* * *
THAT morning, she woke up in Springfield, Missouri.
By sunset, Dez Lincoln was pulling into French Lick, Indiana. It had been one hellaciously long day and she knew it wasn’t about to end yet, either.
Her hands were icy, but despite that, sweat trickled along her spine.
The voice was driving Dez mad. The ghost was trying to drive her mad.
Pulling her too hard, too fast. And now that she was here, it was loud. So loud. It was almost a scream in her head.
Swallowing, she turned off the narrow, two-lane road onto a drive that led to a small cemetery.
Strange
—
Most of her ghosts were people not at rest—unfound souls. Murder victims. And although
some
of them were found and laid to rest, many of her ghosts weren’t.
There was something odd about this, though.
She could feel it, like a buzz in her brain.
She bypassed several dozen stones before she found the one she needed. She had no doubt it was the right one, either.
After all, he waited there for her.
Her ghost.
According to his grave marker, his name was Tristan Haler.
He had been a boy when he died, but just barely—hovering on the edge between boyhood and manhood. And when he turned to look at her, she saw something in his eyes that backed up her suspicion—too much knowledge.
“Why did you call me here?” she asked softly.
“I…I didn’t mean to,”
he said, his voice insubstantial and distant.
“You can see me, hear me, though, can’t you?”
“Yes. I see those who’ve left this world.”
To her surprise, he laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound, though, and the temperature around her dropped. She didn’t shiver, but she couldn’t stop the goose bumps from breaking out along her skin.
“Those who have left this world,”
he echoed.
“You make it sound so easy. Like I checked out of a hotel. Like I picked this—wanted it.”
He looked at her then, and his gaze was hot and angry, even as the air around her grew colder, tighter, all but freezing the oxygen until it felt like she was dragging in air straight from the Arctic.
“I
didn’t
.”
He went to his knees, staring at his grave.
“But everybody thinks I did. My mom and dad, my sister. They all think I killed myself. I didn’t.”
Dez closed her eyes. Then she looked at him. “You’re certain. Do you remember?”
“What happened…?”
He looked away.
“No. But I know I didn’t do it. I know what they think I did. I wouldn’t have done it. I know who did, though. And I know why.”
Dez shoved her hands into her pockets.
Just barely, she resisted the urge to swear.
Well. The good news was…he was from around here. If he was from around here and she could find out enough information on her own, or maybe even just freak out the killer enough—once she found him—maybe he’d confess. She didn’t have the resources she’d once had, and helping murder victims was a lot harder than it used to be. And somehow, she knew this boy wouldn’t move on until he had justice.
It was written all over him—he had a mission.
Okay. She could handle this. Maybe she wouldn’t have to make a phone call. That was all she wanted. To get through a few more jobs without making those damned phone calls.
Actually…
all
of her jobs without making those phone calls.
But even as she thought it, she found herself pulling out her phone. Found herself running her thumb along the keypad, the number burning bright in her mind, even though she insisted she didn’t
want
to make that call.
She’d have to call him eventually. She knew it in her gut.
And it was enough to make her heart skip a beat, make her knees go weak, make her belly clench.
Will he come this time or send one of the others?…Will I see him?
Taking a deep breath, she shoved all of that aside. It didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. This mattered—the boy, the job, the lost. They were what mattered now.
Focusing on the boy, she asked the question—whatever his answer was, it was one that mattered, because
this
was what held him back, what kept him from moving on. Something else she knew in her gut.
“You know who did. You know why. How about you tell me?”
She was expecting some story about teenage angst. Jealousy. Anger. Maybe even the loneliness or bullying that was so common these days.
What she didn’t expect was the answer she got.
He stared at her with a grim, sad expression and replied,
“Because they were going to kill a girl…and I wouldn’t go along with it.”
I wanted to see you today, my angel. But not yet. When it’s time.
Almost time.
I think I’ll bring you pretty yellow flowers this year. I think you’d like yellow.
Pen continued to scratch over paper, pausing only from time to time.
Perhaps a new dress? Would you like a yellow dress? I saw one and I think you would like it. I don’t know much about girls’ dresses, but I think you would like this one. I also have a surprise for you, pretty angel. But I can’t tell you yet. Soon, though. Very soon.
* * *
“WHAT was Tristan like?”
His sister shot her a look from under a fringe of heavy, dyed-black bangs. She stared at Dez for the longest time, not answering. Dez was already prepared for several long days of getting absolutely nowhere.
But to her surprise, Tiffany Haler sighed and actually answered her question. “What’s it matter? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Dez kept her hands tucked in her pockets, stared straight ahead. Damn it, she was tired. It had been nearly one a.m. before she’d managed to find a bed to collapse into and what little sleep she’d gotten had been fitful. Tired or not, though, she had a promise to keep. Judging by the restless burn inside, she didn’t think she’d have much time to do it, either. “Tristan’s dead. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No.” Tiffany tucked her chin low and hitched her bag up on her shoulder, mumbling under her breath, “It’s a bunch of bullshit, though. Bull
shit
.”
“What is?”
Tiffany shot her a look. “Nothing. Look, lady, just leave it alone. It’s not like there’s some story of the week to go with this. Tristan wasn’t some kid who got bullied to death, and he wasn’t into drugs. He just…”
The girl’s voice broke. And for a second, her natural shields, the reticence that kept Dez from reading many people, slipped and she felt something from the girl.
Doubt.
It was enough.
Seizing it, she said softly, “A bunch of bullshit…him killing himself?”
Tiffany stumbled. Under the heavy makeup she wore, it looked like she’d gone rather white, too. “What?”
Dez shrugged. “Well, from what I can tell, your brother had a lot of things going for him—a girlfriend who adored him, decent parents, a lot of friends, scholarships. We’re not talking some poor little rich boy, we’re not talking some scared, confused kid—he seemed like a genuinely nice kid. I think he even had a good relationship with you, didn’t he?”
“He…” Tiffany looked away. She chewed on her lip, her eyes closed. Then, quietly, she whispered, “Everybody loved Tristan. He was a good guy, you know? People…they listened to him. Even me.”
A harsh breath shuddered out of her and she looked back at Dez. “I used to get a lot of grief around here. Hell, I still do. You know what it’s like being different?”
“Actually, I do.”
Tiffany sneered. “You probably don’t have a clue. I don’t just mean being black. But I mean
different
. Half the school thinks I’m a lesbian. I’m not, but they used to tease me all the time…and then one day, Tristan heard. One of the guys—Beau Donnelly, some hotshot on the football team, he grabbed me. Said some things. It got back to my brother.”
A smile, somehow both sad and proud, curled the girl’s lips. “He waited until the guy was out of school. Then he beat the shit out of him.” She slanted a look at Dez and added, “Then he told me I had to start standing up for myself, too. He might not always be around—said something like, ‘The bullies stop when you make it clear you won’t be a target, Tiff. So why are you being a target?’
“I stopped being a target.” She pushed a hand through her hair, her hand shaking. “He was right. It’s not always easy and I get into fights some, but most of them have figured out that I’ll fight back now. I’m even
more
likely to, with him gone.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I have to,” Tiffany said simply. “He got in a lot of trouble for that—almost got kicked off the team—he could have lost his scholarships and he knew that, and even though my parents understood, they grounded him for three weeks. But he did it for me. And now he’s gone—I owe it to him.”
“Maybe you owe it to yourself,” Dez said, her heart breaking. She understood, better than the girl knew. But she doubted the girl would get that—kids always thought they had a lock on unique problems. And it didn’t matter, anyway. Not in the long run. She could understand without the girl realizing she
did
relate, all too well.
“You know, your brother doesn’t sound like the type who’d take the easy way out. He just doesn’t.”
“No.” Tiff reached up, wiping away a tear, leaving a black smear of eyeliner. “But he left that damn note…and it’s his handwriting, you know?”
A shiver raced down her spine only seconds before she heard Tristan’s voice.
“It’s not my damn handwriting. I can tell you who wrote the note, although the fucker will lie about it.”
Meeting Tiffany’s eyes once more, she smiled. “Thanks for talking to me. I appreciate it.”
She kept quiet until the girl disappeared from sight, saying nothing, not even looking at the ghost standing next to her.
Then, still keeping her gaze focused straight ahead, she murmured, “Well, then, you need to tell me who he is. Where I can find him—and Tristan, we need to move quickly if you’re right about them killing some girl. I don’t want another person to die if I can help it.”
She felt his rage—felt it in the sharp cold that cut through to her bones—felt it in his misery.
“His name is Kyle Spalding. He used to be one of my best friends.”
“And how do you know he wrote the note?”
From the corner of her eye, she could see the derisive smirk on his face.
“Because that’s what he does. He forges handwriting—it’s, like, his
thing
.”
* * *
TAYLOR Jones knew he shouldn’t be doing this.
Twenty-five years had passed since he’d lost this child. The first one he’d failed…
Logically, he couldn’t carry this burden, but logic and the heart, logic and grief, they didn’t mingle well.
He’d been fourteen, after all, and he hadn’t even been watching her—he’d been at school. Football practice, something he hadn’t wanted to do, but it was expected, after all.
He was a Jones and the men did sports.
Just like the women learned to cross-stitch and cook and marry the
right
sort of man.
Even though Anna had only been six, she’d already begun learning both skills, while their mother drilled into her head all the needed bullshit about what sort of clothing she should wear, how she should sit and speak and act…at age six.
Personally, Taylor had thought it was all a bunch of bullshit, Anna expecting to “marry well” as the main goal in her life—it was so fucking archaic, straight out of something from a book in a time long past, he’d always thought.
But their family had a lot of bygone traits and skills.
Like his father’s habit of keeping a piece on the side.
His mother’s habit of ignoring it.
A functioning alcoholic, that’s what Elsa Jones had been, floating through their grand house, sipping her cocktails and pretending to be the happy wife at all the social functions, just as a good mayor’s wife should.
It all fell apart after Anna disappeared. Sweet, pretty little Anna—his baby sister, somebody who had made him laugh. Made them all laugh, even Mother at times. But then Anna had disappeared and everything changed.
His father tried, Taylor knew. The old man did his damnedest and Taylor, at least, had that. But Elsa…a couple of years after it happened, Elsa took one of her cocktails and made it special.
She never woke up.
Taylor wasn’t entirely sure he had even grieved over her death. Harsh, strident words still echoed in his ears all these years later and nothing he did could block them out.
Why weren’t you
watching
her?
Elsa—he was at school
.
Taylor closed his eyes, resting his hands on the cool wrought-iron balcony, staring out of the family estate. Fuck, he hated this place. He should just sell it. Not that it would sell easily.
Never mind the fact that it was one big-ass piece of land, with a big-ass house. Never mind the fact that the real estate market was still struggling out in these parts. Never mind that it was in the middle of nowhere.
But he couldn’t sell the manor—couldn’t walk away.
His dad hadn’t been able to, either. He’d stayed here, searching for Anna, waiting and hoping, until he just withered away after Taylor went to college. It was like he’d held on just long enough to make sure his one remaining child would be taken care of and then he’d given up. The doctors said it was a heart attack, and yeah, Taylor could believe it.
A heart attack—a broken heart…weren’t they sort of the same?
Both he and his father had adored Anna.
A pretty, wide-eyed little princess, too precocious, too smart for words.
The knot in his chest swelled, threatened to destroy him. Savagely, he swore, lifted his hands to press against his eyes. The breeze drifted by, blowing his hair back. It was cold, carrying that sharp scent unique to fall, and it was another blow. It had been a day just like this when she’d disappeared. Just like this—
“Shit.” He passed a hand over his mouth. He had to stop this, had to. If he didn’t, it was going to drive him insane. It was worse this year for some reason, even worse than last year.
And he wondered if maybe Gina hadn’t been right, if maybe there wasn’t something of his mother’s weakness, or worse, inside of him. If maybe one of these days he wasn’t going to look in the mirror and decide it would just be better if he gave up—on everything: on himself, on the mission, all of it.
A year ago, he wouldn’t have even considered asking himself that question.
But lately…
No
.
Shoving a hand into his pocket, he gripped the golden necklace that had become his talisman. His strength. No. He wasn’t going to get that close to the edge. He wasn’t there now and he wouldn’t be. Carefully, he pulled the chain out, opened his palm so he could stare at it. Focus on it.
He was fine. Or as close to fine as he’d ever be.
He was just fucking fine. And maybe if he said it often enough, he’d even believe it.
SHE hadn’t even been in the little town of French Lick a full day and she was being led around by the nose, it seemed. By a ghost.
So what else is new?
she thought glumly.
“Why are we
here
?” Dez demanded as she climbed out of her car and stared up at the hotel.
Actually,
hotel
didn’t seem quite the right word to describe this place.
It was a huge, sprawling wooden affair, made to look more rustic than it was, designed for people with money, she imagined, people who wanted to pretend they were roughing it while they took a weekend away with their kids. They’d use the child care offered by the hotel while they went to the casino and gambled, let their kids swim while they sipped cocktails by the pool.
You’re being cynical,
she thought. A screeching child went running down the sidewalk, whooping with laughter and chased closely by a grinning, if exasperated, father.
Tearing her eyes away from the sight, she looked at the boy with her. The ghost. The only children she had in her life—the only children she’d likely
ever
have.
“Why are we here?” she asked again.
Tristan grimaced.
“They are doing it here
.
”
“Doing
what
here?” She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped, prayed this boy was wrong. So many of the dead were—it was easy. They confused things and it was understandable. Life, death, fiction, reality, it all became a blur for them.
But some of them had a better grip on reality than others—some had a core of pure steel and this boy, this boy who had been so close to being a man, who never would be…
A core of steel? Hell. Think titanium. Sighing, she looked at him. He wasn’t wrong.
Tristan stared at her.
“I already told you. They are going to kill her. They might already be doing it…or have done it.”
For once, the composure, the certainty on his face cracked and he looked scared, confused. He looked like a kid and he broke her heart.
“I don’t even know how much time has passed, because I can’t remember…”
Dez knew. “It’s been three months since you died.” She watched as his eyes cleared. “I told you this…remember?”
They’d discussed this. Twice.
“Three months…”
His eyes closed and he looked like he was trying to remember. Slowly, the strain on his face eased and he nodded.
“Yeah. We talked. Three months. That means it’s October, right? That means it’s October. Almost Halloween…?”
He stared at her and for a moment, his image was clearer, sharper. And the air became colder.
“Yes. Halloween is in two more days.”
Tristan’s image flickered, wavered.
“Then it hasn’t happened yet—they won’t do it until Halloween. We can still save her…”