in a few minutes?”

“No, there must be some mistake,” I insist. “No one in their right mind would make me a primary guardian of anything.”

“Park in the visitor’s lot and meet me in the front office, Miss James,” says Mrs. Higgins. “I’ll need to issue you a temporary ID card.”

The phone clicks as she hangs up.

My life is complicated enough without being responsible for a half-orphaned fifteen-year-old, so I sincerely hope this is a joke or an administrative mishap as I approach Red River High School’s front office. In ten years, the place hasn’t changed a bit except that the building is more decrepit than ever. Shivering, I walk inside, where Mrs. Higgins slaps a nametag across my chest and sends me to the principal’s office. When I see the man sitting across from Dusty at the principal’s desk, I groan loudly.

“Decker?” I say. “How are you still here? Shouldn’t you be dead by now?”

Principal Decker, the man who ruined most of my junior and senior years, wears a cap of white hair and a tie wrapped so tight that his neck fat spills over his collar. “Calamity James,” he booms. “Imagine my surprise when I saw your name on this boy’s emergency contact form. How did that happen?”

I make eye contact with Dusty, who pleads silently with me to help him. He sinks with relief as I take the chair next to his and square off against Principal Decker. “Paperwork doesn’t lie. I’m his guardian. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

Principal Decker narrows his eyes. “He was caught fighting with another student. We have a strict no-tolerance policy. He’ll be suspended for the rest of the week.”

I make a show of looking around the office. “I don’t see the other student here. Has he already been disciplined, or are you only punishing the kid whose mother just disappeared?”

“As I already mentioned, we have a strict—”

“Let’s get something straight,” I say. “Dusty has been under an enormous amount of stress during the past week and a half. His mother vanished, his father was arrested, and he has been uprooted from his home. Add eight hours of classes, piles of homework, and the crappy American education system, and you get a kid who’s high-strung and needs a damn break.”

“Miss James, there is no excuse for this sort of behavior.”

“We’ll make a deal,” I say, ignoring Principal Decker. “I’ll take Dusty home. He can spend the rest of today catching up on some much-needed rest. Tomorrow, he’ll come back to school as good as new.”

“The standard disciplinary action for fighting on school property is one week of suspension,” Principal Decker says. “We’ll see Dusty next week.”

“You’ll see him tomorrow,” I say. “You will not tank this boy’s grades by forcing him to miss school for a week. Am I understood?”

Decker folds his long fingers together. “If he’s caught fighting again, I’ll expel him.”

“Whatever. Come on, Dusty. We’re leaving.”

Dusty bolts from his chair. In the parking lot, he breaks his silence. “Thank you so much,” he says. “I thought Decker was going to kill me. How did you get him to agree—?”

“No, no,” I say curtly. “I talk first. Why am I listed as your primary guardian?”

Dusty’s cheeks turn pink. “They asked me to update my emergency contact card yesterday.”

“You put my name?” I ask. “Dude, I am not reliable enough to be your emergency contact.”

“You showed up,” he reminds me. “My grandfather wouldn’t have.”

“What about your dad?”

Dusty laughs. “Yeah, right. I don’t remember the last time my dad was sober enough to care about me.”

“Relatable,” I say. “Why’d you pick a fight?”

“The other kid said my mom was probably dead in a ditch somewhere,” Dusty mutters.

“Hmm. I would’ve punched him too.”

Dusty’s eyes brighten, and he stands a little taller.

“Listen, kid,” I say, leading him to Uncle Kent’s borrowed truck. “Despite emotions, you can’t go around punching people. Believe me, it won’t get you anywhere. This is your one free pass. Pull another boneheaded maneuver, and I’ll let Principal Decker do whatever he wants with you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Great. Now, how does the phrase go? ‘I scratched your back, so you scratch mine.’”

“Gross,” he says. “What does that mean?”

“I helped you, so you gotta repay the favor.” I turn the key in the stubborn ignition as the truck grumbles beneath me. “What do you know about your mom’s ancestry?”

Dusty shrugs his shoulders and watches the school get smaller as we drive away. “Not much. Grandma and Grandpa Gunn were really nice, but they died when I was, like, six.”

“You don’t know your grandma’s maiden name?”

“Nope. Mom never said.”

“Did your mom keep ancestry records?” I ask. “Or even photo albums? Anything about her parents or grandparents might help me.”

Dusty shakes his head then suddenly straightens up. “Wait! My mom was totally obsessed with that website for a while—the one that lets you track your family through history. What’s it called?”

“Find Your Tribe?”

“Yes!” he crows triumphantly. “Mom paid for the premium membership and everything. She’d spend hours trying to fill out her family tree.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” I say. “Can we log in to your mom’s account?”

Dusty slumps forward, and his bravado disappears. “I don’t know any of her passwords.”

“Did she use a laptop? Maybe her passwords are saved.”

“She did, but it’s in our house.”

“Let’s go get it,” I suggest.

“I can’t,” Dusty says. “My dad’s the only person with a set of keys, and he won’t give them to me. I already asked.”

I suck my teeth, thinking of other options. “We could acquire the keys ourselves.”

“How?”

“Some good old-fashioned B and E.”

I park Uncle Kent’s truck in a shady corner of the trailer park. Jimmy Canton’s ugly, rusted home sits about twenty feet away, squeezed between a towering tree and a colossal pile of garbage. There’s no sign of Jimmy. He’s either not home or completely knocked out.

“If punching someone is bad, how does breaking into someone’s house compare?” Dusty asks curiously as we watch Jimmy’s trailer over the hot dashboard.

“It doesn’t count if it’s your dad’s house.”

“Right…”

“Let me give you some advice before you go in there,” I say. “Stay low, and be quiet. Peek in the windows to make sure he’s not home. Check the doorknobs first—you’d be surprised how many people leave their places unlocked. If you don’t get lucky, try the windows. Be quick. Get in, grab the keys, and get out. And don’t look too suspicious, in case the neighbors are watching.”

Dusty nods, trying to internalize my guidance. He takes a deep breath to build himself up, then steps out of the car.

“You got this,” I call after him. “Stay low!”

Dusty crouches down and darts toward his father’s trailer. Approaching a window, he cups his hands around his eyes and looks inside. Then he gives me the thumbs-up. All clear.

He tries the front door first, but it doesn’t budge, so he picks his way through the trash pile behind the trailer. When he turns the back doorknob, it twists and opens. Dusty pumps his fist and disappears inside the trailer.

I keep an eye out for Jimmy, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. If Dusty can find the keys, it’s a load off my plate. Accessing Loretta’s Find My Tribe account might be the breakthrough I need to put this case to rest. Then I can leave Red River for good.

As Dusty searches his father’s trailer, the hot sun gets to me. My eyelids begin to droop, and my breathing slows as I doze off. Seconds later, I wake to the loud pop of gunfire.

21

For several chilling seconds, the trailer park is completely silent. Frozen against my seat with the belt pressing uncomfortably against my neck, I wonder if I’ve done it again—gotten someone killed without meaning to. This time, it’s a kid. My blood runs cold. I need to move. I need to get out of the car and check if Dusty’s still alive.

Dusty bursts through the trailer’s front door. Jimmy emerges next with his pants around his ankles, screaming his head off as he waves a gun and a half-empty bottle of bourbon at his fleeing son. Loretta’s ghost swoops from the trailer, dive-bombing Jimmy like an angry pigeon. As Jimmy defends himself against the invisible attacker, firing his gun at random, Dusty sprints toward me.

“Start the truck!” he hollers, launching himself through the open window and into the passenger seat. “Go, go, go!”

I peel out of the trailer park with Dusty’s legs hanging out of the window. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did he shoot you? Dusty, are you okay?”

Dusty pulls his legs in, rights himself, and puts on his seatbelt. Then he bursts out laughing. “Oh, man. That was so fun.”

“Dusty!”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Dad fell asleep on the toilet. That’s why I didn’t see him when I looked in the window.”

“He shot at you!”

“He’s drunk,” Dusty says dismissively. “He had no idea who I was. He thought I was burglarizing him. And guess what?” He dangles a set of keys in front of my face. “I got what we needed! Mom’s house is in Prospector Falls. You know where that is?”

“Give me a minute,” I say. “I’m still having a heart attack.”

As if heart palpitations aren’t enough punishment for setting Dusty in front of Death’s door, his mother shows up in the backseat. I see her in the rearview mirror one second before she bashes me over the head.

“Ow!” I cover myself with one arm, steering with the other. “I’m driving, you crazy lady!”

Dusty watches, bewildered, as I flinch beneath Loretta’s pinches and slaps. She’s going easy on me—after all, I’m the one trying to solve her homicide—but it still hurts.

“I’m sorry!” I nearly drive off the road as Loretta hammers me. “Don’t distract the driver. I could injure my passenger!”

When Loretta realizes that my insane steering could land both Dusty and me in the runoff ditch, she backs off. Crossing her arms, she sits in the back seat and watches me with a dirty look.

“Who are you talking to?” Dusty asks.

“Voices in my head,” I say hastily. “An unfortunate side effect of the medication I’m taking.”

“You said you weren’t crazy.”

“It’s up for discussion.”

Prospector Falls is one of the newer subdivisions that popped up in Red River while I took an extended vacation from town. The pretty white houses look weird against the stark backdrop of dust and brick municipal buildings. Dusty directs me to a corner house that has seen better days.

As Loretta and Jimmy’s marriage crumbled, so did their home. One shutter hangs at an odd angle. Dead leaves and decaying debris stop rainwater from exiting the clogged gutters. A faded plastic Frisbee rests on the roof like it’s been there since the Regan era. Thriving weeds have overtaken the lawn and the flower pots on the windowsills. A stack of mail—past due notices, insurance claims, and warnings from the HOA—deteriorates on the front porch. The rusty latch on the waist-high picket fence doesn’t budge under my touch.

“You gotta kick it,” Dusty says. “Here, I’ll do it.”

He positions the latch and gives the gate a mighty kick, forcing it to pop open. I follow him up the front porch, where he steps over the mail and inserts the key into the lock. Once inside, he inhales deeply through his nose.

“Smells like home,” he says sadly.

Loretta floats glumly through the living room. She lingers around particular objects, like the cheap keyboard by the front window and the picture frames on the mantle. While Dusty sets off to find Loretta’s laptop, I wait with her ghost.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t know his dad was going to be in there. If it makes a difference, I was scared to death when I heard those shots go off.”

Loretta points to a cute picture of Dusty when he was younger, then to herself. She shakes her head as if to say, I can’t protect him anymore.

“I know,” I say. “I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to him.”

“Got it!” Dusty announces, raising Loretta’s laptop in the air as he re-enters the room. “Were you talking to the voices in your head again?”

“None of your business. Let me see that.”

I sit on the couch and open the laptop. Dusty plugs in the charger then sits beside me. Mother and son watch over my shoulder as I boot up the personal computer. Opening the browser, I navigate to FindMyTribe.com and click on the log-in button. As I suspected, Loretta has saved her username and password in the browser.

“Finally, something goes my way,” I say. “Let’s see what Loretta’s filled in so far.”

Find My Tribe works the same way as every other ancestry-tracking website. For a fee, you can get access to information that’s usually free if you have the patience to track down public records about your family. Fortunately, Loretta has already paid for her annual subscription.

Loretta began building her family tree by tracking backward from her grandparents. Almost immediately, my heart jumps out of my chest when I see her grandparents’ names: John Gunn and Sissy Marlow. Sissy’s surname feels like enough confirmation for me, but I keep following Loretta’s family tree upward to make sure.

Sissy Marlow, born in 1912, was the daughter of Ed Marlow and Henrietta Golden. Ed, born in 1876, was the son of Thaddeus Marlow and Carolina Nuñez. Loretta must have gotten stuck after that because Thaddeus’s parents aren’t listed, but his birth year, 1952, matches the year both Tobias Welch and Winfield Marlow bit the dust.

“That’s it,” I mutter, more to myself than to Dusty or Loretta. “She’s the heir.”

Dusty waves his hand between the laptop screen and my face. “Hello? What does this mean?”

“This is huge.” I take a screenshot of the family tree and email it to myself. “This could really help the police find your mother’s—”

Dusty looks up when I cut myself off. “You can say it.”

“Say what?”

“I’m not stupid,” he insists. “The cops came to my grandfather’s house last night. My mom’s dead, isn’t she?”

Though I desperately don’t want to be the person who officially breaks the news to Dusty, I can’t lie to the kid. That would make me a coward and a crappier person than I originally thought.

“We found her body yesterday,” I tell him.

Dusty’s bottom lip wobbles, but he remains calm and firm. “Where?”

“In the creek. Under the falls where everyone takes wedding pictures.” I hesitate, unsure of how much information I should give him. When I look at Loretta, she nods, giving me the go-ahead. “Someone killed her.”

“Why, though? She didn’t do anything wrong.” He sniffs heartily and gestures to the family tree. “Does this have to do anything with it?”

“I think so,” I say. “I have to get to the police station to make sure.”

Since Dusty doesn’t want to go back to his grandfather’s, I let him tag along to the station. Inside, Sheriff Miller has gathered a group of deputies, including Officer Burke. Through the windows, I can see the sheriff giving instructions, but as soon as the bell rattles, signaling our entrance, everyone stops talking.

“I need to speak to Sheriff Miller and Officer Burke,” I say, keeping one hand on Dusty’s shoulder. “In private, please.”

Sheriff Miller nods, dismissing the other deputies. He waves me toward his office, so I guide Dusty into the hallway. Officer Burke picks up the rear.

“What’s with the kid?” she mutters in my ear.

“I picked him up from school.”

“Why?”

“He got into a fight.”

“That doesn’t really explain anything,” Officer Burke hisses as we step inside Sheriff Miller’s office.

Miller closes the door behind us. He offers Dusty a cold water bottle from his mini-fridge, but he leaves Burke and me dry. “All right, James. What are we doing here?”

“I figured out our killer’s motive,” I announce.

Officer Burke smacks my shoulder to shut me up. “Are you kidding? We’re not discussing this in front of Loretta’s son.”

“He knows his mom was murdered,” I say. “He asked me to be in on this conversation. It was his decision. Not mine.”

Sheriff Miller settles behind his desk and folds his hands together. “Some might say that’s not his decision to make.”

“He’s old enough to understand right from wrong,” I say. “If he wants to be here, he deserves to stay.”

Miller looks at Dusty. “You can leave whenever you want, son. If something bothers you too much, you know where the door is.”

“Yes, sir,” says Dusty.

“You were saying, James?”

“Loretta is a direct descendant of Winfield Marlow.” I show him the screenshot of Loretta’s family tree. “I have more documents in my motel that confirm this.”

“So?” Sheriff Miller grunts.

“Winfield Marlow was a gold—”

“I know who Marlow was,” he says. “Why does he pertain to this case?”

“Because he issued a challenge with his dying breath.”

“Oh, I know this one,” Officer Burke interrupts. “Legend says that if you bring Marlow’s heir to where his spirit rests, you’ll be rewarded with unending fortune.”

“You knew that?” I asked her. “Aren’t you an outsider?”

She shrugs. “I did some research when I got to town.”

Sheriff Miller clears his throat to get our attention. “James, are you saying that someone sacrificed Loretta Gunn to fulfill Marlow’s Challenge?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Is that probable?” Officer Burke rests her hands on the utility belt strapped around her waist. “Everyone must know that some dead guy won’t rise from the grave and bequest his entire fortune on whoever finds his descendants. That’s just crazy.”

“Is it, though?” I mutter.

Sheriff Miller holds up a hand. “All right, let’s assume this is true. James, what’s our next step?”

“The suspect probably has historical ties to Red River,” I say. “I found Lottie Lane’s diaries—”

“The prostitute?” Officer Burke asks.

“Yes,” I say, exasperated. “Marlow was one of her repeat clients. When he got her pregnant, she fled Red River out of fear that someone would kidnap her baby. Only two people knew that she was pregnant: the madam of the parlor house and a man named Tobias Welch. Tobias was killed shortly after Lottie left town, so that means we’re looking for someone who bought information from the madam. It’s probably the same person who killed Tobias.”

Officer Burke shakes her head. “Hang on. We have to solve a crime from nearly two hundred years ago to figure out who killed Loretta?”

“I think it’s our best bet,” I say.

“That’s insane,” says Officer Burke. “How are we supposed to track down a killer from two centuries ago?”

“Interview descendants of the original Red River families,” Sheriff Miller suggests. “We have plenty of records. Cal, you can ask your uncle if the Jameses knew about the Marlow Challenge.”

“Uncle Kent already told me what he knows.”

“Then you and Burke can check with the locals,” Sheriff Miller says. “Track down anyone with a last name that matches someone’s from the 1850s. Check maiden names as well. Make sure you ask the right questions. Oral stories alter drastically as generations pass. Let’s find everyone in town who knows about the Marlow Challenge.”

Officer Burke hesitates to leave the sheriff’s office. “Sheriff Miller, no offense to James, but is trekking through Red River’s history the best way to go about this? Shouldn’t we be focusing on the present instead of the past?”

“Why do you do that?” I ask her. “Do you have any better ideas? Have you brought anything useful to the table?”

“You have been completely off the rails since we started this investigation,” Officer Burke tells me. “You nearly drowned in the Gulch, got trapped in an abandoned mine, and broke into a place of business. Oh, and you put Meredith Galvez in the hospital.”

I gape at Sheriff Miller. “You told her about that?”

“One week,” Officer Burke says. “You’ve been here less than a week, and you’ve already caused enough trouble for the whole year. Sheriff Miller, please—” She turns toward him. “Let an actual detective review this case. James is not qualified to handle it.”

“The detective hasn’t found a damn thing,” Sheriff Miller says. “You know that, Officer Burke. James has had more success than the rest of our department. I’d like to commend you for helping her, but I see the two of you have yet to figure out how to get along.”

“Because she’s crazy,” Officer Burke says.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“My mom’s dead,” Dusty announces unexpectedly. When we turn to look at him, he gets to his feet. “My mom is dead,” he says again. “Someone killed her. I don’t know anything about police work or detective stuff, but I’m smart enough to know this: whoever killed my mom is still out there, and you won’t catch them by standing around and bickering with each other. Can you go find out who killed her? Can you do that for me?”

Sheriff Miller rises, snapping at Officer Burke and me. “You heard the kid. Get to work.”

22

“Unbelievable.”

Burke mutters under her breath while she shuffles through a file cabinet full of dusty, yellowing papers. She hasn’t shut up since Sheriff Miller scolded us. I’ve been stuck with her inane comments for a whole hour, and we haven’t made any progress on finding a list of original Red River families.

“More success than the rest of our department,” Burke says, mimicking Sheriff Miller’s deep, dulcet tones. “Probably because she’s unhinged.”

“I’m right here,” I remind Burke. “I can hear you.”

She acts as though I don’t exist and continues skimming through the town’s recorded history. I can respect Officer Burke’s point of view. She sticks to the rules and expects her protocol-following behavior to pay off. Cops have protocols for a reason—they’re supposed to work—but how many homicide cases have gone unsolved in the world? How many innocent people got stuck in jail for a crime they didn’t commit? How many murderers are walking free because there was no better way to find out the truth? With someone like me around, the sheriff’s department is much better off, especially since I’ve decided to use my ability for the greater good.

Honestly, Officer Burke should be thanking me. If she would shut up and go along with my plans, she could easily take some credit for my successes. Instead, she’s digging a hole for herself in case the sheriff ever wants to boot her in. Maybe her crappy attitude is part of a larger coping mechanism. Whatever her problem is, it’s not helping me solve this case.

There is one interesting thing about Officer Burke’s swinging moods. The ghost child with the teddy bear tends to show up when Burke’s emotions are getting in the way of her work. I have a hunch the little ghost is a product of whatever mistake Burke made that landed her a probationary period behind a desk. Until Burke comes to terms with her blunder, she won’t operate at her highest level. Whether Burke senses her or not, the girl’s presence will always hinder the officer’s occupational desires.

When I spot Winnie outside, she waves and points to a take-out bag from the Saloon. Without alerting Burke, who’s content with ignoring me, I meet my sister outside the sheriff’s department.

“What’s this?” I say, accepting the food from her.

“I heard you and Teddy were working through lunch.” She cranes her neck for another look inside the station. “Where is she? I brought steak sandwiches.”

“She’s too busy being high and mighty.”

“Cut her some slack,” Winnie says. “She’s got a lot of stuff going on right now.”

“What do you know about it?” I snag some fries from the bag of hot food. “How much personal history did the two of you cover in that coffee date of yours? You didn’t tell her about Mom, did you?”

“I promised you a long time ago not to talk about Mom to anyone,” Winnie says. “Teddy’s a good listener, though. You could try talking to her. You know, being nice for once.”

“Pass.”

“Calamity.”

“Being nice is your thing,” I say. “Besides, you don’t know what it’s like to work with Burke. She hates everything I do. She told Sheriff Miller he’d be better off handing this case to a ‘real detective.’”

“She’s proud,” Winnie says. “So are you. We know that pride can be both a fault and a virtue.” When I roll my eyes, she pinches my arm. “I like Teddy. Don’t antagonize her.”

“Moi?” I say innocently. “Never.”

“Cal.”

“Why don’t you come in and play referee?” I suggest. “You can keep us from tearing each other’s throats out while we work.”

“I would, but I’m meeting Boone this afternoon before work.”

“Ew, why?”

“We need to talk,” she says. “Anyway, enjoy the food, and don’t be mean to Teddy.”

I hold up two fingers like a promise salute. “I hereby vow to leave Teddy Bear alone with her darkness and ineptitudes.”

“This is why she doesn’t like you,” Winnie calls over her shoulder as she walks away. “Because you’re annoying.”

I toss the bag of food at Officer Burke. Though she isn’t paying attention to me, she catches it automatically.

“Nice reflexes,” I say. “Winnie brought us lunch. Steak sandwiches.”

Finally, Burke looks away from the files. “Winnie was here?”

“Briefly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were enamored by those files, and she had to go,” I say, unwrapping my sandwich. With the first bite, I scatter crumbs across Officer Burke’s desk. “What’s it to you?”

“So, you get to take a break while I do the work?”

I remind myself that Winnie likes Officer Burke. My sister is an excellent judge of character, and she’s never been wrong before. If she thinks Burke is worth the effort, she must know something redeemable about the irritating deputy that I don’t.

To help bite my tongue, I go through yet another stack of paperwork. By a stroke of luck, I find an extensive list printed on yellowing fax paper. As I unfold it and recognize the first few names, I realize what I’ve come across.

“Here,” I say, offering the stack to Burke. “That’s the list of original families who had descendants in Red River in 1985. Most of them probably still do.”

She takes the papers. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“You decide what to do with it,” I say. “I’m following your lead on this one.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Jeez, Burke,” I say. “This is your problem. You can’t roll with the punches. Shut up, look at the list, and tell me your plan.”

Quietly, Burke skims through the names. The list goes on for several pages. If we have to interview everyone on it, it’ll take months. Burke should suggest a way to narrow down our suspects. I have an idea how to do it, but since I’m letting Burke take the reins on this one, I keep my mouth shut.

“We can cross off everyone who’s died since 1985 and didn’t have kids,” Burke says. “Then let’s check in with the oldest members of this list first. The younger generations are less and less interested in oral traditions, so we probably won’t get much out of them.”

“Nice. That’s what I would have done, too.”

It’s half-true. If it were me, I’d skip interviewing the living people altogether and go straight to the dead ones for answers. If Winfield Marlow and Tobias Welch are still around, there must be others from the 1850s who might have additional information. Marlow wouldn’t help; this kind of chaos is exactly what the gold tycoon wanted when he issued his challenge. Tobias is no good either. Unless he’s magically developed a voice in the past couple of days, he can’t tell me who killed him.

Officer Burke scribbles names on a sticky note, murmuring to herself. “We need people who have reputations in town, good or bad.” She thrusts the note at me. “Here. You know the town better than me. Who do you think we should question first?”

She wouldn’t normally ask for my opinion. This is her attempt at working with me instead of against me. I browse through the names she’s singled out.

“Let’s check with Henry Carillo first,” I say. “He’s one of the oldest guys in town, and he tells the Red River origin story at the Summer Splash campfire every summer. I’ve spoken to him about Marlow before, but maybe he knows more than he let on.”

“All right. Who else?”

“Earl Stingus,” I say reluctantly. “He’s an ass, but his family goes way back. He takes pride in his roots. His house is covered in relics—antique guns, outfits, and pictures that have been passed down through the generations. If I was alive back then, I would have automatically suspected a Stingus to be involved with Tobias Welch’s death. He’s the exact type of person to take advantage of a challenge like Marlow’s.”

“Let’s start with those two,” Officer Burke says. “We’ll go from there. Are you coming?”

Both Henry Carillo and Earl Stingus live in the boonies, not far from my parents’ old house. Henry grows a variety of crops to sell at the local farmer’s market and in other small towns that, like everywhere else, have a penchant for all things organic. Earl is in the butcher’s business. He also makes a profit at the farmer’s market and additionally sells his meat to large chain grocery stores for a greater return. Grass-fed ground beef is all the rage with hipsters and muscle heads these days, and they’ll pay almost anything to get it.

As Officer Burke drives past the dirt road that leads to my parents’ place, anxiety tightens around my ribs. Nothing good ever happens in the part of town where the space between houses is vast enough for aliens to land UFOs without being noticed. As the grass grows longer, my stomach ties itself in knots.

Thankfully, we stop at Henry Carillo’s quaint farmhouse first. Henry leans on the porch railing, lazily watering a patch of newly-bloomed wildflowers. In the fields, heads of leafy green vegetables, radishes, broccoli, carrots, and beets proudly grow in militaristic rows. To the east, a sparkling lake marks the end of Henry’s land.

“Good afternoon, deputies,” Henry says. He rests the hose on the porch to meet us in his front yard. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you have some time to talk about Red River?” Officer Burke asks. “We understand you’re an expert on town historical matters.”

“Sure,” Henry says, beckoning us inside. “I’ll do what I can. What do you need to know?”

“We found out that Winfield Marlow had a son with a local prostitute, though he didn’t know it,” I say. “A prospector helped her leave town for safety. She made it, but the prospector died a few days later.”

“Ah.” Henry fiddles with a handmade drip coffee maker and discards the used grounds. He pours each of us a cup as we settle around his kitchen table. “You must be talking about Lottie Lane and Tobias Welch.”

“You know about them?” Officer Burke says.

“Stories about Tobias filtered down,” Henry says. “I’m part Native, so my family was treated poorly in Marlow’s day, but Tobias was always kind to my ancestors. My grandfather liked to tell a story about the prospector who gave us a nugget of gold as an apology for digging through our sacred lands. Marlow killed anyone who stole from him, so it was quite the sacrifice.”

“What about Lottie and Tobias?” I ask.

“Tobias and my ancestor, Ouray, were best friends,” says Henry. “They told each other everything. Each trusted the other to have his back in the mines. Tobias told Ouray of his unrequited love for Lottie, and Ouray often offered advice to help Tobias.”

“Did your ancestor know about Lottie’s baby?” Officer Burke says.

“I’m sure he did,” Henry replies. “I never knew about Marlow’s heir, but if Lottie was pregnant, Tobias almost certainly told Ouray.”

“Would Ouray have betrayed Tobias? No offense,” I add hastily. “I have to ask for investigative purposes.”

Henry nods, sipping coffee. “I understand. No, Ouray would have taken Tobias’s secret to the grave. As a strong opponent of Marlow’s existence, Ouray never would have accepted the challenge. He was devastated when Tobias died.”

“Is there anyone else Tobias might have told?” Officer Burke says. “We’re almost certain someone murdered him for sending Lottie away.”

“News traveled fast in the mine,” says Henry. “I’m sure someone overheard Tobias and Ouray talking. I’m sorry I can’t be of more service.”

“Our second stop is Stingus Farms,” I tell him. “You won’t be less helpful than Earl. That’s for sure.”

Henry chuckles. “Good luck. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Earl Stingus answers his door in a sweat-stained undershirt that exposes his hairy armpits and sunken chest. A hand-rolled cigar dangles between his sunburned lips.

“Oh, no,” he says dryly. “It’s the po-po.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stingus,” Officer Burke says. “We have a few questions for you regarding the death of Tobias Welch.”

“Who?”

“Tobias Welch,” I snap. “Don’t act ignorant, Earl.”

Officer Burke gently tucks me behind her, automatically sensing my unease. “He was a prospector who died in 1852. We’re interviewing anyone with a historical connection to Red River in relation to a present-day case.”

Earl rests his arm against the door frame, so the stench from his pits radiates directly toward us. “I don’t know nothin’ about no Tobias Welch.”

“Your family has roots in Red River, correct?” Officer Burke asks. “I imagine your father and grandfather passed along stories about their ancestors’ wild west days.”

“Sure, they did,” says Earl. “They were all about how to raise cattle the right way. My family ain’t full of gunslingers and murderers like this one’s.” He jerks his chin at me. “Good ol’ Calvin James took a shot at near about everyone. Sounds to me like you should be interviewing Calamity.”

“Shut up, Earl,” I say.

“Why?” He blows a ring of cigar smoke in my direction. “You askin’ about killers, right? Well, I only know one killer, and she’s standing right in front of me. Hell, I saw Calamity burying something on her parents’ property just yesterday. You want answers, Officer Burke? Go dig up Calamity’s darkest secrets.”

23

I lunge toward Earl, but Officer Burke catches me around the waist and guides me off Earl’s front porch. Though I stop fighting, she doesn’t let go until after loading me into the cruiser. As much as I want to punch Earl’s teeth in, it’s more important that we continue our investigation.

“I’m sensing you and Earl have unfinished business,” she says, firing up the car. Earl watches us from the house with a creepy smile. “What’s the story there?”

“He borderline assaulted my sister and me when we were kids,” I growl. “My dad basically let him do it.”

“Okay, take a deep breath.”

“What?”

“To relax,” Officer Burke says. “It sounds stupid, but it works. I’ll do it with you. Ready?”

Feeling hokey, I follow Officer Burke’s cues to inhale, pause, and exhale. After a few rounds, my rage subsides slightly. “How come you never do breathing exercises when you’re the one who’s worked up?”

“I forget,” she says shortly. “Is it true? Did you bury something on your parents’ property?”

“No, he’s a filthy liar.”

“He obviously wants us to go check it out,” she says. “Is that okay with you?”

“Whatever.”

Truth be told, I don’t want to be anywhere near my old house if Earl Stingus is sending us that way. I know a set-up when I see one—whatever we find on that property is bound to make me look bad. Additionally, visiting my parents’ place with Officer Burke in tow feels like exposing myself to her. I don’t like being vulnerable in front of other people, and going back to the place where Nash and Mama died makes me quiver.

“I need directions,” says Burke.

“There’s a back way through Earl’s.” I point out the hidden road that winds through the woods. “Follow it to the dirt road, then make a left.”

Burke navigates through the trees, and we emerge in the dried, dead fields of my family’s old hay business. Burke scans the grounds with pursed lips, her gaze lingering on the ramshackle ranch house that used to be my home.

“You and Winnie lived here?”

“Once upon a time,” I say bitterly. “Let’s take a look around. Don’t touch anything, though.”

“I’ll take the exterior,” she offers. “You check inside.”

Relieved that Officer Burke won’t be watching as I revisit my childhood home for the second time, I comb the rooms of the ranch home. Through the broken windows, I watch as Burke examines the grounds. Nothing inside appears out of place. I turn to leave, but the little ghost boy waits by the door, sucking his thumb.

“Has anyone been here since I came back?” I ask him quietly. “Inside or outside?”

The boy nods and points through the broken back door. I thank him and head out that way, but Burke has already found what we’re looking for.

“Upturned earth.” With her boot, she prods a spot of dirt that’s dark with moisture. “Someone’s dug here recently. I don’t suppose you have a shovel?”

I break the rusty lock on the shed and find the old farming equipment. Shovel in hand, I return to Officer Burke.

“Wanna do the honors?” she asks.

“No.” I thrust the shovel at her. “You do it.”

She drives the tool into the ground, stomps on the blade, and easily turns over a hunk of dirt. In a few minutes, she’s made a decent hole in the earth.

“Have you done this before?” I ask.

“I used to help my grandma in her garden.” She sets the shovel aside and bends over to shift through the wet dirt with her hands. “I got something. Get my backpack from the cruiser. I need an evidence bag.”

After I fetch the plastic bag for her, Officer Burke uses it as a makeshift glove and pulls a bone-handled knife from the earth. Though covered in dirt, the sharp blade still catches the sunlight. Burke reverses the evidence bag and seals the knife inside.

Taking the radio off her belt, Burke presses the talk button. “Sheriff Miller, this is Burke and James. We’ve located a possible murder weapon on the old James homestead. Please advise.”

The radio crackles, and Sheriff Miller replies, “Bring it in, Burke. And don’t let James make a break for it.”

Sheriff Miller read my mind. As soon as Burke unearthed that knife, my fight or flight response kicked in. I couldn’t decide whether to run or clock Burke over the head. Thankfully, reason won out over both options, which is how I end up back at the sheriff’s department, locked in a room with Miller, Burke, and the murder weapon.

“What do we know?” Sheriff Miller asks as he paces around the table. The knife sits right in the middle, still in the evidence bag.

“Earl Stingus reports seeing James bury the knife yesterday,” Officer Burke says. “But that can’t be true.”

My eyebrows lift in hesitant surprise. Is Officer Burke actually defending me?

“Oh, I know,” says Sheriff Miller. “James was busy yesterday. I’ve got witnesses to place her everywhere but the old James homestead. She definitely didn’t bury this.”

Though I already know I’m innocent, relief hits me like a bus. For once, I’m not in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one can pin this on me. In fact, it sounds like Officer Burke and Sheriff Miller actually trust me. Getting along with law enforcement is a new experience, but I can’t say I hate it, even if it knocks points off my street cred.

“It wasn’t buried deep,” Officer Burke says. “It only took a few minutes to dig up.”

“Sounds like someone wanted us to find it,” Sheriff Miller adds. “Stingus must have known about it. Put him on our list of suspects. James, what do you think?” When I don’t answer, he bangs on the table. “Snap out of it, kid.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I feel like I’ve seen that knife before, but I can’t remember where it’s from. Can I have a closer look?”

“As long as you don’t put your fingerprints all over it,” Sheriff Miller says.

I take the evidence bag from the middle of the table and fold it over for a better look at the knife. The weapon is definitely an antique—it’s the type of blade a cowboy or outdoorsman would have kept on his person for hunting and skinning purposes. The bone handle is hand-carved and decorated with nicks and scratches from years of use. The blade looks newer as if it might have been replaced at some point.

Something stirs in my memory, but I can’t pull a clear image out of my head. I’ve definitely seen someone use this knife before, but who the hell was it?

“Anything?” Sheriff Miller asks.

“No,” I say, disappointed with myself. “I can’t remember.”

“Pity. Burke, get that knife to forensics,” Sheriff Miller says. “Have Marty check for fingerprints and DNA. When you’re finished with that, you and James can run a traffic check on Main Street. We’ve had too many people run that red light lately.”

Officer Burke nods, takes the knife, and leaves the room.

“She dealt with me all afternoon,” I tell the sheriff. “You should give her a break from babysitting. She can run the traffic check by herself.”

“No, she can’t,” Sheriff Miller replies shortly. “I don’t put y’all together to punish you. I know that Officer Burke will hold you accountable for your actions, and you’ll hold her accountable for hers. You might not get it, but the two of you make a decent pair. You’re both outsiders in a way, so watch each other’s backs.”

While we wait for Red River’s one-man forensics team to examine the potential murder weapon, Officer Burke parks her cruiser in the grass right past the biggest intersection on Main Street. With most of the squad car hidden behind a wide tree trunk, oncoming traffic can’t see us until it’s too late. As speeding drivers whiz by, I catch sight of their panicked faces through the windshield when they spot the cruiser and hit the brakes.

“I never thought policing traffic would do such an efficient job of cheering me up,” I say, chortling as yet another driver pretends he’s been doing the speed limit this whole time. “When can we pull someone over?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Burke says. “You want to try the radar gun?”

She shows me how to use the gun, and I take great pleasure aiming it at approaching cars. Most drivers are going five to ten miles over the speed limit. According to Burke, that’s not fast enough to warrant turning on the sirens. We’re looking for someone who’s blatantly flaunting their law-breaking.

It doesn’t take long. In the distance, a dingy yellow Corvette convertible switches madly between lanes to get around slower-moving cars. As the Corvette approaches the intersection, the light turns yellow. The Corvette doesn’t slow down.

“Here we go,” Burke says.

The light turns solid red, and the Corvette rips through the intersection. As it passes, I see the two idiots sitting in the front seat. Officer Burke flips on the lights, pulls out of the grass, and hits the gas. The traffic parts, and we zoom down the middle of the highway, quickly catching up to the Corvette.

“It’s Boone and Connor,” I tell Burke. “Winnie’s boyfriend and one of his dumb friends. They won’t like that I’m with you.”

“Too bad,” Officer Burke says.

Boone, in the driver’s seat, glances in his rearview mirror. When he sees the flashing lights, he groans visibly and slows down. Connor looks over his shoulder and makes direct eye contact with me. He taps Boone’s arm and points to the open road. I don’t need to read lips to know what he’s saying—he wants Boone to keep driving.

Fortunately, Boone is not a big enough idiot to start a police chase. He pulls onto the shoulder and puts the Corvette in park. As Officer Burke runs the license plate, Boone and Connor start arguing.

“Are you going to get out?” I ask Burke.

“In a minute,” she says. “I like to watch them stew.”

She chuckles as Boone and Connor’s petty fight grows louder. When Connor slaps Boone’s head, Officer Burke finally gets out of the cruiser.

“Are you coming?” she asks me.

Together, we approach the driver’s side of the Corvette. Boone perches his sunglasses on his head and squints up at us.

“Officer, I swear I had no idea that light was red,” Boone says. “I’m partially colorblind, so—”

“What are you doing here, Cal?” Connor interrupts. His eye, which met my elbow a few days ago, is surrounded by an ugly yellow and blue bruise. “You’re not a cop.”

“She’s an honorary deputy, and she has every right to be here,” Officer Burke says curtly. “Don’t change the subject.”

“She punched my fiancée,” Connor spits. “She pushed Meredith down the stairs. Meredith’s wrist and nose are broken.”

“The punch was unintentional,” I say. “And Meredith pulled me down the stairs. She broke her own body parts. Boone, what are you doing with this fool? Aren’t you supposed to be with Winnie?”

Boone’s eyes darken, and he slams a fist against the steering wheel. “I was with Winnie, but she only wanted to meet so she could break up with me!”

Officer Burke’s face splits into a sudden joyful grin, but she hides it behind practiced professionalism. “Heightened emotions and driving don’t mix well, Boone. I’m writing you a ticket for speeding and running that red light.”

“No, come on, Officer,” Boone whines. “I’m heartbroken.”

“That’s no excuse for breaking the law.”

“Are you good here?” I ask Officer Burke as we walk back to the squad car. “I’d like to check on Winnie. She should be starting her shift at the Saloon by now.”

Officer Burke nods. “Sure. I got this.”

Winnie is in high spirits when I enter the Saloon, serving the usual customers with her trademarked smile. I’m glad she finally dumped Boone—the guy was dead weight—but I wonder why she did it so suddenly and without telling me.

“Hey,” I say, catching Winnie’s attention as I take a seat at the bar. “We pulled Boone over for reckless driving. He seemed pretty upset.”

Winnie bits her lower lip. “We broke up.”

“That’s what he said. Why didn’t you tell me when you dropped off lunch?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I guess I didn’t want your input.”

“Are you kidding? I would have totally cheered you on.”

“Exactly.” Winnie serves me a whiskey neat before I ask for it. “I know Boone’s not the sharpest tool in the box, but he has feelings. I don’t want to make fun of him with you. It doesn’t feel right.”

I lift my hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I won’t say a word.”

“Mm-hmm. You were with Teddy?”

“Yeah, Sheriff Miller’s been partnering us together every chance he gets.”

“She knows I broke up with Boone?”

“Yup. Why?”

“No reason.”

The doors swing open, and Sheriff Miller walks in. Everyone sits up a little straighter as he walks by. He heads for the seat next to mine and sits down.

“Good, you’re both here,” he says. “I’ve got news about the knife you found.”

“What knife?” Winnie asks.

“We pulled fingerprints off the handle,” Sheriff Miller says, eyeing me pointedly. “Guess whose they were?”

“Mine?” I say, scoffing. “That’s impossible. Sheriff Miller, I swear I have never held that knife before today.”

“Not yours.” Sheriff Miller looks at Winnie. “Your sister’s.”

24

Winnie has never looked more out of place than she does in the police station’s interrogation room. Set against a backdrop of gray walls beneath unforgiving fluorescent lights, Winnie’s blue Saloon shirt pops like a wildflower growing from concrete. She gazes around with a subtle sense of curiosity—she’s never been inside an interrogation room before—and politely folds her hands on the desk. The handcuffs jingle around her wrists.

“Sheriff Miller, is this necessary?”

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Sheriff Miller and I watch Winnie get settled. Never in my life did I expect to see my sister in handcuffs. It’s been hours since the sheriff arrested her in the Saloon in front of Winnie’s regular customers. The police station is dark and quiet.

“Our forensics team matched the knife’s blade to Loretta’s wound,” Sheriff Miller says. “Winnie’s fingerprints were all over the handle. We had to bring her in.”

“Winnie is a vegan,” I say. “She eats wheatgrass and pea protein because she hates the idea of hurting animals. She spends her free time setting up donation pages for kids with disabilities. She’s Red River’s Miss Congeniality. She cannot have done this.”

Sheriff Miller regards my sister through the glass. “Those things would make an awful good cover for a sick murderer.”

“Don’t say that about her.”

“Don’t get me wrong, James,” he says. “I don’t think your sister killed Loretta Gunn.”

“Then why is she chained to that desk?”

“Because her fingerprints were found on the murder weapon,” he says again. “At the very least, we have to question her.”

Winnie glances into the interrogation room’s upper corner, where a security camera blinks its red light at her. She shifts awkwardly and bows her head as if she doesn’t want the camera to see her face. While she tugs on the handcuffs to get more comfortable, I consider our years-long separation. I wasn’t there while Winnie did most of her growing up. Maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought I did.

“Where’s Officer Burke?” I ask the sheriff. “Does she know Winnie’s been arrested?”

“She’s off-duty,” Sheriff Miller says, heading toward the interrogation room. “We’ll fill her in tomorrow. Stay here. No matter what happens, don’t barge into that room.”

I want to know what Officer Burke makes of Winnie’s arrest, but another feeling grows in my chest. I want someone to comfort me about this, and Officer Burke is the only one suitable for the job. She knows both Winnie and me, and unlike the locals, Burke doesn’t hate me on principle. Despite the sheriff’s orders, I text Burke’s personal cell number.

As Sheriff Miller sits across from Winnie, she offers him a hesitant smile. Miller doesn’t return the expression. Right now, he’s playing bad cop. Who plays the good one?

“All right, Miss James,” Sheriff Miller says, setting a thin file on the desk in front of Winnie. “Let’s get down to business. Do you know how this works?”

“No.” Winnie straightens her posture, but the waver in her voice betrays her nervousness. “I’ve never been arrested or questioned before. That’s Cal’s thing.”

If I were in the room with my little sister, I would definitely give her crap for that comment. She knows how lucky she is not to be in my shoes. Winnie has all her marbles, while I spend hours wondering if I’ll eventually end up like our mother—tied to a hospital bed without enough brain cells to function.

“The process is simple enough,” Sheriff Miller says. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and based on your answers, we’ll decide whether you’re a probable suspect in this case.”

“Yes, the process sounds fine,” Winnie replies with a subtle note of exasperation. “But I don’t understand why I’m here, to begin with.”

Sheriff Miller opens the file and slides a picture of the bone-handled knife toward Winnie. “Does this look familiar?”

Winnie leans forward to study the photograph. Two prominent wrinkles appear between her brows, a sign that she’s digging through her memories to place the knife. “It looks similar to a few knives I’ve seen in the Saloon, but I can’t be sure I’ve ever seen this particular one. Did you say my fingerprints were on the handle?”

“They were,” Sheriff Miller says. “You can imagine why we’re so confused. What is the town’s most popular barmaid doing with a knife like this?”

Winnie’s eyelids flutter with vague irritation. “First of all, I do carry a knife, but it’s for my personal protection. You know that because you confiscated it from me when you arrested me. Secondly, since I have my own knife, I have no use for this one.”

Pride brings a smile to my face. Sheriff Miller’s line of questioning is meant to scare the suspect into condemning themselves, but Winnie isn’t falling for it.

“Sometimes, a patron lends me a knife to cut open boxes at the Saloon,” Winnie says, less snappishly. “I don’t like to use my own. Cardboard dulls the blade.”

“But you can’t specifically remember seeing or using this knife,” Sheriff Miller replies. “Is that correct?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“No, or you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember,” Winnie sighs. “Sheriff Miller, you know me. I’m not a killer. Don’t grill me like some common criminal.”

Sheriff Miller’s frown softens as he considers Winnie’s request. “It’s protocol, Miss James. I do what I have to do.”

Winnie nods, and the interview proceeds with the silent agreement that whatever happens next results from following protocol. Sheriff Miller bombards Winnie with question after question until she starts stumbling over her answers. I suddenly understand how innocent people have accidentally admitted to crimes they didn’t commit. Sheriff Miller’s interrogation technique breaks Winnie’s bubbly exterior apart and reveals the insecurities underneath.

“Where were you the night Loretta Gunn was murdered?” Sheriff Miller asks for the third or fourth time.

Once again, Winnie replies, “I don’t know. At the Saloon, probably. I work most nights.”

“Can anyone confirm your presence there?”

“Probably. Ask the regulars.”

“I’m asking you,” Sheriff Miller says. “Can someone confirm your presence there?”

“Yes,” Winnie replies. “Check with Boone. Or Henry Carillo. They’re almost always in the Saloon when I’m working.”

“The only witnesses you can produce are your boyfriend and your longtime family friend?” Sheriff Miller asks. “How about someone who isn’t guaranteed to lie for you?”

I pound on the one-way mirror, scaring Winnie half out of her seat. Her wrists are starting to chafe where the handcuffs rub against the skin. The usual brightness in her warm eyes has vanished. Sheriff Miller glances over his shoulder, annoyed that I’ve interrupted his interview.

“What is it, James?” he barks.

I hold the intercom button, so he can hear me from the other room. “I need to speak with the suspect.”

“We’re not finished.”

“You are, for now,” I say. “She needs a break. Let me in.”

After a pause, Sheriff Miller gets up and leaves the room. On my side of the mirror, he says, “What’s the problem, James? You knew this was going to happen.”

“You’re traumatizing her,” I say. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s twenty-one,” Sheriff Miller replies. “I know she’s your sister, but we have to set the record straight. This will help us in the long run.”

“You got what you needed. She didn’t do anything.”

“We don’t know that,” he says. “She needs a stronger alibi for the night Loretta died. If witnesses can place her at the Saloon, she’s off the hook.”

“Then call the witnesses,” I shoot back. “Stop harassing her.”

Sheriff Miller adjusts his hat, briefly covering his face as if to hide his discomfort. “You think I like doing this, James? That girl’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine she’d draw a knife across anyone’s throat. But her—”

“Her fingerprints are on the murder weapon. Blah, blah, blah.” Sighing, I plant my hands on the mirror. Winnie leans forward, fighting against the handcuffs to wipe tears from her cheeks. “Let me talk to her before you go back in there.”

Sheriff Miller scrutinizes me, judging whether he should allow me inside the interrogation room with Winnie. I can almost see the thoughts tumbling around his brain. If I talk to Winnie, will I groom her to lie to him? Could our conversation hinder his investigation?

“Miller, she’s the only person who still cares about me,” I say, almost pleading with him. “If I let her do this alone, she’ll never forgive me. Please, let me go in there.”

Finally, the sheriff nods. I brush past him, taking a stack of napkins and a cold water bottle from the minifridge. Winnie jumps as I come into the interrogation room, but her puffy pink face relaxes when she sees me.

“Cal, thank goodness,” she says. “Is it over? I know Sheriff Miller’s doing his job, but he’s starting to make me feel like I actually killed Loretta.”

I wet the napkins with the cold water and set the makeshift compresses between Winnie’s raw skin and the harsh handcuffs. Then I offer her the rest of the water, helping her sip from the bottle.

“We’re not quite finished,” I say. “Miller really needs you to give him a strong alibi. You don’t remember who else was in the Saloon that night? One person who can say you served them? It was a Tuesday. Do you have any Tuesday regulars?”

“Michael Schmitt,” Winnie says. “He comes every other Tuesday, after the bi-weekly community ball game at Red River Park.”

I scribble Michael’s name down. “Good. Who else?”

“Harriet Grady comes on Tuesdays, but only sometimes.” Winnie’s eyes fill with tears again. “I don’t always work on Tuesdays, Cal. What if I wasn’t at the Saloon that night? Will I go to jail?”

“Did you kill Loretta Gunn?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you’re not going to jail,” I promise her. “We’ll find out who did this, Winnie.”

“What if you don’t? What if everyone thinks it’s me?”

I wipe her nose for her. “As someone who’s also been framed for murder, I can tell you it’s not fun. But everyone loves you, Winnie. No one will believe you killed Loretta, and I will find the actual culprit. Don’t worry.”

Officer Burke barges into the interrogation room, wearing a denim jacket and buffalo plaid pajama shorts that reveal most of her pale muscled thighs. Her brilliant red hair swings freely around her shoulders as she pants to catch her breath.

“Officer Burke,” I say. “That outfit is not safe for work.”

“Shut, James,” she gasps. “I ran all the way here from my house when you texted me.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“It wouldn’t start,” she says.

Sheriff Miller joins us in the interrogation room for the sole purpose of berating Officer Burke. “You can’t barrel into a suspect interview half-naked, Burke! What on earth are you thinking?”

“Sorry, sir, but Winnie’s not the murderer,” Officer Burke says. “She was working at the Saloon that night.”

“So she says,” Sheriff Miller replies. “But we don’t have any witnesses to confirm that.”

“Yes, you do.” Officer Burke looks right at my sister. “I was at the Saloon that night, too. I spent several hours there. Winnie didn’t leave the bar until one o’clock the following morning. She was serving customers all night long.”

“You had eyes on Winnie the entire night?” Sheriff Miller asks.

“Yes,” she says firmly.

Sheriff Miller deflates and blows out a deep exhale. “Thank God for that. Winnie, you’re free to go. I apologize for the rough treatment.”

“It’s fine, Sheriff.” Winnie lifts her wrists to Officer Burke, who unlocks the handcuffs and pulls Winnie into a hug. “You were just doing your job.”

“A little too well,” Officer Burke growls over the top of Winnie’s head. “Did you have to cuff her?”

“It’s just—”

“Protocol,” I finish for him. “Sheriff Miller, can I talk to you in the hall?”

Leaving Officer Burke to care for my sister, I lead the sheriff out of the interrogation room. He reads my concern before I express it.

“Someone is trying awfully hard to frame you and your sister for Loretta’s death,” he says. “Do you know anyone who has a grudge against your family?”

“Half the town has a grudge against me,” I remind him. “But Winnie’s a saint. I can’t think of a single person who’d want to hurt her. Did forensics not find any DNA on the knife?”

He shakes his head. “Only Winnie’s prints. Whoever planted the weapon must have thoroughly cleaned it before they got Winnie to hold it.”

“Maybe it was someone in the bar?” I asked. “Like Winnie said.”

“This whole case is a mind-bender,” Sheriff Miller says. “We’re making progress, though. The murder weapon is a huge clue.”

He walks away, finished with our conversation, but I hurry along after him. “Sheriff, can I get access to the knife? I’d like to make some observations of my own.”

“It’s locked in the forensics lab downstairs,” Miller says. “Marty’s gone home by now, but you can ask Officer Burke for the keys. I’m heading out.”

“What about old files?” I say. “Do you keep records of past cases? Say, from ten years ago?”

Sheriff Miller puts on his coat. “We’re working on digitizing everything, but records that old would be in the filing room. They’re organized by year. Do what you like as long as you lock up when you’re finished.”

With Sheriff Miller’s blessing, I get the keys from Officer Burke and head down to the basement. I search the filing room first and find what I’m looking for: the official records for Nash Adams’s homicide investigation.

25

It physically pains me to review the photographs in Nash’s file. When I help trapped spirits, I can separate myself from the pain of their deaths. When Lizzie Bowlby died in that car accident on my way to Red River, her squished body didn’t trigger any emotions in me. I operate without feelings on purpose to do my job with a clear head and an objective viewpoint.

Nothing is objective when it comes to Nash. He was the only boy I ever loved. Since Nash, my dating life had been reduced to drunken come-ons and one-night stands. No one understands me quite like he did. We shared joy and trauma, usually on the same nights. Because of that, it takes all of my strength to look at pictures of Nash’s dead body.

I skip quickly through the wide-angled shots. My stomach churns at the thick blanket of blood that covers Nash’s front from stem to stern. My eyes linger on his wide and empty ones. How long had he been dead before I finally woke up? Beside his body, the blankets are unstained and mussed from where I’d lain. While the police took pictures of Nash, I was running for my life through the nearby woods.

Despite the sharp ache shooting through my stomach, I force myself to go through the photos. When I find close-ups of the knife wound that killed Nash, I set them next to similar pictures from Loretta’s file to examine side-by-side.

The wounds are almost identical. Both slashes start near the victims’ sternums, travel at an upward angle, and end below the victims’ jaws on the left side, indicating a left-handed killer who held his prey from behind. The cuts are clean and swift, without clumsy or jagged edges, and the depth of each slice matches too.

In need of answers, I gather my evidence and drive to Uncle Kent’s. A light flicks on in the kitchen when I ring the bell, and Uncle Kent answers the door with a shotgun on his hip.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, setting aside the gun. “It’s two in the morning. What do you want?”

“Have you ever butchered a cow?”

“My dad made me do it once as a kid.” Uncle Kent shudders. “Didn’t like it at all. I’m much better at keeping animals than killing them. Why do you ask?”

I step inside and sit at the kitchen table, too wrapped up in my thoughts to wait for Uncle Kent’s invitation. “I think whoever murdered Loretta Gunn knows how to kill animals humanely. Also, the person who killed Loretta probably killed Nash Adams ten years ago.”

Uncle Kent accepts that he won’t be getting back to bed anytime soon and puts the kettle on the stove. “Slow down, champ. How did you figure this out?”

“We found the murder weapon,” I say, unable to stop from babbling. I feel strangely high, a result of sleep deprivation and surging adrenaline. “An old knife, like the kind cowboys kept to butcher and skin animals. The forensics guy matched the knife to Loretta’s wound, and Loretta’s wound looks exactly like Nash’s. That can’t be a coincidence, but I don’t see how the two are related—”

“Take a breath, Cal.” Uncle Kent removes the kettle from the heat before it whistles. “You got pictures?”

I show him the close-ups of the fatal wounds. As he studies them, he scoops freshly dried chamomile flowers from a glass jar into two mugs and pours hot water over the top.

“Yeah, those are clean,” Uncle Kent confirms. “You’re probably right. These marks are far too similar. One killer and two victims, ten years apart.”

“Nash’s killer is still in town then,” I say, stunned. “I don’t know how to process that.”

Uncle Kent pats my shoulder in an uncharacteristically kind manner. “Good thing you’re on the right side of the law now. What are you going to do about it?”

“Investigate anyone who knows how to butcher a cow,” I say. “Which families in town raise cattle?”

“Two that I know,” says Uncle Kent. “Pete Watterson and Earl Stingus.”

“Stingus,” I mutter. “Wouldn’t put murder past him.”

“Neither would I,” Uncle Kent agrees. “Don’t forget your culprit needs a motive for killing Loretta and Nash. Not sure why Earl would’ve offed a teenage boy ten years ago.”

Officer Burke isn’t scheduled to work the next day, but she agrees to help me search Stingus Farms when I tell her about my findings. To make it official, we head to the local courthouse with Sheriff Miller’s permission, where Officer Burke writes an affidavit for the judge. Once the judge reviews our information, she grants us a search warrant for Stingus Farms. That way, Earl can’t refuse when we ask to sweep his property.

“You want me to handle this?” Officer Burke asks as we drive toward his house. Dust from the dry dirt road kicks up behind us. “I know you get anxious around Stingus.”

“I do not get anxious,” I say. “He annoys the crap out of me, and he’s creepy as hell, but he doesn’t make me anxious.”

“Right. Like I said, I can handle it if you want to wait in the car.”

“No way,” I say. “If Earl Stingus murdered my best friend and Loretta Gunn, I want to be there when we put him in handcuffs and drag him away.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We might not find anything.”

Officer Burke parks next to an old well that’s long dried up. I vividly imagine pushing Earl to the bottom of it as we get out of the car. Earl, who apparently never works on his own farm, lounges in a wooden rocking chair on the front porch. As we approach, he spits a wad of brown phlegm near our feet.

“Two visits in as many days?” he croaks. “You ladies must really like me.”

Officer Burke doesn’t delay. She holds up the search warrant and says, “We’re here to perform an official sweep of your property. We have reason to believe you or one of your employees may have been involved with one or more homicide cases.”

“One or more?” Earl chuckles. “My, what lofty aspirations you youngins have. By all means, have a look.” He bows and spreads his arms as if warmly welcoming us. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

As Officer Burke and I step toward Earl’s house, he stomps his foot and points at me.

“That one’s not allowed inside, though,” he says. “She ain’t a real cop.”

“I have a badge,” I say.

“You’re playing dress-up,” says Earl. “Officer Burke goes in alone. You wait outside. That’s the only way I’m letting this happen.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I remind him. “We have a warrant.”

“Officer Burke has a warrant,” he shoots back. “I can’t imagine you stood in front of a judge, Calamity James, without soiling your pants.”

I hate him because he’s right. Officer Burke filed the warrant request because I didn’t want my name on any court documents. Until Sheriff Miller makes good on his promise to clear my name, I’m on the ropes for my past mistakes.

As Earl smirks, Officer Burke pulls me aside. “It’s fine,” she says in an undertone. “I’ll sweep the house. We’ll do the rest of the property together. Don’t let him get to you.”

“He already has,” I mutter back.

“He’s an old, crotchety man with nothing better to do than antagonize you,” she says. “He’s not worth the trouble. Wait by the car. I’ll make this quick.”

“No,” I say. “Take your time. Search every inch of that place.”

While Officer Burke sweeps the house, I bake in the sun next to the squad car. Earl watches me, laughing whenever I brush the sweat from my brow or neck. I’m annoyed that he’s not threatened by our presence. He’s one hundred percent confident that we won’t find anything relevant on his land. If he’s involved with the open homicide cases, Earl has hidden it well.

After an hour or so, Officer Burke emerges from the house. She has a quick chat with Earl, who disappears inside for a minute before re-emerging. He hands Officer Burke a sheet of paper. Then she meets me by the car, shaking her head.

“Nothing in the house,” she reports. “Earl agreed to let you come with me to check the grounds and the barn.”

“Wanna bet he buries bodies in the cow pasture?”

Officer Burke chuckles darkly. “That would certainly give us a reason to take him in.”

Earl owns several acres of land, so it takes a few good hours to comb through everything. The only illegal thing we find is a big white tent hidden between the trees behind the cow pastures. Inside, Earl grows rows and rows of pungent marijuana plants. According to Sheriff Miller, he doesn’t have the permits to do so. Officer Burke could arrest Earl for the grow-op, but in the face of murder, Earl’s weed isn’t our primary concern.

When we finish searching Earl’s property, my neck is sunburned, and I’m sweating through my shirt. As I expected after Earl’s laughing fits, we don’t find a damn thing to condemn him.

“Just the barn left,” Officer Burke says.

She uncaps a steel water bottle, chugs half, and dumps the rest down the back of her uniform. Right as I’m about to complain, she hands me a second bottle from her backpack. Gratefully, I take several long sips.

“You ready?” Burke asks.

“As ever.”

The barn doors swing open as we approach. Boone stumbles out, covered in blood. Officer Burke and I take several steps backward, and Burke’s hand drifts toward her firearm. Boone lifts his palms.

“It’s not what you think,” he says. “I just birthed a calf. She’s inside if you want to look.”

Cautiously, we inch toward the barn. In one of the stalls, a large cow lies on her side while her newborn calf tries out his new legs. Boone has replaced the soiled hay with fresh grass, creating a soft bed for the mama and baby.

“Tricky delivery,” Boone says from behind us. He leans on the stall and gazes lovingly at the cows. “Mama was working hard.”

“Can you stand over there?” Burke requests, pointing to the far end of the barn. “You smell.”

Boon obliges. “What are you two doing here anyway? Don’t you have better things to do than irritate an old man?”

“Do you work here?” Officer Burke asks, ignoring his questions.

“Yeah, part-time,” Boone says. “I help out at a couple of different ranches.”

“Do you know how to slaughter an animal with a knife?”

Boone scratches his head with bloodstained fingers. “That’s old school. I can do it in a pinch, but it’s not in my job description.”

“Answer the question.”

“I did. I know how to do it.”

Officer Burke shows Boone a picture of the murder weapon. “Have you ever seen this knife before?”

Boone’s eyes flicker as he checks the picture. He hesitates, looks both ways, and answers, “No, never seen it.”

“You sure?”

“Yup,” Boone says. “Don’t know anything about it.”

Officer Burke nods. “All right, then. I guess we’re finished here.”

As I follow Burke back to the squad car, I say, “He’s lying! He paused before answering the question. He must know something.”

“I can’t do anything about it,” Officer Burke says.

“What do you mean? Let’s arrest him!”

“For what? Delivering a baby cow?” She fires up the ignition and turns the AC on full-blast. “I can’t bring him in without more proof, Cal. Earl gave me a list of his employees. I’ll interview them about the knife, but that’s all we can do. Maybe Earl isn’t involved.”

“That’s not good enough,” I say. “I know Earl. He’s a scumbag.”

“He might be a scumbag, but there’s no proof he’s a killer,” Officer Burke says. “I’ll drop you at the motel. You look like an orange.”

After a cold shower, I slather aloe across my sunburnt parts and nap until dark, stewing in frustration. Nash floats in and out of my dreams. Sometimes, he’s alive and laughing. Others, he stares at me with dead eyes and asks why I couldn’t save him. Do homicide detectives feel worthless and cold all the time? Those are the only things I’m feeling. Sheriff Miller was wrong—I’m definitely not cut out for this job.

I wake up to a voicemail from Officer Burke. She’s already finished interviewing Earl’s employees. None of them confessed to recognizing the knife. We’re back at square one, and I don’t know where to go from here.

I swipe the case file from the desk, sending everything—Lottie’s diaries, notes, pictures—to the floor. When the mess settles, a yellowing newspaper article sticks out from under Lottie’s receipt booklet. It’s the article about Marlow that I stole from the library before the dead guy tore the place down. I forgot I had it. The headline reads:

Winfield Marlow Dead! Accident or Foul Play?

26

Since the Red River locals aren’t giving up their secrets, I go back to my original plan: interviewing the dead and browbeating them into submission. Loretta has once again vanished; she disappears for greater and greater lengths of time. Typically, I’d call that a win—one last ghost for me to deal with—but I’ve made too many promises, especially to the living, to give up on Loretta’s case.

Loretta’s sketchy spiritual presence doesn’t mean she’s getting closer to passing into the next life. More likely, she’s feeling disconnected from this earth and her body. Each time she reappears, another part of her has deteriorated. Her face is almost completely worn away, which I don’t understand since her body is no longer being pummelled underwater. She still doesn’t talk, not surprisingly, but moans instead. Pained moans are much creepier than disembodied voices. Though I don’t see her often, I can hear her, especially when I’m alone in my motel room at night.

I wish she would quit the theatrics. It’s really wrecking my sleep patterns.

“Are you coming with me?” I ask out loud as I put on my jacket and lace up my boots. If Loretta’s around, she’ll hear me. “I’m going to throw down with Winfield Marlow. Be ready for a fight.”

Loretta doesn’t respond, so it looks like I’m on my own. With the old newspaper article in hand, I walk to the church. A cool mist pervades Red River, raising goosebumps on my skin. The town is oddly quiet. No rabble-rousing comes from the dark Saloon. An owl hoots plaintively in the distance while a rabbit or mouse scurries through the church bushes.

Stepping carefully through the cemetery, I make my way to the crumbling headstones hidden in the trees. In the silence, I can hear the creek as it rushes through a series of tight S-bends not far away. The strange urge to run through the woods, take off my clothes, and jump into the churning water briefly surges through me. Let the creek sweep me into the rushing river. Would I look back?

Even the cemetery is weirdly placid tonight. Of the spirits who have emerged to lament their lost lives, most of tonight’s crowd lingers around their headstones to sigh and pray. I don’t have to coax Marlow out of his cozy statue tonight. He’s already lounging on his own shoulder, picking at invisible dirt beneath his nails.

“Yo, Marlow,” I call, waving the article. “You got some explaining to do.”

He regards me with unenthusiastic impatience. “You, again? My Lord, you don’t know when to give up. Come for another beating, have you?”

“If I recall, you zoomed back into your statue like a little boy the last time I paid you a visit,” I say. “Does that mean you don’t like being repeatedly punched in the nose?”

“What do you want, James?” he sighs. “To rub my death in my face again?”

“Something like that.” I hold up the article so that he can see the headline. “Is this true? Were you murdered?”

He laughs derisively. “Don’t act so innocent. I’m sure your granddaddy told you all about it.”

“What does my grandfather have to do with any of this?”

Marlow hops off his statue and alights on the dirt in front of me. I take a step back, unsure if he intends to swing at me or not. He straightens his sleeves with a practiced snap of his shoulders but doesn’t raise his fists.

“You really don’t know what happened all those years ago?” he asks skeptically. “I would’ve thought Calvin James bragged and boasted until he was blue in the face.”

“I didn’t listen to my dad’s bedtime stories about Calvin James too much,” I admit. “Not a fan of gunslingers and bounty hunters, if you know what I mean.”

“Go figure,” Marlow says cordially. “Never thought I’d agree with a member of the James family. Wasn’t a fan of bounty hunters myself.”

“Probably because you had plenty of bounties on your head.”

He chuckles deep in his belly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Let’s not get comfortable with each other,” I warn him. “I know you were a scumbag while you were alive. What do you know about Calvin James?”

“As you’ve implied, you’ve already figured out that I was once Red River’s most profitable businessman,” Marlow says. “I founded this town and made it into something—”

“Wrong,” I say. “Amos Poole is credited with founding Red River. You just shouted about gold until people believed you.”

“Didn’t your mama teach you not to interrupt?” Marlow growls.

“My mama can’t tell a rat from a chihuahua. By all means, continue.”

“I was a gold tycoon,” Marlow announces, puffing his chest. “People came from all over to invest in my business. Red River was rife with honey, and boy, was it sweet!” He kisses his fingers like a chef. Then his expression darkens. “But people are jealous by nature, sweetheart. I gave the people what they wanted: roofs over their head, food to eat, peyote to enjoy—”

“Lovely.”

“I was a regular philanthropist,” Marlow claims. “The people got greedy, see? They wanted more and more from me until I realized they were taking advantage.”

“Really?” I say. “That’s funny because I heard that you scammed investors into supporting your mining business, and you overcharged people for shelter, food, and peyote. If they couldn’t pay, you had them hanged.”

“You hang debtors,” Marlow says with an exasperated sigh as if this method of debt-collecting is totally kosher. “You don’t pay; you die. That’s just the way the world works.”

“Keep that in mind while you tell me about your death,” I say. “Why were you killed?”

Marlow’s upper lip lifts into a sneer. “You’re as self-righteous as Calvin.”

“He killed you, didn’t he?” I ask. “Calvin killed you because you were stealing money from everyone in town.”

“Him and his little gang of rascals,” Marlow spits. “They broke into my home, hogtied me while I was sleeping, and shot me in the woods where no one would hear it, but I got ol’ Calvin back.” His laugh echoes through the cemetery, disturbing the peaceful spirits. “Oh, I got Calvin back good. The rest of them, too.”

“What did you do to them?” I demand. “Did you kill them?”

“No, they deserved worse than death,” Marlow says, still chuckling. “You’re more like your granddaddy than you realize. Calvin could speak to spirits, too.”

Taken aback, I say, “He could?”

“As soon as I died, I rose from my corpse and stared Calvin in the face,” Marlow goes on, eyes glazed over as he gets lost in the memory. “I issued a challenge. The man who—”

“The man who brings your heir to where your spirit lies will be rewarded with unending fortune.” I make a fast-forwarding motion. “I’ve heard this before. You’re saying you didn’t issue the challenge with your dying breath? You were already dead?”

“Your granddaddy nearly pissed his pants,” Marlow says. “He told his boys that I’d appeared to him like he was some savior. The four of them promised to keep the challenge a secret, but you know how word spreads.” He laughs again. “It felt good watching those four drive themselves crazy looking for a boy that didn’t exist.”

“But he did exist,” I say. “You got Lottie Lane pregnant, you idiot. That’s why I’m here.”

“I know that now,” Marlow says. “I’ve been watching this horrible town for two hundred years. I also know that Calvin James killed Lottie’s lover, that dimwit Tobias Welch.” He watches with blatant glee as my face shifts gears. “You didn’t know that either, pretty lady? All this time, you’ve been chasing after Tobias’s killer. You didn’t even consider your own granddaddy? My, that is high and mighty.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Who killed Loretta Gunn?”

“Who?” he asks lazily.

“Loretta Gunn. She’s your direct descendant, and someone murdered her two weeks ago to fulfill your stupid challenge,” I say. “They must have come to your statue to do it, so you must know who it was.”

He goes back to picking his nails. “Can’t say I’m aware of any killing. I spend most of my days watching my own body rot.”

His spirit turns from a full, round-bellied man to a decaying corpse. The skin sags off his cheeks as bugs crawl in and out of his empty eye sockets. The sight makes my stomach whirl. Instantly, I know he’s switched to this image of himself on purpose.

“A woman died,” I remind him, clenching my abdomen to keep myself from hurling. “Your great-great-great-granddaughter was killed, and you don’t care.”

“Why should I give a damn about some whore’s child?” A piece of flesh detaches itself from Marlow’s face, lands in the dirt, and disappears. “I issued that challenge to drive Calvin James and his dumb posse insane. I accomplished my task. I have no more burdens to bear.”

“Then why don’t you cross over?” I ask.

He smiles widely, exposing rows of rotting teeth. “Because life ain’t got nothin’ on death, sweetheart.”

I hate self-pity, so I don’t do breakdowns, but after hearing about my family’s sins against Tobias Welch, all I want to do is cry and let someone hold me. Only one person in Red River won’t judge me for that. When I knock on Winnie’s door at two in the morning, she doesn’t ask questions. She just strokes my hair and lets me embarrass myself until my emotions even out.

“I don’t want to believe it,” I tell Winnie. “I know Calvin wasn’t an A-plus human being, but I never thought he would’ve killed an innocent man. A good man.”

“Why do you believe it?” Winnie asks, finger-combing my hair. “Marlow was an infamous liar, and it sounds like he still is. Maybe he lied about Calvin to rile you up.”

“It didn’t feel like he was lying,” I say. “Calvin wasn’t a stand-up guy. Why should I be surprised that he killed Tobias?”

“Calvin killed wanted men, not innocent ones who’ve fallen in love with prostitutes,” she reminds me.

“Still,” I grumble. “If Calvin’s guilty, my entire theory is bunk. I thought Tobias’s killer was linked to Loretta’s and Nash’s.”

“Don’t count yourself out so quickly,” Winnie says. “This is what detectives do. They hit dead ends until they find an open road.”

“I never wanted to be a detective.”

“Too bad,” she jokes, nudging me so I’ll sit up. “What’s your plan? What are you going to do next?”

Groaning, I dive underneath the blanket in hopes of hiding until dawn. “I have no idea. I don’t know what else to look for.”

“The Annual Poker Gala for Charity is tomorrow.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everyone in town is invited,” she says. “It’s considered rude if you don’t go.”

“Believe me,” I say. “No one will want me there.”

Winnie bats my head through the covers. “I want you there, but that’s not the point. Everyone is going to be there. That probably includes Loretta’s killer. If you go, you might get lucky.”

I uncover myself. “Wait, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I know because I said it.”

Tapping Winnie’s knee with excitement, I say, “We could stake out the Poker Gala.”

“For Charity,” she adds. “And you don’t have to stake out. It would be much easier to come inside, but you can’t wear jeans. Formal attire is required.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of wearing a dress. “What happens at this gala? Why does Red River do this every year?”

“For charity,” she says again. “Any money won by the house goes to repairing the bridge behind the high school this year.”

“Our tax dollars aren’t enough?”

“You don’t pay taxes.” Winnie yawns and stretches. “There’s an auction this year, too. People are donating a bunch of items for others to buy.”

“What are those proceeds going toward? Extra bar stools at the Saloon?”

“Red River’s special education department,” she corrects me.

Someone hammers on Winnie’s door, scaring the crap out of both of us. Thankfully, the lock I installed holds steady.

“You’re here,” I whisper to Winnie. “And I’m here. So who the hell is out there?”

“Winnie?” Officer Burke calls from the hallway to our great relief. “Sorry to wake you, but I need to speak to Cal. She’s not in her motel room. Is she here?”

I answer the door to find Officer Burke in full uniform. “Hey, Teddy Bear. What brings you around so late at night?”

She comes in, followed shortly by her little ghost. “Thank goodness you’re here. It’s Dusty.”

“What about him?”

“He’s missing.”

27

Sheriff Miller calls an emergency meeting at the police station. I stand with several other deputies in the bullpen to listen to the briefing. For once, there’s no “us and them” feeling that separates me from the rest of Red River. We’re all here to find Dusty and keep him safe, united under one cause.

“We think whoever killed Loretta kidnapped Dusty to try Marlow’s Challenge again,” Officer Burke says. “If we find Dusty, we’ll find the killer.”

“If sacrificing Loretta didn’t fulfill Marlow’s Challenge, what good will Dusty do?” I ask. “The killer can’t possibly think it’s going to work this time.”

“We already know the killer must be unhinged,” Sheriff Miller says. “No one sane would believe in this magical fortune crap.”

“The original challenge never said anything about sacrificing Marlow’s heir either,” another deputy adds. “Our culprit made that up on his own.”

“Forget about the killer,” I say. “Our number one priority is getting Dusty back safely.”

“Why didn’t the kid have a protective service?” the same deputy asks. I’ve seen his pockmarked face around the bullpen but haven’t bothered to learn his name—Smith, how original—until now. “You should’ve assigned him a detail as soon as you figured out he was Marlow’s heir. You should’ve expected the killer to try this again.”

Ever since Officer Burke broke the news, I’ve been holding back a flood of guilt. Officer Smith is absolutely right. Without a doubt, we should have protected Dusty. Someone should have had an eye on him at all times, and that someone should have been me. With Loretta in and out of existence, there was no one to stop the opportunistic ass who took Dusty.

“That’s on me,” I announce to the room full of cops. “I should have known Dusty would be the suspect’s next target.”

“Don’t get righteous, James,” Sheriff Miller says. “I’m your superior. It’s my fault, not yours. Let’s not waste time placing blame, though. We need to find this kid before he ends up like his mother.”

“I called around town for volunteers to help us search,” Officer Burke says. “About twenty of them responded. They’re waiting in the lobby.”

“Get ‘em in here, Burke.”

Once the extra citizens file into the station, Sheriff Miller clears his throat. He doesn’t need to command attention. Everyone is already fixated on the sheriff, waiting for directions so we can find Dusty as quickly as possible.

“Thanks for coming in,” Sheriff Miller says to the volunteers. “We’ve got a fifteen-year-old kid missing, most likely abducted by the same person who killed his mother. My deputies will set up a search grid and assign you each to a quadrant. If you find the kid or our suspect, call an officer to assist you. Do not approach. The kidnapper is likely to be armed and dangerous. Understood?”

A general murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. A deputy projects a map of Red River on the whiteboard and uses different colored markers to break the town into four sections. He assigns five volunteers and five officers to each quadrant, but he skips over my name.

“What about me?” I ask Sheriff Miller as the crowd disperses. “I want to help.”

“Go with Officer Burke,” he says, putting on his coat. “Remember what I said about watching each other’s backs.”

Officer Burke has been assigned to the southeast quadrant by the high school and the lazy section of the creek. Bone-tired, I join the ranks of civilians and deputies to search for Dusty. Officer Burke takes the lead of our group, further sectioning out the search area so we can efficiently look for Dusty. No one questions her leadership, not even the other deputies. Even after months of desk duty, Burke reveals talent as a born captain.

We cover ground on foot in pairs, sweeping flashlight beams into the darkness. Mosquitos gnaw at my ears and neck as I trek beside Officer Burke. Near the creek, the ground grows mushy, and I slip multiple times, relying on Burke to catch me.

“What’s with you tonight?” she growls, pulling me to my feet yet again. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“I haven’t slept in hours,” I admit. “I’m drunk on exhaustion.”

“Then why are you here?” Burke asks. “You’re no use if you can’t walk properly.”

“Because I should have protected Dusty.”

She slaps my back to wake me up. “You heard Sheriff Miller. That self-deprecating crap won’t help. Move on from your mistakes.”

“You should talk,” I mutter.

Officer Burke’s little ghost plods along beside us, occasionally getting lost among the slivers of moonlight coming through the trees. Burke talks a big game, but she doesn’t employ her own tactics. If she did, this dead kid would have moved on already.

“How are your interviews going?” I ask Burke. “Have you talked to any more descendants from the original families?”

“I’ve been tracking them down all day long,” she replies. “Half of them don’t know anything about their ancestors. The other half have different stories about what happened. Most of them didn’t know about Marlow’s Challenge.”

“Great. Another dead end.”

I stumble over a dead branch and step into slippery mud. Officer Burke hauls me up before I can fall into the creek.

“I can’t find Dusty if I’m too busy babysitting you,” she says. “Go back to your motel and get some sleep.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me this time, James,” she says sharply. “You know I’m right.”

Officer Burke convinces me to abandon the search, but I can’t bring myself to sleep while everyone else is looking for Dusty. Dead on my feet, I go back to the old cemetery. Fortunately, Marlow’s ghost has returned to its home inside the statue. Slumped in the grass beneath his stone gaze, I wait for Dusty or his captor to appear. If someone is going to sacrifice Dusty to appease Marlow, this has to be the place they’d do it. Where else would Marlow’s spirit linger?

The moon crosses the sky while I fight to keep my eyes open. I wander the graveyard to stay awake, eventually coming across the four headstones that belong to Calvin James and his posse. In my dad’s stories, Joseph Goodnight, Jack Bassett, and Edwin Levy always had Calvin’s back. They rode beside him no matter what, trusting Calvin’s leadership perhaps beyond reason.

Jack Bassett’s name draws a drunken chuckle from me. Ironically, Connor’s ancestor and mine were best friends. Jack would’ve jumped in front of a moving train to save Calvin. I don’t want exactly Connor to become roadkill, but I sure wouldn’t sacrifice myself for him. He’s not worth the trouble.

Losing steam, I return to Marlow’s statue and sit on the ground. No one has appeared to sacrifice Dusty, but I’m not reassured. As long as Dusty is missing, he’s in trouble. Maybe the captor has chosen a different place to offer his sacrifice to Marlow. If that’s the case, I don’t know where else to look.

The sun creeps over the church and shines in my eyes. I push myself out of the dirt. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep in front of Marlow’s statue. On the upside, I feel plenty rested, and no one’s blood has spilled around me. However, when I check my text messages, Officer Burke’s update says Dusty still hasn’t been found.

Something drives me to my feet. I return to my motel, not to shower or sleep, but to fill a bag with everything Officer Burke might take on a long hike. I pack sunscreen, bug spray, extra socks, a rain poncho, a large bottle of water, and anything else I can think of that might be useful. I dress in Aunt Dolly’s borrowed hiking boots and UV shirt. Then I shoot Winnie a text, and she meets me outside the motel.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks as I climb into the passenger seat of her Jeep. She manages to make cargo pants and a bright orange tank top look cute. Like Burke, she’s naturally comfortable in nature and knows what to bring for a climb through the hills. “The gala is tonight. We need to be back in time.”

“I promise we won’t miss the Poker Gala.”

“For Charity.”

“Whatever.” I gesture for her to hit the gas, and we head toward the mountains. “I need to see Tobias Welch again. It’s important.”

Once we reach the hiking path, Winnie makes short work of the land. While Burke did nothing to help me, Winnie points out sturdy footholds and protruding rocks to keep me from face-planting on our way up to the mine. When we reach Goldminer’s Gulch, Winnie deploys two wide-brimmed hats that keep the blazing sun off our necks and shoulders. Today, no storms threaten our passage. We pass through the Gulch hot but unharmed.

When we reach the mine, Winnie hesitates at the entrance. The rockfall from last time has settled into an intimidating pile of boulders. “Do you have to go in?” she asks. “Can’t Tobias come out?”

“He probably won’t.”

I put on a bicycle helmet borrowed from Winnie. I might look like an idiot, but at least I won’t get clobbered by rocks this time. Tentatively, I climb over the boulders that half-block the mine’s entrance and head into the darkness.

“Tobias?” I call. My voice echoes eerily back to me. “It’s Cal James. We spoke last week. I hope you remember me, but I understand if you don’t.”

The mine remains quiet and still. I marvel at the lack of spirits. So many have died here, yet no one haunts this place except for Tobias. Perhaps those who worked so hard in the mine were grateful to greet death.

I see Tobias’s prospector’s hat before I see the rest of him. He steps out from behind the same boulder as before and waves.

“I told you I’d be back,” I say. “I wanted to tell you something.”

Tobias nods encouragingly.

“Your love, Lottie Lane—”

Tobias clasps both hands to his heart at the mention of Lottie’s name. Then he mimics writing and reading something.

“Yes, I found her diaries at Dovetail Parlor,” I say. “I know what Marlow did to her and that you got her to safety. I just wanted to tell you that Lottie’s baby survived. His name was Thaddeus.”

Tobias nods and smiles.

“I guess you know that already since you knew about Loretta.”

He nods again. Then he points to me and draws a question mark in the air. Somehow, he knows that I have something to ask him.

“I’m related to Calvin James,” I say. “Did you know him?”

He nods and mimics riding a horse.

“Yeah, he was a cowboy.” I swallow nervously. “Did Calvin kill you?”

Vigorously, Tobias shakes his head and wags his finger to make sure I understand what he’s saying. Winnie was right—Marlow lied about Tobias’s killer.

Tobias turns his back to me and lifts his hat. I step closer to get a better look in the gloom. There, at the base of Tobias’s skull, is a small hole where someone shot him in the head. That’s all the confirmation I need. Calvin James might have been a gunslinger, but he followed a code of honor, and that code said never shoot a man in the back.

Tobias isn’t finished with his revelations yet. He beckons me to the space behind his boulder and points to a divot in the mine’s stone wall. Squinting, I reach forward and pluck something smooth and shiny from the rock. It’s a crushed bullet.

“No way,” I mutter, examining the projectile. “This is the one that killed you?”

Tobias nods. I rotate the bullet beneath my flashlight, examining it from every angle. I don’t know much about guns or ammo, but I recognize one thing that doesn’t look right: someone has scratched a crude skull into the flat end of the bullet.

“What’s this?” I ask Tobias, pointing out the simple drawing. “A signature of sorts?” After he confirms, I ask, “Do you mind if I take this with me? The police might be able to figure out who fired the shot.”

Winnie drops me off at the police station, then heads home to get ready for tonight’s gala. With Tobias’s blessing, I hand the bullet over to Sheriff Miller, who immediately sends it down to the forensics lab. He doesn’t ask how I found it or discovered its relation to Loretta’s death and Dusty’s kidnapping.

“It’s worth a shot,” he says. “No pun intended.”

“What if we don’t get to Dusty in time?” I say. “What if he dies?”

Sheriff Miller beckons me to sit down across from his desk. “I don’t like that kind of talk, so be quiet and let me fill you in. This damned poker gala takes over the town, see? Everyone’s talking about. Everyone’s gonna be there. It’s the perfect cover for someone who wants to commit murder.”

“You think whoever took Dusty will sacrifice him during the gala,” I say.

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Winnie said Loretta’s killer would probably go to the event,” I recall. “It would be suspicious for someone not to show up, right?”

Sheriff Miller rests his feet on his desk. “That sister of yours is awfully sharp. Yes, those who don’t attend are usually elderly or unable. Everyone else goes, no exceptions. Our killer definitely got an invitation, but he won’t be leaving the gala so easily.”

“We’re going to find him?”

“We’re going to find him, James. Count on it.”

28

On Sheriff Miller’s orders, I spend the rest of my afternoon shopping for something appropriate to wear at tonight’s gala. By nightfall, I’m bathed, dressed, and decorated thanks to Winnie’s help and her keen eye for makeup.

I feel wildly uncomfortable in a shiny, floor-length silver dress, and the heels don’t help. On the other hand, Winnie looks like a dazzling mermaid in a strapless, sequined aquamarine gown, floating effortlessly on sky-high statement shoes. She drives us to the gala, manning the pedals without issue, and leaves the Jeep with the valet attendant.

The Parlor is strung with glowing fairy lights. A red carpet extends from the road to the entrance. A photographer shoots pictures of us as we head inside, where the first thing we see is a black-tied server with a tray of champagne flutes.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, picking up a glass.

“Take it easy,” Winnie warns. “You’re here on business, remember?”

“My nerves are shot,” I tell her. “I need some liquid courage.”

We move farther into the house. The great room has been turned into a casino, complete with blackjack, roulette, baccarat, and Texas hold ‘em tables. Each game comes with its own dealer. There’s even a row of slow machines along the wall, where the locals try their luck with more and more confidence after additional alcoholic beverages.

No one ignored the dress code, and I’m pleasantly surprised by how well Red River cleans up. The women are clad in sparkly gowns, while the men wear their best suits. Apparently, I blend in well enough because no one throws any snide remarks my way. Then again, I’m less likely to be harassed with Miss Congeniality at my side.

Winnie and I make the rounds. We drop by the blackjack table to say hi to Uncle Kent and Henry Carillo, then we play a few games of poker with some of Winnie’s friends. When my luck runs out, I excuse myself from the table and let Winnie enjoy her friends’ company. In the meantime, I check out the rest of the Parlor.

In the adjacent room, the items up for auction are on display for the gala’s guests to see and admire. To make sure no one gets any grand ideas, the items are placed out of reach behind a velvet rope. People have donated all sorts of things—historical portraits, out-of-print books, furniture, and old weapons. To me, an auction is no more than a glorified garage sale, but Uncle Kent might raise his paddle for a few of these antique knives. To each their own, I guess.

Connor Bassett’s annoying drawl echoes through the room. He stands at the far end of the auction table with one arm around Meredith Galvez’s shoulders. In addition to the cast around her wrist, Meredith also sports a nose splint to keep the cartilage in place. Though she’s tried her best, no amount of makeup can cover the two bruises around her eyes.

“It’s the oldest item up for auction,” Connor boasts loudly to Meredith’s bridesmaids. “Belonged to my great-great-great-grandfather, Jack Bassett. He ran with Calvin James’s gang, you know?”

“We know, Connor,” says one of the bridesmaids, who clearly couldn’t care less. “You said that already.”

I glance over Connor’s shoulder and spot an old Colt pistol, similar to the one Calvin James carried. “Funny, isn’t it?” I say, making Connor jump. “That you worship my ancestor, but you don’t give a damn about me.”

“I don’t worship Calvin James,” Connor snaps.

“Really? Weren’t you just bragging about Jack Bassett’s connection to him?”

“What are you doing here, Cal?” Meredith jumps in, her voice muted and nasally. “Nobody invited you.”

“I heard everyone was invited,” I say. “This is for charity, right? I did my part and played a few games in the great room. What about you, Meredith?”

Connor tucks Meredith against his chest, unknowingly smashing her nose against his pecs. “Go away, Cal. No one wants you here.”

I bow mockingly. “As you wish.”

Passing by the foyer, I spot Officer Burke as she comes inside. I whistle at the sight of her emerald dress and cascading copper curls.

“Dang, Officer Burke,” I say. “Who knew you had curves under all that polyester?”

She takes my champagne glass and dumps it in a nearby plant. “You clean up pretty good yourself. Any sign of our guy?”

Together, we scan the great room. The night is young, so people are still arriving. No one knows that a murderer sits somewhere among them except those of us with the police deparment. A shiver runs down my spine—I’m in the same room as Nash’s killer.

“No idea,” I say. “It could be anyone.”

“Sheriff Miller has every deputy on duty tonight,” Burke says. “We’re supposed to monitor all exits and follow anyone who leaves early.”

“What if the killer doesn’t show?”

“He will. Don’t worry.” Burke’s keen eyes sweep across the room until her gaze lands on Winnie’s blackjack table. “Excuse me for a second.”

She saunters away and taps my sister’s shoulder. As Winnie turns, she takes in Officer Burke’s stunning gown from the bottom up. They exchange compliments and blush at each other until Burke nods toward the open bar. Winnie gathers her dress and bids adieu to her friends in favor of Burke’s company. I can’t entirely relate, but maybe Winnie has located whatever button makes Burke less of a stick in the mud. Noticeably, Burke’s little ghost is never around when Winnie is.

Alone again, I go back to surveying the room. No one bothers to talk to me until Sheriff Miller sits down at my table, sleek in a black velvet suit, accompanied by a woman in a matching obsidian dress.

“James,” Miller says. “This is Alicia, my wife.”

Surprised, I shake Alicia’s hand. “We thought you were made up.”

Alicia laughs lightly. “We live closer to Denver, so I don’t see much of Red River. I do exist, though.”

“I see that now.”

“Anything?” Miller asks me in a lowered voice.

“Everyone should be here by now,” I report. “No sign of the killer. Dusty?”

“Still missing, but presumably, still alive.” He takes two water glasses from a passing waiter and sets one each in front of Alicia and me. “Keep a sharp eye. If anyone leaves, let me know.”

Agitated, I fiddle with the rings I borrowed from Winnie. “This is all we can do? Wait and see if someone leaves too early?”

“That’s the plan.” Sheriff Miller stops a second waiter to scoop several salmon bites off his tray. This time, he keeps the prizes for himself. “I’ve stationed officers around the building. If anyone bolts, we’ll know.”

“What about the bullet?” I ask. “Did forensics find anything?”

“It’s old,” Sheriff Miller reports. “Too old for Marty to match it to any ammunition logged in our system. That little skull scratch is the only defining factor.”

“Great,” I grumble. “Super helpful.”

“Don’t be so negative,” he says. “I sent a picture of the bullet to an old friend of mine who collects antique weapons. She said the bullet was most likely fired from a pistol manufactured in the 1850s. That matches your timeline, right?”

“Yes, but I already knew that,” I say. “Who fired the gun?”

Sheriff Miller clicks his tongue. “I expect you’d have to go back in time to find the answer to that question.”

The night wears on. The crowd grows rowdier as the bar runs dry and everyone loses more money to the house. I keep close to Sheriff Miller since we appear to be the only two people who aren’t drinking. The Poker Gala is significantly less fun without booze and the threat of losing Dusty hanging over my head. I spend every minute scanning the crowd and memorizing faces, so if someone should leave early, I’ll notice.

Shortly before ten o’clock, one of the society ladies announces that the auction is only ten minutes away. Those who want to participate need to finish their games, collect their paddles, and start heading to the auction room. To get ahead of the drunken crowd, I sidle into the auction room first. With no one around, I get a better look at the items.

I wander over to Jack Bassett’s gun, wondering how many people died at the other end of its barrel. As I stare at the weapon, something catches my eyes on the handle. I glance toward the door, but no one has come into the auction room yet, so I duck under the velvet rope for a better look.

Careful not to disturb the other items, I pick up Jack’s gun. There, on the flat bottom of the handle, someone has carved a skull—the same skull that I found on Tobias’s bullet.

“Jack freakin’ Bassett,” I mutter. “Of course it was you.”

Before anyone sees, I replace the gun and leave the roped area. As the crowd fills into the auction room, I fight against the rush and check the great room for Officer Burke. She and Winnie sit near the windows that overlook the lawn, too enamored by each other to bother with the auction.

“Sorry, Win,” I say, dragging Officer Burke away. “I need Teddy Bear.”

“What is it?” Burke asks once we’re out of everyone’s earshot.

“Did you interview Connor Bassett?” I ask. “He’s a descendant of an original family.”

“I did,” she says. “He claimed he didn’t know anything about Marlow.”

“He didn’t say anything that seemed important?”

Burke shakes her head then pauses. “Wait. I didn’t get his name from the list of descendants. I got it from Earl Stingus’s employee records.”

“Connor works for Earl?” I say. “Doing what?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you wanna bet that he knows how to slaughter a cow?”

As I scan the room for Connor, adrenaline surges through my veins. Something creeps up in my memories—a conversation I had with Nash a million years ago during one of our illegal nighttime adventures.

“What brings you to my side of town today?” I whisper to Nash when he shows up at my window.

“I’ll tell you later. Come on!”

I get dressed and clamber through the window, careful not to wake Winnie. Nash’s mischievous grin grows wider as he lifts a six-pack of beer.

“Where’d you get that?” I hiss.

“Dad’s cellar.”

“Won’t he miss it?”

“Nah, he buys in bulk. Follow me.”

We walk a mile down the road, cut through a cornfield, and arrive at the Red River water tower. When Nash puts his foot on the ladder, I grab his shirt.

“We can’t go up there!”

“Why not?” he asks. “It’s the best place to see the stars. Are you chicken?”

Unable to back away from a challenge, I follow Nash up the rusty ladder. We sit on the ledge and dangle our feet in the air. Nash uses his house key to pop open the beer bottles.

“There you are,” he says politely, offering me one.

I take a sip. “Spill. What did your parents do this time?”

“Not my parents,” he says with a groan. “Connor.”

“I don’t get why you hang out with him if you don’t like him.”

“His mom has a boat,” Nash points out. “Nothing beats the summer heat like a nice boat ride.”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure hanging out with Connor is worth a boat ride. Did you guys get into a fight?”

“No.” Nash leans back on his hands. “He wouldn’t shut up about this knife that his grandpa gave him. It’s two hundred years old or something.”

“So?”

“That’s what I said.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently, it’s a family heirloom. Calvin James carved the bone handle and gave it to Jack Bassett as a gift. He bragged about that stupid knife for the whole lunch period. Then he invited everyone to the clubhouse tonight, so he could brag about it some more. You know how Connor gets about Red River history.”

“I mostly find it hilarious that he loves Calvin James but hates me.”

“I remind him of that daily,” Nash says matter-of-factly.

Laughing, we finish the six-pack and watch the sun come up.

“Oh, my God,” I mutter. “I haven’t seen the knife before. I’ve heard about it.”

Before Officer Burke can ask for clarification, Boone drunkenly bumps into Winnie’s chair, knocking her off-balance.

“Winnie,” he slurs. “You made a mistake, baby. We’re made for each other. Please, give me one more chance.”

“Boone, you’re drunk,” Winnie says. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

“No, I won’t,” Boone shouts.

Officer Burke steps between them. “She said back off, Boone.”

Boone regards Burke through jealous, bloodshot eyes. “This is your fault,” he tells her. “Ever since Winnie started hanging out with you, she’s been ignoring me. What did you say to her, huh? She’s my girl, not yours!”

Boone lunges at Officer Burke. Since he’s inebriated and she’s not, Burke easily sidesteps his attack. He whirls around and tries again. A chair blocks Burke from escaping Boone’s wild fists. She has no choice but to defend herself, and she does so with a magnificent left hook to Boone’s jaw. He crumples to the floor.

“You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer,” Burke says, pulling handcuffs from a mysterious location beneath her dress. “Let’s go.”

Winnie gazes adoringly after Officer Burke as she leads Boone from the great room. A crowd has gathered around me—the nosy locals love a good fight. Next door, a society lady announces that the auction has officially begun, sending a storm of people toward the correct room. I grab Sheriff Miller as he passes me.

“It’s Connor Bassett,” I holler over the chaos. “He killed Loretta.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’m positive!”

“Let’s get him, then.”

But between Boone’s failed display of manliness and the stampeding horde of bidders, it’s impossible to find anyone in the crowd. Despite Sheriff Miller’s best efforts, he can’t get word to his deputies, and by the time the auction starts, Connor Bassett is already gone.

29

When Earl Stingus passes me, late for the auction, I grab his brown suit jacket and slam him against the wall. Like Boone, he’s too drunk to put up much of a fight.

“Get off me,” he says, pushing against me.

“Not until you tell me where Connor Basset’s clubhouse is.”

“How should I know?”

“Last I heard, it was on your property somewhere,” I snap. “Don’t act like you haven’t groomed Connor his entire life. You knew he buried the knife on my parents’ property.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I slide him along the wall until his head bangs into a sconce. “Keep it up, Earl, and I’ll give you a brain injury. Tell me where Connor’s clubhouse is, and maybe you can save yourself from years of prison for aiding and abetting a murderer.”

Earl’s nails scratch my hands as he tries to escape. “All right, fine! Northwest corner of the woods between my house and yours.”

“Liar,” I snarl. “I’ve been through there a hundred times. I would’ve seen it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Earl says. “Because it’s hidden between three big trees that grow in a triangle near the creek. You have to step into the gap to find the ladder.”

“That’s the truth?” I ask, pressing harder on his windpipe.

“Yes,” he gasps. “I promise.”

I release Earl, and he makes a run for it. Hiking up my dress, I head for the exit. Meredith Galvez passes me, going in the other direction. I take her arm.

“Did you know?” I demand. “About Connor?”

“Have you seen him?” she asks, bristling. “I can’t find him anywhere. If he went home early, I am going to kill him.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

I let go of Meredith and leave the Parlor, looking for Sheriff Miller or another deputy so I can update them on Connor’s location. No one is around—they must have gathered somewhere else to discuss a game plan.

“Winnie!” I say, catching my sister as she comes down the porch steps. “Where’s Officer Burke?”

“She took Boone to the station until he sobers up,” she says. “Why?”

“I need to borrow the Jeep.”

She hands a ticket to the valet guy. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Connor Bassett,” I tell her. “He killed Nash and Loretta, and I think he’s holding Dusty at his old clubhouse. I have to go find him.”

The valet guy pulls Winnie’s Jeep to the curb, and I trade seats with him. Winnie comes to the passenger side.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the police?” she asks. “You can’t go alone.”

“Tell Officer Burke to find us,” I say, revving the Jeep’s engine. “I’ll drop a pin when I get there. Hurry, Win. I’m a decent fighter when my opponents are already dead. If it’s just Connor and me—”

“Let me come with you.”

She tries to clamber into the passenger seat, but I push her out and lock the doors.

“No,” I say. “Stay here. Stay safe. Get Teddy.”

I drive off, pressing the pedal to the floor as I leave Red River’s main drag. When the streetlights are no more, I turn on the Jeep’s brights and pray that no wild animals dart into the road.

Connor can’t be too far ahead. He left the party minutes before I did. Maybe I can intercept him before he reaches the clubhouse, but what if I’m wrong? What if Dusty isn’t there?

Dusty has to be at the clubhouse. That’s why no one found him during the search last night. In high school, Connor’s stupid clubhouse was where popular kids went to drink and hang out. If Connor didn’t like you, you weren’t invited. I tried to find the clubhouse multiple times without luck so that I could mess with Connor and his friends, but not even Nash would tell me its location.

The shortest way to that area of the woods is through my parents’ property. I trundle past the old ranch house and take a shortcut across the dry hay fields. Where the woods grow too thick for vehicles, I switch my heels for Winnie’s hiking boots, which she’s helpfully left in the backseat, and start running.

My dress snags on every twig and branch until I gather the skirt above my knees. I follow my ears to where the creek rushes along behind my parents’ property. White water bounces off the sharp rocks below, spraying me with a cold mist. I head downstream until I locate the triangle of trees.

Looking up, I don’t see any sign of Connor’s clubhouse. The branches wind together, creating a thick curtain of leaves. Taking Earl’s advice, I slip through the gap between two trunks and find myself in a narrow cavity. This time, when I glance up, I see a trap door about twenty feet up. There is no rope ladder, but crudely carved indents in the trees serve as hand and footholds. I pull myself up.

At the trapdoor, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Loretta,” I whisper. “If you’re around, this would be a good time to back me up.”

Without waiting for a reply, I lift the trapdoor about an inch and peek inside. Dusty lays on his side, not facing me. His hands and feet are tied, and he isn’t moving. I push the trapdoor open and rush to Dusty’s side.

“Dusty,” I whisper, rolling him over. “Hey, buddy. It’s Cal.”

“Cal?” he croaks, and relief washes over me. He’s not dead yet. “Is it really you?”

“It’s really me.” I manage to untie the ropes that bind his feet, but the knots around his wrists are much tighter. “How long have you been here?”

“A day, I think,” Dusty says hoarsely. “I haven’t had anything to eat or drink. It was that Connor guy who took me. Did he kill my mom too?”

“Yeah, he did. I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” I say. “Damn, these knots won’t come loose. I need a knife.”

As I look around, Connor swings off the roof and into the clubhouse, landing in a crouched position. He still wears his suit from the party. “Calamity James,” Connor says, chuckling. “I guess Nash lied. He did tell you about the clubhouse.”

“Earl told me. It’s over, Connor. You’re not killing Dusty.”

“I’m definitely going to kill him. No offense, kid,” he adds to Dusty. “It’s nothing personal. You just happen to have the blood I need.”

“Offense taken,” Dusty snaps, scrambling to get away from Connor. “You killed my mom.”

“Also, nothing personal,” Connor says.

“What about Nash?” I ask. “All this time, you blamed me for his death when you’re the one who snuck into the truck that night and slashed his throat. That must have been personal.”

Connor’s eyes shimmer in the moonlight. “It was. Nash took everything from me.”

“What are you talking about? You two were best friends.”

“No, you were best friends,” he says. “Nash always put you first, no matter what. After you, he valued himself next. I was up for prom king that year too. I should have been the first-string quarterback our senior year. I should have been Meredith’s boyfriend.”

“That’s why you killed him?” I ask. “Because you were jealous?”

“Because he had everything,” Connor roars, shaking the clubhouse floor. “While I had nothing.”

“You had a boat if I recall.”

“Don’t make light of this,” he says. “After I sacrifice the kid, you’re next. I’ve always wanted to put my hands around your throat.”

“Kinky.”

“Or we could not kill anyone,” Dusty suggests. “Just a thought.”

“Shut up,” Connor says, kicking Dusty’s ribs.

I step between the two of them, holding my hands up to Connor. “Look, Marlow’s Challenge isn’t real. You won’t magically get rich after you kill Dusty.”

“It is real,” Connor insists. “My grandfather spent years tracking down the Marlow heir. He gave me Jack Bassett’s knife on his deathbed and told me to fulfill the challenge. I have to do it. For my grandfather.”

“You already tried,” I remind him. “You killed Loretta, remember? It didn’t work that time, so it won’t work with Dusty.”

“I got it wrong with Loretta,” Connor says, pacing the clubhouse. “I needed a male heir. The prophecy states that Marlow had a son.”

“There is no prophecy,” I say, exasperated. “Marlow made the whole thing up to piss off Calvin James and his posse. Even if you kill Dusty, you won’t be Marlow’s champion. He’ll just laugh at you from his grave.”

Connor pulls a gun from beneath his suit jacket and points it at my head. “Shut up!”

I stand in front of Dusty and keep my hands up. “Take it easy, Connor. I’m unarmed. You can search me if you want.”

He hesitates then steps forward to sweep his hands up and down my body, feeling under my dress for hidden weapons. When he’s satisfied, he aims the gun again.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says. “Did you think you could stop me without a weapon?”

“I’m better with my hands. Before we rumble, I want to know something,” I say. “How did Winnie’s fingerprints end up on the murder weapon?”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Stupid Boone. I asked him to trick you into holding the knife, but he was pissed at Winnie for ignoring him. He snuck into her apartment and wrapped her hand around the knife while she was sleeping.”

“Boone knows that you killed Nash and Loretta?”

“Of course not,” Connor snaps. “I made up a dumb story about the knife so he’d do what I wanted. Naturally, Boone did what he wanted instead.”

“I should’ve known it was you from the beginning,” I say. “As soon as we found Loretta’s body in the falls. That’s where you took your engagement pictures, isn’t it?”

“It was the perfect place to hide a body,” Connor says. “If you hadn’t come along, they never would have found her. How did you find her? Nobody knew but me.”

“Loretta knew.”

His brow wrinkles as he tries to make sense of this. Brandishing the gun again, he says, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. After you and the kid are dead, no one else will find out about this.”

“Except you’ll have two more bodies to hide,” I say. “How long can you keep this up, Connor? I already told Sheriff Miller you killed Loretta.”

His face drains of color. “You’re bluffing.”

“I lost my games at the gala,” I say. “My poker face is non-existent.”

“Liar! Tell me the truth.”

Connor steps past me and tries to aim the gun at Dusty’s head. As Dusty curls into a ball, I hug Connor’s arm and yank him away from the kid. Connor fires twice, sending bullets through the clubhouse walls. Dusty’s panicked yelps fill my ears as I fight Connor for the gun.

Connor’s bigger and stronger than me, but I remember that he sucks at wrestling. I take a risk and let go of his shooting arm to drop low, positioning both of my feet outside Connor’s. Then I take hold of his suit jacket and yank him forward, forcing him to trip over my extended leg.

Not expecting the takedown, Connor lets go of the gun to defend himself on the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist and trap him from behind. As he wrestles to get free, I reach for the gun and throw it out the window.

“Dusty!” I call, breathing hard with the effort of containing Connor. “Get out of here! Go find help!”

Dusty wrestles with the ropes binding his wrists but can’t break free. He gives up and drops through the trap door, using his bound hands as one entity. Distracted by Dusty’s escape, I notice too late that Connor has maneuvered out of my locked grip. Using his body weight in full, he rolls over and smashes me against the clubhouse floor.

“He won’t make it far,” Connor snarls, pressing his knee against my throat. “I’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t count on it,” I gasp.

“Why not?” he asks with a leer. “Who’s going to stop me?”

“Dusty’s mom.”

Like a woman on fire, Loretta’s spirit explodes through the clubhouse wall, blasting a jagged hole in the rotting wood. Her rage has increased her ghostly powers tenfold, and she uses it to seize Connor’s head. He gags, letting go of me to fight against Loretta’s invisible hold.

I stumble to my feet and clutch my throat, gasping for breath. I marvel at the air moving in and out of my lungs. I have never been so close to death before, and I don’t intend to get so close again.

Loretta lets out a feral scream, swiping her hands through Connor’s head. With every punch, Connor’s face changes for the worse. His eyes grow wide and wild, and his cheeks turn gaunt as he struggles with Loretta’s deathly influence. When he locks his gaze on me, I see his panic and desperation. Crazed, he thinks I’m the one killing him.

Connor’s foot comes out of nowhere. With an almighty kick, he sends me flying through the ruined clubhouse wall, crashing through the trees, and into the creek. I plunge into the water before I have time to take a breath. The dress drags me down as the swift current washes me away. For the second time tonight, I can’t breathe. My lungs burn as I inhale water. My vision fades to black.

“No, you don’t, James! You don’t get to die on me!”

30

As usual, the Saloon is packed on Friday night. Since debuting her mermaid dress at the gala last week, Winnie’s admirers have doubled in number. They crowd around the bar, oohing and ahhing as Winnie juggles liquor bottles like a court jester. Smiling, I watch Winnie from a table in the corner, letting her have the limelight.

In one week, so many things have changed. Most importantly, Dusty made it home safely. He sprained his wrist on his way down from the clubhouse, but he’s otherwise uninjured. Secondly, Loretta finally passed over. After watching over me for two days in the hospital, Loretta requested one last moment with her son.

“What are we doing?” Dusty asked that night when I picked him up from his grandfather’s house. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting? I heard you fell twenty feet and almost drowned.”

“Almost being the keyword, there. I want to take you someplace cool.” I parked near the water tower and beckoned Dusty from the car. “Come on. This is the best place to see the sunset.”

Dusty looked up. “I’m not a fan of heights these days.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

With my promise to bolster him, Dusty gained the courage to climb the ladder. I stayed close behind, poised to catch him if he missed a step. We made it safely to the top and sat on the edge, just like Nash and I did so many years ago. The sky turned pink while Dusty and I watched. He rested his chin on the safety bar and sighed.

“I miss my mom,” he said. “Do you think that ever goes away?”

“No,” I told him. “But as the years go by, you’ll probably think about it less.”

“It hurts,” he said tightly, tapping his chest. “It hurts a lot.”

“Grief and love are the same. The pain of losing someone is worth the work of loving them.”

Dusty sniffled. “I wish I could talk to her one last time.”

Summoned by her child’s request, Loretta appeared next to us. No longer haunted by her killer, the spirit reflected Loretta’s healthiest image—a plump, happy woman with long flowing hair and warm eyes. She sat beside Dusty and ignored the sunset in favor of admiring her son.

“You can,” I told Dusty. “Say what you want. She’ll hear you.”

“Mom?” Dusty said, lifting his face to the wind. “Are you there?”

Loretta nodded.

“I miss you,” Dusty said. “I love you. I wish things were different, but I know they can’t be. Thanks for loving me all the time. You don’t have to feel guilty about leaving me with Dad and Grandpa. I’ll be okay.”

Loretta’s eyes shone with tears. She locked her gaze on mine.

“If your mom was here, she’d say that she loves you too,” I told Dusty. “She would say never to doubt yourself and to always believe that something good is waiting for you right over the horizon. She would say that she’s always with you, no matter what.”

Dusty leaned his head on my shoulder. “I know.”

We watched the sun until it sank below the earth’s curve. By the time darkness fell, Loretta’s spirit had crossed from this world to the next.

The rusty hinges of the Saloon’s doors squeak, announcing Sheriff Miller’s presence. He goes straight to the jukebox, puts a quarter in, and selects a song. It plays right away—“Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” by Willie Nelson—as Sheriff Miller joins me at my table.

“About time you emerged from your hidey-hole, James,” he says. “I’ve got work for you.”

“I solved Loretta’s case,” I remind him. “I upheld my end of the bargain. Now, it’s your turn. Are you going to clear my name or what?”

“I already did,” he says. “Weeks ago.”

“What?”

Sheriff Miller waves at Winnie with a smile. “You thought I’d let a criminal work for my department? As soon as you agreed to help Loretta, I took care of your warrants.”

My face gets hot. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

“Listen, I got something to admit,” he tells me. “I’ve been lying to you. Withholding the truth, really.”

“About what?”

“Your grandpa, Ford James, was my mentor,” says Sheriff Miller. “I trained with him in Denver, but we came out to Red River fairly often. Something weird was always happening in this town, and Ford seemed to be the only one who could sort things out. Why’s that, do you think?”

Shrugging, I say, “I didn’t know my grandfather. My dad kept us away from him.”

“He had unusually excellent instincts,” Sheriff Miller continues. “Unusually excellent. In fact, I can’t remember a single time he was wrong.”

“Imagine that.”

“You’re the same way,” he says. “Those gut feelings you have? That’s exactly how Ford operated. He never followed protocol, yet he was always right.”

I sip my beer, trying to stay calm. “What are you implying, Sheriff Miller?”

“I’m saying you have a gift,” he replies. “The same one your grandpa had. Maybe I don’t know the extent of that gift, but I do know it’s an asset. If you apply yourself, you can do some real good in the world.”

I set the beer on the table with a shaking hand. Maybe it’s just me, but it sounds like Miller has known about my ‘gift’ since before I returned to Red River. That’s impossible… or is it?

“I took this sheriff position because of Ford,” Miller says. “And because of you. Your legacy is intense, James, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Stay in Red River and train with me. We can make sure no one else gets hurt.”

“Sir, I’m not cut out for law enforcement.”

“I disagree,” he says. “I think it’s in your blood. You have good instincts, Cal. Don’t let that go to waste.” He glances up as the Saloon doors squeak again. “Ah, speaking of which, here’s your future partner. Officer Burke!”

Burke, wearing jeans and a Toronto Blue Jays T-shirt, looks between Winnie and us. She decides to join Sheriff Miller and me first.

“Looking good, Cal,” she says. “Aren’t you glad I saved your ass from drowning?”

“You could’ve saved me a lot earlier if you learned how to communicate properly,” I grumble. “Connor nearly strangled me.”

“Any updates on Bassett?” Burke asks the sheriff.

“He’s being transferred to a long-term psychiatric care facility in Denver,” Miller says. “Whatever happened in that clubhouse completely addled his brains.”

I stay quiet, unwilling to recount how Loretta made Connor lose his mind. A vengeful spirit can have all sorts of influence on humans. I’ve seen ghosts kill, maim, and hurt people. This is the first time I’ve watched someone go insane.

According to Burke, Connor couldn’t speak or move when they arrested him. He doesn’t eat on his own and requires around-the-clock care from nurses. He’s trapped inside his own body, but no one can say he doesn’t deserve it.

“Anyway, I’m heading out.” Miller stands, clapping us both on the back. “I just wanted to give you the good news, Burke. You’re off probation.”

Officer Burke lights up. “Seriously?”

“Yup. Meet your new partner, Cal James.”

“Wait, what?”

Sheriff Miller chuckles darkly to himself and walks away, tipping his hat to Winnie as he leaves the Saloon.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I inform Burke hastily. “I don’t even know if I’m going to take the job.”

“Of course, you’re going to take it,” she says. “Winnie wants you to stick around. Besides, haven’t you noticed? No one hates you anymore.”

Now that she mentions it, I haven’t been confronted by any angry locals since the gala. When word spread that Connor Bassett killed Nash Adams, not me, the whole town experienced collective amnesia. Everyone magically forgot that they’d run me out of town and treated me like crap for the past ten years.

“Don’t you want me gone?” I ask Officer Burke. “I thought you couldn’t stand my lack of protocol and unconventional methods.”

“I can’t,” she says. “You’ve got some weird crap going on, James. I haven’t forgotten about what happened in the library.”

“What happened in the library?” I say innocently.

She ignores me. “I’m going to figure out your secret. Count on it.”

“Fine, I’ll figure out yours too.”

Burke’s eyes slide toward me. “You really want to know why I ended up on probation for so long?”

“Yes, I do.”

She inhales, bracing herself. “When I first started this job, I worked for a department in Denver. When we got a report for domestic issues, we plugged the information into an algorithm. The algorithm guessed whether kids in those households were safe or not. If not, we were obligated to do a home visit.”

“So, what? You misread the algorithm?”

“No, it was wrong,” Burke says. “Someone put in a call for a possible overdose. When we got to the house, the mother of two young children needed resuscitation. Social services took over the case. The mother promised to go to rehab, so social services let her keep the kids.”

“Was that a mistake?”

“Not according to the algorithm,” she replies, rubbing her temples. “I checked and double-checked, but I always got the same results: a home visit wasn’t necessary. I should’ve gone anyway, though.”

“What happened, Burke?”

“The house caught on fire when the mother wasn’t home,” Burke says. “The kids tried to make dinner for themselves and started a grease fire. The eldest was twelve. The youngest was four.”

The little ghost appears beside Burke and hugs her legs. Burke shivers but doesn’t shake off the girl’s spirit.

“Did they both die?” I ask.

“The fire department rescued the twelve-year-old,” she replies. “But the four-year-old didn’t make it. The whole thing messed me up pretty bad. I started making stupid mistakes at work. Finally, I was suspended, pending a mental health evaluation. That’s why I wasn’t allowed to work in the field for so long.”

“Burke, it wasn’t your fault,” I say softly. “You couldn’t have predicted that would happen.”

“But I did,” she insists. “I had a bad feeling those kids were in danger. If I were more like you—if I had followed my gut, that little girl would still be alive.”

“You didn’t know.” I watch as the ghost leans against Burke’s knees. “What was her name?”

“Amelia.”

“What would you say to Amelia if you could?”

“I would say—”

“Tell your knees.”

“What?” Burke says.

I point to the space where Amelia’s ghost stands next to Burke’s legs. “Look right there, and tell Amelia what you want to say to her.”

“This is stupid.”

“No, it’s not. Do it, Burke.”

She throws me a dirty look but does what I say. As Burke looks right at the little ghost, Amelia gazes lovingly at Burke, squeezing her teddy bear tighter.

“Amelia,” Burke says, and the little ghost smiles happily. “I’m sorry for not checking on you earlier. I should have ignored the algorithm and done a home visit. You deserved a life—a long, full, loving life, and I’m sorry you didn’t get what you deserved.”

Amelia nods and waits for more, but Burke has fallen into awkward silence.

“She wants you to forgive yourself,” I tell Burke.

“How can I?” Burke whispers.

“Amelia forgives you,” I say. “If she can do it, you can too. Just let it go, Burke. Take a deep breath in, and exhale all that guilt and shame you’ve been carrying around ever since Amelia died. Do it. Now.”

Burke inhales, expanding her chest and diaphragm as much as possible. When she lets out the breath, she releases a groan of relief.

“Okay,” Burke says, eyes watering. “I’m trying. I forgive myself.”

I cup my ear. “What’s that?”

“I forgive myself.”

Amelia throws her arms around Burke’s legs and squeezes. Burke’s eyebrows shoot toward the sky, and I get the feeling that she can feel Amelia’s embrace. As the little ghost brightens, signaling her readiness to leave this earth, she gives me a thumbs-up. I grin, and Amelia moves on to the next life.

Winnie comes over to our table with a stout for me and a vodka soda for Burke. “Everything okay over here? I got nervous when I saw you two sitting together.”

“Everything’s fine,” Burke says. “Your sister is teaching me how to connect with my feelings.”

Winnie arches an eyebrow. “Cal has feelings?”

“Ha, ha,” I say dryly.

“Are you leaving?” Winnie asks me. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To say goodbye now that Loretta’s case is closed?”

“Actually, I—”

“Because you shouldn’t leave,” she babbles. “I know you hate Red River, and it doesn’t feel like home to you anymore, but I’m here. I’m here, and I need my sister. Please stay, Cal. Please? I’ll beg if I have to.”

“Let’s see it then.”

Winnie smacks my shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“She is staying,” Burke tells Winnie. “She’s just a pain.”

“You are?” Winnie squeals at me. “You’re staying?”

“I didn’t say that. I haven’t decided yet.”

“She’s staying,” Burke says firmly, tapping her drink against mine. “She’s going to be my new partner, which probably means we should be on a first-name basis. Right, Cal?”

“Right, Teddy Bear.”

“Just Teddy,” she warns.

Winnie squeezes us all together, squeals with excitement, and prances away to serve her waiting customers. Teddy leans back in her chair.

“That’s all it took, huh?” she asks. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you want to stay in Red River.”

“If Winnie needs me, I’m going to be here for her.”

“Sounds like Sheriff Miller made you a decent offer, too.”

“We’ll see.”

Teddy sips her drink. “Where are you going to live?”

“I don’t know yet. Winnie was wrong, though.”

“About what?”

“Red River does feel like home,” I say. “It always has.”

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

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