Reedy’s Diner was the sort of place Sam always thought of whenever she heard the phrase “greasy spoon.” It was off the highway near Brattleboro and catered to truckers, salespeople and all manner of other travelers. She doubted anyone in the place was local. They probably knew better.

Sam gulped rank coffee from a heavy ceramic mug, trying to get her morning dose of caffeine without tasting the bitter brew. The paper placemat in front of her was plastered with ads for local businesses and radio stations. She wondered briefly how much money “Reedy” made from them.

It was nearly half-past nine. Earnest had gotten Doris squared away early, driving over to the motel to pick her up himself only an hour before. Once back on the road, none of her former anxiety and self-doubt from the previous night remained.

The email message, and the brief exchange of instant messages which followed, had done more than give her a potential story. They had rekindled her passion and curiosity. As Sam read the message through a second and then a third time, a single thought began to creep up on her.

This is something.

There was no way of knowing what the story was, just yet, but she knew a story was there. The excitement had returned. Once again, she felt like an explorer must when standing at the edge of the known world, ready to take a step into that blank space beyond the map.

Play it cool.

It was good advice and she intended to take it. As difficult as it was to contain the thrill welling up inside her, any one of a dozen things could derail the story before it even left the station.

She could still be looking at a hoax, after all. Sam had seen more than a few of those. The paranormal attracted frauds nearly as consistently as it did raving lunatics.

This didn’t feel like a hoax, but Sam had been wrong before.

After ending the chat with her new source, Sam felt even less like sleeping. Instead, she spent the rest of the night and early morning kicking and screaming at her laptop and the meager internet connection her phone provided.

She learned everything she could about Cedar Mills, the Burns couple and the man who’d contacted her. There wasn’t much.

Cedarford County didn’t have the most modern website. They provided only a handful of pages, most of which were concerned with the area’s history. The city of Cedarford seemed to get all the attention, with almost no reference made to any of the other communities. There was nothing whatsoever about Cedar Mills.

Sam did manage to find a page with contact information for various county offices, but there was no mention of a “David Masters” working for the medical examiner. It was the name her new source had given and she considered it vital to confirm he was who he said he was.

She called the county switchboard, and after a few minutes with the automated phone system, she got his voice mail. Sam didn’t leave a message, but listened to his recorded greeting several times until she was confident she could recognize his voice in person. It wasn’t as reliable as a photo, but the trick had still served her well in the past.

After she’d exhausted the county’s web site, she turned her attention to the Burns couple. It wasn’t all that difficult to find several references to their disappearance. David had done some homework of his own and Sam was surprised to find very little information that he hadn’t already included in his first message.

She did find a copy of the couple’s wedding announcement from a Seattle newspaper, along with a photo of them sitting against a tree together, the young woman holding her hand up to show off a diamond ring.

They looked good together and their smiling faces added just enough reality for Sam to feel a twinge of grief for them. What would they have become if fate hadn’t taken them out of the world?

Her search for Cedar Mills offered the least reward. Sam found two local history sites which gave the town a passing mention. From them, she learned that Cedar Mills had supplied much of the lumber used to build the surrounding communities, then later moved into furniture production.

Based on what little she could find, the citizens of the town managed to do quite well for themselves, but Cedar Mills had never really expanded or flourished. Instead, it had sat, sheltered among the forest and marshes, virtually ignored by settlers and tourists alike.

The town had no official website, appeared in no travel guides, and the few stories she found in news archives read more like carefully crafted press releases than real journalism.

Small towns have their share of troubles and violence, contrary to the common myths. People still get into car wrecks, still fight, even kill each other once in a while. Cedar Mills was no exception and she found several stories to confirm it.

A fatal car wreck in the seventies, a missing child in the early eighties, a hunting mishap in eighty-nine. Typical tragedies, but what was far from typical was the coverage these incidents received.

The stories were brief, stuck to the dry facts and all of them had “Cedarford Gazette Staff” as the byline. The stories provided details, but there was no heart.

There were no quotes from friends, family or other members of the community. The initial reports were as impersonal as a form letter and there was nearly no follow up. Even the missing child didn’t stay in the paper for a full week.

Sam had been to a lot of small towns, from unincorporated communities in the backwoods of Maine to hamlets stashed in the bayous of the Gulf Coast. They were places that felt ignored, half-forgotten and left to themselves.

As Sam had researched Cedar Mills, it didn’t feel ignored or forgotten. It felt hidden.

People came and went around her as she sat, thinking through the information she’d found. Her breakfast had consisted of bacon and eggs on a stale english muffin. It was edible, but that’s all the recommendation she could muster.

As Sam considered the meeting ahead of her, daydreaming of coffee you didn’t have to chew, she promised herself she’d find a nice restaurant that night. She’d treat herself to a steak while she wrote up her notes and figured out where to start digging.

“May I sit down?” Sam looked up at the interruption. She hadn’t noticed the man’s approach.

He was about her age and cuter than she’d expected, with short brown hair that was in need of a comb, glasses and brown eyes. Sam smiled and noted a slight, antiseptic smell about him that reminded her of hospitals. She supposed it was a better odor than the alternatives his profession might bring.

That first look also told her he was nervous, even though he did a reasonable job of trying to look calm and relaxed. Sam was used to reading people’s moods, seeing the emotions and reactions they normally tried to hide.

She supposed that was her mother’s fault.

“That depends,” she said after giving him a once over. “What’s your name, handsome?” His eyes flicked, giving her an up-down of his own before looking around the room.

Sam knew his evaluation of her wasn’t the least bit professional and she didn’t mind. In some ways, it would make her job easier.

“I’m David,” he said, sliding his thin frame onto the seat opposite her. “You look nicer in person, for what it’s worth.”

Her smile broadened as she recognized the sound of his voice from the recorded message she’d studied. He seemed sweet, though Sam reminded herself that didn’t mean he wasn’t a nut.

“Thanks. The photo on my site is pretty terrible.”

“Look…” David started and stopped. She leaned back and let him say what she’d heard many times before. He wanted to get right to the point, which she took as another good sign.

“I just want to make sure you understand,” he said. “I need to know I’m not going to be named when this comes out.”

“What can I get you, honey?” The waitress interrupted them. David ordered a cup of tea and they waited until the woman was out of ear shot before speaking again.

Sam took another swallow of rank coffee, braced herself and played the game.

“David,” she began, “I’ve worked with many people who’ve had a lot to loose when they came to me. I’ve protected every one of them and have never revealed a source. Trust is a two-way street, though.

“You seem sincere and so far your information looks good. Very good. I think your instincts here are dead on, but there’s a lot more to do. Once the ball gets rolling, I have to know you won’t get cold feet and walk out, or feed me some bullshit later on.

“If I do this, we both need to be in it for the long haul, no matter what comes down. You need to remember that my name’s going on it. I’ll be taking the heat. I’m risking my safety to get this out there, so I need to know you’re on my side. We’re partners in this, David.”

She had given the same speech dozens of times. Dealing with paranoid types, conspiracy nuts with more than a little tin foil under their ball caps, was never easy. At least, it wasn’t as easy as getting people to talk about their haunted hotels or the ghosts in the attic.

People who’ve seen ghosts, or just want free publicity, shared their stories with almost no prompting. They wanted to be believed, wanted to give you every detail they knew, if only so that someone will tell them they’re not crazy.

A genuine conspiracy nut believes every word they speak is dangerous, every fact they know a weapon. They believe someone or something with a lot of power would be willing to do anything to silence them if they open their mouth.

The nuts gave up more when Sam played the risk-taker, the outlaw journalist who put her life on the line because the truth was out there and the public needed to know. Throw in the barest suggestion the two of them could find their way between the sheets some desperate night and most of her sources were hooked.

She didn’t know quite where David fell on the paranoid scale, but she played it safe. He watched her for a moment, measuring her words. Sam imagined the wheels turning in his head. He was deciding whether or not to leave, to get up from the table and call the whole thing off. Sam waited.

When she saw his shoulders relax, she knew he’d made his choice.

“Now, run everything down for me again, starting with the medical examiner,” she said.

“Doctor Martin Harley, Doc, he’s the Chief Medical Examiner for Cedarford County. I’m his assistant, working through my residency and fellowship to earn my license.”

“So you’re a forensic pathologist as well?”

“Not yet. I still have a few years to go, but I assist Doc Harley with pretty much everything. I perform autopsies, document scenes, file reports.”

“Underpaid, overworked intern, then.” Sam smiled and David laughed a little, his nervousness fading by inches.

“Something like that,” he said.

The background was important. She’d check out everything he said, making certain he was who he said he was. It also served to help break the ice, to relax him. It never paid to seem too eager to get to the real story.

“Tell me about this ‘Doc’ guy,” she said.

“He’s getting old, has trouble getting around and isn’t big fan of technology, but he’s very, very sharp. Doc’s traveled a lot, done a lot of consulting. I know he worked for the FBI a while ago and he’s been out of the country for half his life.”

“Do you know why?”

“Some kind of talent exchange with foreign police departments? He doesn’t really talk about it and I’ve never asked.”

“He must be well-respected.”

“He is. Doc has a lot of friends in law enforcement and I hear his name dropped at every convention I attend. He makes me go to them, says he’s too old and has had enough traveling. I think it’s more because the science is changing and he thinks the digital age is leaving him behind.”

“You assist him both in and out of the office, then?”

“Yeah. I go with him on scene visits, help with documenting the scene, transporting remains. Like I said, pretty much everything. We moved to all digital photography this year, and with the record keeping being done on the computer now Doc has me do all of the scene documentation and most of the office work.”

“Tell me how a typical scene visit works,” Sam asked. “These are crime scenes, right?”

“Not always. The medical examiner gets called in whenever a death is sudden or unexpected, not just when it appears unnatural or suspicious. Most of the deaths we investigate are the result of accidents or natural causes.”

“Who decides a death requires your attention?”

“It’s complicated.” David’s lips pressed together and he uttered a short, almost frustrated sigh.

Sam gave him a curious look. “How so?”

The waitress returned with David’s tea and asked if he needed anything else. He shook his head and smiled, waiting for her to leave before continuing.

“There’s no real national standard for how each state assigns medical examiners or coroners to investigate deaths. In New Hampshire, there’s a single statewide medical examiner that’s responsible for everything. A little more than a dozen states are like that, with no county medical examiners.”

“But, you said you work for the Cedarford County Medical Examiner’s Office.”

“We’re the exception,” he said. “The only exception.”

Sam felt a tingling on the back of her neck, remembering how she’d felt earlier that morning when looking for information about Cedar Mills had seemed like chasing her tail.

“All deaths within the county are handled by us,” David continued. “If the death scene is in Cedarford County, the responding authorities call us.”

“Why the special consideration?”

“I don’t know, but as far as I can tell it’s always been that way. Honestly, that’s part of the reason I applied here. It seemed strange. There’s nothing about Cedarford County that immediately suggests the need for its own medical examiner. I wanted to know why.”

“You like mystery,” she said.

David nodded and Sam found herself liking him a little more. So far he didn’t seem like a nut, which gave him that rare aura of sincerity that worked on her, caused her to set aside some of her skepticism. He’d discovered something he couldn’t make sense of, so he’d thrown himself into it.

David had too much of the “disheveled geek” thing going on for her to feel any real attraction toward him, but she admired his instinct to get to the bottom of things.

“You said ‘all deaths’ were handled by your office?”

“All deaths that do not occur while under a doctor’s care for a known illness,” he said. “Even then, we investigate those where there’s even the slightest doubt as to the cause.”

David’s description seemed to paint a picture of almost unreasonable diligence. The tingling she’d felt on the back of her neck a moment before had migrated to her arms and bloomed into full-fledged goosebumps for an instant.

“Tell me about Frank Burns,” Sam said.

David Masters took a breath and began to go over the previous day’s events. He described the scene he and Doc had responded to, relayed everything he’d overheard and explained the procedures they had taken when transporting the remains.

David went through it all and revealed an amazing ability to recall even small details that would have seemed insignificant at the time. Sam was impressed and had little doubt he would make an excellent medical examiner. Or a journalist.

At the end of his narrative, he reached into his pocket and produced a small, plastic device.

“This flash drive contains everything I’ve had access to,” he said. “There’s an audio file of Doc’s conversation with the FBI agents, another which Doc and I made while performing the autopsy, more photographs and a copy of a file we give to prosecutors and law enforcement which explains the more common terminology and procedures we use. It’s sort of a layman’s guide to forensic pathology.”

He passed her the drive when she reached for it, showing very little hesitation. It was another sign she’d earned his trust.

“I didn’t know how much of the jargon you’d be familiar with,” he said.

“Probably not much, so that’ll help. What about the autopsy report and lab results?”

David shook his head and sipped his tea. He grimaced at the taste and Sam wondered how you could fuck up a tea bag bad enough to draw that reaction.

“Real science is a lot slower than the television lets on,” he explained. “I’ll get them to you as soon as I can, by I probably won’t have anything for at least a day or two. And I can’t promise I’ll see everything, anyway. The FBI is running tests of its own, and I probably won’t have any access to the forensics reports.”

“So nothing on the paper and notes you told me about?”

“Probably not. Like I said, though, Doc has a lot of friends and he seems to know these agents personally. People have a habit of keeping Doc in the loop whether he needs to be or not, so there’s a chance I could overhear something.”

“You’ve done really well, David. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with your memory and attention to detail.”

He smiled. David didn’t exactly blush, but he definitely appreciated her praise. “I need to get back.”

“Before you go, David, I need to go over something with you.”

Sam leaned forward and began to go over the finer points of their new relationship.

“I need you to tell no one else about this or our arrangement. There’s a lot at stake for both of us here. When you need to contact me, call me on my cell phone. Get one of those pre-paid phones for yourself and give me your number as soon as you can. Pay cash for it.

“When either of us has any information or questions, we’ll arrange to meet in person. For now, don’t send anything else electronically. And if we meet face to face as professionals in this investigation, don’t let on we’ve met before and don’t try to give or tell me anything then, no matter how important.”

David listened carefully to everything Sam told him. Mostly, it was more of the same. Sam walked a fine line between putting her sources at ease and tickling their paranoia. They had to be willing to share information with her, but also needed to feel that what they were doing was exciting and dangerous.

And in this case, it was. David was violating the terms of his employment by speaking with her and had likely violated state and federal law when he recorded the agents’ conversation with Doc Harley. If they were caught, it would get ugly fast.

After she’d given him the speech, they said their goodbyes and she watched him leave. David Masters had given her a lot to think about and most of it worried her.

Sam had been in more than a few creepy old houses, dirty basements and even spent two nights being led through the sewers and steam tunnels under New York City by a group of self-proclaimed urban explorers. Places rarely inspired fear in her, but people were a different matter entirely.

Especially people with secrets to keep.

Cedarford County didn’t feel right and Cedar Mills, while not the county’s center of government, certainly seemed to be a center of some sort. To Sam, it looked like someone, some group, had gone out of their way to keep the area off the radar.

She had to admit there was a certain insanity to the idea. The feeling of secrecy, the sense that Cedar Mills had been deliberately hidden away, was just her gut talking when you got right down to it. And her gut might not be all that reliable right then.

She’d been doubting herself, her work, only a few hours before. She’d given up her belief, lost the faith and came to terms with it. And yet, the very next story to drop in her lap had her ready to howl at the moon.

This is something.

“Yeah,” she said to herself. “Maybe.”

A few minutes later she dropped a ten on the table and walked out to her car. The body was in Cedarford but her instincts told her the real story would be in Cedar Mills.

She hoped they had a decent steakhouse.

***

Susan was quiet as Joe drove them back to Cedar Mills. She sat in the passenger seat and stared out the window.

The leaves were changing color, the chill of the night hadn’t yet left the air and no small part of her wondered where the summer had gone. She thought of her mostly-forgotten dream from the night before, remembered the sound of rustling leaves around her feet as she’d walked through the woods with her father on some hunting trip long ago.

Joe held his tongue for a while. He’d driven up to Cedarford early to meet with Mary and her daughter at the hospital after catching two hours of desperately needed sleep. He’d stopped in to check on Holt’s status and listened to Susan’s mother carry on for a while. He’d given the girl a sympathetic look and she’d asked if he could drive her home.

Mary had been taken aback, but said nothing. Instead, she gave her daughter an icy look that convinced Joe to say yes. His better instincts told him not to get involved, but he pushed them aside. Susan had been through a lot and another day at the hospital with her mother was too much to ask.

Bill Holterman had made it through surgery and his condition had stabilized, though the doctor told Joe the odds Holt would recover were next to zero. If he made it through the next twenty-four hours, he’d probably live, but he’d never regain consciousness.

The doctor had told him something else on his visit, something which Joe couldn’t make sense of. Their conversation had been interrupted before he could ask any questions and now he wondered if he’d made a mistake in not sticking around to follow up.

The doctor’s words nagged at him, but not as much as the silence of the girl sitting next to him.

“I ever tell you about my mother?” Joe asked. Susan looked over at him and shook her head. She couldn’t remember Joe ever telling her much of anything.

“She was a trucker’s wife,” he said. “Husband on the road all the time, that sort of thing. Rumor was she never had to look hard for a man’s attention, if you know what I mean.”

Susan realized it was a pep talk. Inwardly she groaned, but kept quiet.

Joe’s got a full plate and can’t find a fork.

The thought came wearing her father’s voice. She’d heard him utter the expression a few times and knew it applied. Joe was hell-bent on fixing something that morning, whether it needed fixing or not.

“My father, well…I don’t really look anything like him,” he said. “That don’t sit too well with most men. I took a lot from him while he was around. He walked out when I was ten. ‘Course, that still left all the kids at school and around the neighborhood. They all knew what was what.”

Susan let his words wash over her and felt a slight sting. The town all knew, that much was true, but she’d never caught any grief over it. The kids at school, once her friends, they’d never bothered to care about her mother’s affairs or hand Susan some share of the blame.

Most were too busy holding something else over her.

“I think I was about your age when I finally figured it out.” Joe let his words hang in the air.

“Figured what out?” Susan asked. She closed her eyes and wished the ride was over.

“That I didn’t care what people thought of her. It was what they thought of me that mattered, and even that not as much as I gave them credit for.” Joe turned to her and smiled, happy his nugget of wisdom had been shipped and delivered.

He reached for his sunglasses, the glare of the morning sun making it hard to see through the windshield.

“Once I figured it out, I stopped,” he said.

“Stopped what?”

“Stopped hating her. I studied, went to school, came back and everything just sort of worked out. I got through it. I’m just sayin’,” he paused before adding “It can be a tough thing to endure, but sooner or later you get out.”

Susan was quiet for a minute. As the silent seconds ticked away, she realized Joe was waiting for a response. The trees slid by the window, the bright sun stung her eyes and although she tried to bite her tongue, she felt the words come out anyway.

“It’s funny,” she said. Joe gave her a look.

“What?”

“Everyone has the same advice,” she said. “Grin and bear it, things will get better. It’s like everyone forgot.”

“Forgot?” Joe looked at her and saw a small smile on her lips, though nothing about it suggested happiness.

“A mother isn’t supposed to be someone you have to endure,” Susan said.

They passed the rest of the drive in silence.

***

Jenny was worried. Ralph hadn’t come in yet and it was already ten o’clock. She’d bounced back and forth between the grill and her customers for the first hour, then called Rachel. The girl wasn’t scheduled to work on Sundays, but she needed the extra hands.

With three-fourths of the town either sleeping in or going to church, Sunday mornings were easy, but even a slow day can drive a panic if you have to do everything.

Rachel had answered the phone on the second ring and seemed delighted to come in. Perhaps she wanted the extra money, but Jenny thought there was something else in the girl’s voice, some other reason for her eagerness. She shrugged it off. Jenny had other thoughts on her mind.

Ralph was slipping, falling over the edge of the cliff she’d watched him cling to. Her thoughts from the night before filled her, possessed her, rang more and more true with every passing minute of his absence. She was losing him and she was powerless to stop it.

They’d been there too long, she was sure of it. She’d felt the pull of the place around them from the moment they’d arrived. Resisting, felt like breaking a bad habit, like trying not to bite your nails. It had been easy at first, almost effortless, but the pull was constant.

Slow and steady wins the race.

Once she arrived, Rachel handled the customers while Jenny threw on Ralph’s apron and took to the grill in earnest. She wasn’t much of a cook, but then neither was Ralph.

By ten, though, she’d fallen into a routine and felt herself begin to relax, the simple task of frying eggs and bacon slowly taking over, pushing away the thoughts of her brother. They weren’t gone completely, but they receded to the back of her mind.

Part of it was Rachel’s mood. She was cheerful and happy in a way that was infectious. Despite the worry and dread within, Jenny found herself smiling, her spirits raised.

The diner closed at two on Sundays. Jenny had four more hours to get through. After that, she’d look for her brother, though she had no idea what she’d be able to do once she found him.

***

Joe made it to the sheriff’s station a little after ten and rubbed his eyes to clear away the tired. He’d dropped Susan off and drove straight there, though he’d had to fight a strong urge to go home and collapse in bed. The two hours of sleep he’d had before the trip to Cedarford was wearing off and it felt like his mind was wearing thin.

It had been a long night and a long ride back from the hopital. Joe’d taken the night duty with Roy, though by rights that night should have fallen to Lou.

“You’re too soft for this, Joe,” he said to himself as he pulled his car into the lot outside.

The larger part of him disagreed, but then he had Bill Holterman’s boots to fill. Holt was a hard ass but he’d never given Joe reason to doubt it was necessary in the sheriff’s eyes. Holt made it seem like the world turned on the roof of the Cedar Mills Sheriff’s Department, that it was carried on the backs of the men and women who’d worked there through the years.

Holt didn’t possess any of the cruelty and sadism that motivated most of Roy Arnette’s existence. Roy was a bastard because he liked it. Holt was a bastard because it was necessary, or at least he thought so.

The department had only ever been run one way, Holt’s way. And Holt’s way seemed to work.

Then there was Joe, who’d taken the night duty three nights running to give Lou time to get ahead of the bug he’d caught.

There was Joe, who’d run himself ragged, on the road to ruin, with only six hours of sleep over the last three days.

There was Joe, who two nights ago had told Roy to get on home to his wife, everything would be fine, nothing happens anyway, he could handle the night duty himself.

Joe hadn’t given two shits where Roy went, he just couldn’t stand another night spent listening to the little bastard on the radio.

He’d patrolled alone that night and where did it get them? A body in the lake, Holt two-thirds dead, feds on their way in and now the nagging feeling that he’d fucked up royally at the hospital.

“I have a concern regarding Mr. Holterman’s injuries. I’ve asked some colleagues of mine for their opinion. We may need to take a look at Mr. Holterman’s vehicle.” The doctor’s words. Words to that effect, anyway. Joe hadn’t been listening, he’d been watching.

He watched Mary and Susan sitting together in the waiting area of the ICU. He’d seen the look on Susan’s face and something in it had gripped him.

It was a look of emptiness, loss and resignation. The look of someone who’d realized they’d built their life out of bad choices. He’d seen his mother wear that look from time to time and it had no business on the face of a sixteen year old girl.

At least, that’s what Joe had seen with eyes so tired they didn’t have any right to be open. Susan was right about him, he’d been hell-bent on fixing something. He saw a damsel in distress and leapt to her aid.

She wants to go home? By Christ, he would have carried her on his back and ran the whole way if he’d had to.

“Right, doc. Whatever’s best,” he’d said, then he walked over to Holt’s family and agreed to take the young girl home.

He hadn’t put a mile between his back and the hospital before the nagging started.

What’d he mean he needed to look at the wreck?

He had talked about Holt’s injuries, talked about specialists. The doctor had a question and the wreck might answer it.

Concern about the injuries. What about the injuries?

Joe had studied criminal justice when he’d gone off to college. Majored in it. As he sat in his car, he remembered something about medical examiners.

They study death.

It was a deeper thought. Something hidden in the back office of his brain, locked in a storage room filled with cardboard boxes. That dust place where nothing is forgotten, just mislaid.

They study sudden, unexpected death. Investigate sudden, unexpected death.

His mental fingers did their magic, tracing the labels on each of the boxes of memories. He imagined picking at the swollen cardboard until he flipped the lid off one and remembered the man who’d given a lecture in one of his classes.

“There was, if I recall, a case in Massachusetts quite some time ago where an automobile accident appeared to have claimed the life of a young woman,” this man had said.

He remembered almost nothing else from that class, but the lecturer’s words came back to Joe as clearly as if he was still sitting in the room listening to him.

“It was apparent from the circumstances and the extent of her injuries that this poor girl had zigged when she should have zagged, I believe the expression goes.”

The lecture played like a recording in Joe’s head. He felt impatient, waiting for the good stuff with no fast-forward button. He remembered thinking the same thoughts back then, waiting for this man with a flair for the dramatic to move on and make his point.

“The turn in the road was particularly nasty, a near right angle which had caused more than its fair share of tragedy. A preliminary test showed a high concentration of alcohol in her blood, making the investigators’ task seemingly simple.”

Joe felt anticipation build within as he sat parked in the lot, felt his mental fingers reach into the box. He reached in, and took hold of what he wanted.

“The medical examiner, on the other hand, had quite another story to tell. It is our professional duty to investigate any death which is sudden or unexpected, including those cases where every available fact appears to exclude foul play.

“The medical examiner found that some of this woman’s injuries were consistent with a car accident. Some, but not all. In addition to what one should find following such an event, she’d sustained massive, blunt force trauma to the back of her head.

“What’s more, every one of the injuries present on her body—apart from that single blow to the head—were inflicted post-mortem.

“It was her lover you see, who’s marriage wouldn’t hold once his young girlfriend’s pregnancy was revealed. He’d concealed her murder so neatly within the chaos of the crash that were it not for the diligent medical examiner, he would have gone free.”

He has questions about the injuries. He wants to see the wreck.

“What the fuck happened to you, Holt?” Joe whispered.

Ralph woke up, the cold air sending a chill along his naked body. He stood as his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the diner’s back room. Shivering, he braced himself on the large sink they used for washing dishes and tugged on his underwear.

His back stung as he pulled his tee shirt on; the long, parallel scratches running down his back erupting in protest to the touch of the rough fabric. Jenny’s nails had done a number on him.

He stood still for a moment and felt as though he had forgotten something. He’d had that feeling a lot lately. Ralph ran a hand over his face and touched the tears which had begun to dry on his cheeks. After a moment, he tugged on his pants and tried to find his socks. A fresh round of sobs wracked his body.

Ralph felt violated, broken in some horrible and indescribable way. It felt like his soul had been shattered and crudely repaired by unskilled hands.

He got himself under control twenty minutes later, put on the rest of his clothes and locked up the diner for the night.

Out in the parking lot, the night air cut through his black leather jacket and froze his legs through the blue jeans he wore. He stared down at the shattered glass and jagged pieces of metal where his car had been, the memory of Holt’s accident coming back. He caught flashes of the sheriff’s half-face, the image burning in his mind’s eye like an accusation.

Jenny had said something, hadn’t she? She’d said they’d seen worse. He didn’t know how that was even possible.

What have I done?

The question had been repeating itself, screaming in his mind like a skipping record for months. Over and over his thoughts danced across the gaps in his memory, the cracks in his mind matched those in his soul.

What have I done?

Ralph swallowed and looked around, wondering how he was going to get home.

His car.

Something about his car worried him.

What have I-

Ralph shut his eyes and slapped himself across the face. Trying to concentrate felt like stumbling through a labyrinth cloaked absolute darkness. He was lost among a thousand blind turns, punch drunk from running head first into the walls.

Something about his car, something about the night before. What was it? His car was important, maybe the most important thing ever. He had to get to it soon, but why?

Ralph let out a frustrated snarl and began walking up the road to Brown’s Junk with fear twisting in his guts, fear he didn’t understand.

***

Susan felt a rush of water flood her nostrils and sat up with a start. She coughed and choked, her arms flailing as water splashed around her.

Drowning!

The water stung her eyes and she locked them shut against the onslaught as her hand touched something cold, hard and smooth. She clung to it and forced her eyes open, catching a blurry glimpse of the motel bathroom around her.

She’d fallen asleep in the tub.

The bath had turned cold but without a clock in sight she didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. Susan leaned back and caught her breath, the feeling of panic waning as the day’s events came back to her.

After a minute, she stood. Her legs were still shaking but she gripped the metal rail for support and pulled the plug.

Her body shivered while she dried off and got dressed. Mary and her daughter hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes. Susan put on the shirt and underwear she had been wearing earlier. It bothered her, but it felt less creepy than sleeping naked in a cheap motel.

Back on the bed, she thought about watching television, but thought more of the strange dreams she’d had while asleep in the tub. She couldn’t remember any of them, really, just broken images and memories of feelings.

She’d been in the woods, pictures of trees and rocks frozen in her mind. It felt like she had been thinking of someone, maybe remembering a conversation. No details came to her. Had she been walking? Walking with someone?

A memory came to her of rustling leaves and fading light.

Susan wrestled with it a few minutes, feeling as if she’d forgotten something important. Eventually she gave up and turned on the TV.

“…we’ll tell you just what effect this rebate is expected to have. Last month, a fire in Fitzwilliam left a family of four with only the clothes on their backs. Find out how an entire community has come together to help them in their time of need.”

“The State Police and FBI are looking for new leads in a mystery nearly two decades old. Learn what a couple of adventurous fishermen stumbled across and how you can help find a missing woman.”

“And finally, it’s no surprise that the cost of heating is on everyone’s mind as the days grow colder, but it might surprise you to learn just-“

Susan changed the channel, slowly wading through the networks, trying to find something that would make her laugh. She wondered why every channel felt the need to put their news on at eleven o’clock. How many people actually stayed up to watch it?

And didn’t everyone have the internet anyway? She’d heard newspapers were struggling with the digital age, but they made more sense to her than watching the news on television. At least the paper gave you a crossword puzzle and comics.

Crossword puzzle.

She frowned. The thought seemed to come out of nowhere, felt almost like a whisper in her ear. Still…

Susan shut off the television and tugged on her jeans, remembering she’d seen a few newspaper boxes next to the office door. She dug in her pocket, found nearly two dollars in quarters and headed out of the room.

A crossword puzzle sounded like a great idea.

The night was chilly, her wet hair and still-damp skin made her wish she’d thought to put on her sweater.

She looked at the cars around her as she walked toward the office. She saw SUVs, sedans and a pickup truck illuminated by the yellow glow of the lights shining down on the lot. Her mind was doing its thing again, latching onto the meaningless, making her question every mundane detail around her.

Susan wondered briefly how many people really needed SUVs or pickup trucks. Did any of these people take their cars off-road? Did the owner of the pickup ever put more than groceries in the back?

The license plates also caught her attention. She saw cars from Vermont, New York and one from California which made her wonder what had motivated those people drive so far. Was it the fall foliage?

The leaves were beginning to turn color and soon autumn would set the hills on fire, an annual occurrence that drew people to New England from all over the country. She supposed being a local made it hard to see the attraction, which disappointed her a little.

Susan didn’t like to think she took many things for granted, but maybe she did.

When had she last taken a walk in the woods or gone fishing with her father? That last thought made her feel a sharp sting of regret. Bill Holterman would never win “Father of the Year”, but he used to take her fishing and hunting quite often when she was younger and now she found she missed it.

She’d loved the outdoors back then. Now it was a struggle to even notice it.

Maybe that’s what her dream had been about, some long lost memory of the walking through the woods with her father. She didn’t think so, but maybe.

Maybe it’s just the call of the wild.

She reached the office and saw a sign hung on the door that read “Back at Midnight”. She looked at the selection of newspapers in front of her.

Susan vaguely remembered the machines were called “honor boxes”, the theory being you’d take only one paper once you put in your money and the door opened, even though nothing stopped you from walking away with the whole stack. They’d always made her smile for some reason. The machines were a symbol of undying optimism in a world that needed more of that sort of thing.

She dropped three quarters in the slot and pulled out that day’s Cedarford Gazette. Susan had heard the Sunday puzzles were better, but she doubted the next morning’s edition had even been printed yet.

Besides, to a crossword buff, “better” meant harder and she hadn’t done one in a long time.

She looked down at the change in her hand and was debating whether or not to buy the Union Monitor too when she heard a door open and close nearby. Susan looked up and saw a man in a shirt and tie walking in her direction.

She folded the paper and started back toward her room. As they passed each other, the man smiled and muttered a greeting. He was older, perhaps fifty, with a thinning head of dark hair. She smiled back, the awkward knot in his tie forcing her to stifle a small laugh.

A large box truck rumbled down the road as Susan got back to her room. Once she reached the door she found it locked and remembered she’d left the keys on the nightstand. She cursed under her breath and rattled the knob in vain, part of her wishing she’d shared a room with her mother after all.

She glanced in the direction of Mary’s room and saw a pickup parked in the space next to their car. Her mother had company and the lights in the room were off.

Susan felt hatred well up inside her for a moment. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to pound on her mother’s door and start the screaming fight that was years overdue.

Don’t fuck with me or I’ll fuck you back.

Her mother’s silent threat echoed in her head. Her father lay in a hospital bed, almost certainly dying, and while she felt grief and worry for him, Susan was also worried for herself.

Without her father, she’d be left alone with her mother. As she stood outside the door to her room, she thought of the special sort of hell that would be.

She turned back and hit her head against the door, feeling well and truly screwed.

“Trouble?”

The voice startled her. She turned and saw the man with the thinning hair and crooked tie standing to her left. Something in his demeanor put her at ease when otherwise she’d have been suspicious.

Susan saw him clearly now, the bare bulb above her door casting a brighter light than the pathetic glow in the parking lot. He looked familiar, though she was sure they’d never met.

An emotion stirred inside her then, a feeling tickling the back of her mind, but she didn’t know what to make of it. She felt oddly comfortable, friendly.

“Yeah,” she said, the hint of a laugh escaping her. “Locked out.” Susan tried turning the knob again and demonstrated the truth of what she’d said.

“I see.” He frowned and looked toward the office. “I don’t believe anyone will be back for a while. If you’d like, I can take a stab at it.” He turned back and gestured toward the door. Susan gave him a curious look.

“What, pick the lock?” She asked.

“If you’d like.” He smiled. In his face, Susan saw long, hard years, but they looked sort of good on him. He didn’t look haggard or beaten, just well-worn and world-wise. He was handsome, right down to the tie, and she wondered briefly how he smelled.

What the hell are you thinking, Susan?

She laughed a little, a nervous reaction to the blood she felt settling into her cheeks. Susan felt an odd pull of attraction that seemed both out of place and strangely familiar.

“What are you, a cat burglar?” She asked, pushing aside the feeling that had come over her.

He laughed and reached for something in his pocket as he stepped forward. She moved a little to her right, giving him room to work as she saw him pull out a small leather case and remove two thin metal tools.

She thought he smelled nice and Susan shivered a little. She felt more blood flow into her cheeks as she tried to push away the thoughts which grown more insistent. That familiarity, that attraction, that feeling of ease and comfort he inspired in her. They didn’t feel like her own emotions. Susan bit her lip.

“No, not a cat burglar,” he said.

He knelt down and started working on the door. She wondered how he could see what he was doing in the dim light. He looked up and seemed to sense her question. “It’s more about feeling than seeing.” Susan nodded.

“You do this a lot?” She asked, trying to focus on what he was doing instead of what she was feeling. He shrugged.

“Sometimes, though usually when I need to get through a locked door I’m in a hurry.”

She watched as he worked at the lock, feeling a little more secure when she saw it was taking him a while. If he’d popped it open in seconds, she’d never get to sleep that night. Not alone, anyway.

And with that thought, her mind began to wander again. She thought of his arms around her and wondered what else his deft fingers could do.

Susan! What the fuck, girl?

“What’s your name?” He asked the question without looking up. She was glad he kept his eyes on his work.

Her face felt hot and she was certain it would be cherry red if she looked in the mirror. One embarrassing, inappropriate thought led to the next, reminding her of the rude things her friend Carla usually said.

I’d like to buy a ticket for that ride.

“Huh?” She said.

“Your name?” He asked again.

“Oh, Susan.”

“I’m Jack” he said. “Can I ask what’s with the newspaper? I thought young people all used computers now.”

“Oh. I was bored, couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d do a crossword,” she said. Jack laughed and she found the sound a little contagious.

“What? Something wrong with that?” Susan asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just, I knew someone else who was like that. She did crossword puzzles when she couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, I haven’t done one in years. The mood struck me I guess,” she said. It seemed she was in the mood for all sorts of things that night.

Susan!

“I suppose it’s better than television. And on that note, I think that’s it.” She heard a click and he pushed the door open as he stood up and put away his lock picks.

“Just don’t mention this to anyone, if that’s alright. This isn’t a service I’m really supposed to provide.” Susan nodded and laughed again.

“Well, thank you very much, Jack,” she said.

Susan stepped closer to him then, stuffed the newspaper under her arm and grabbed his tie.

“Sorry. I just can’t stand this,” she said.

Jack stood there, dumbfounded as she pressed her body against his and stripped off the tie. Her fingers worked quickly, twisting and turning the fabric with practiced grace, working it into a perfect Windsor knot in a matter of seconds.

Jack reached up and touched it when she was done, a look of confusion and wonder in his eyes. She stood against him, looking up with an amused expression that was also a little inviting. He stared at her.

“Why did you…”

Susan realized what she’d just done and blushed again, her cheeks turning into stop lights as she covered her mouth and stumbled back.

“Oh my god!” Susan said. “I’m so sorry! It’s like straightening the paintings in a hotel room or something. I’m really sorry. You think I’m a nut!”

“No that’s…” Jack trailed off as he watched her. “It’s fine, really. Thanks.”

They stood there for an awkward minute, then Jack seemed to shake something off and spoke.

“It was nice, to meet you I mean, Susan,” he said. He wasn’t quite stammering, but was in the neighborhood. “Enjoy your puzzle.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile, mortified beyond description and thanked him. She went inside and closed the door quickly behind her.

In her mind, she heard Carla Morris laughing. She imagined sitting next to her friend on the old log out behind the middle school athletic field where they always hung out, passing a bottle of Bill Holterman’s bourbon between them.

Didn’t know you were into old men, Sue. He need a pill or can he still get it up on his own?

Susan covered her mouth again, trying not to laugh herself hysterical in the motel room. She’d almost kissed him, almost planted her lips on his and tickled his tongue with her own. Even with his thinning hair and messed up tie, she thought he looked just fine.

She looked down and saw the newspaper at her feet, the inner pages slipping out. She bent down and gathered it up, shaking her head as she wondered where those thoughts had even come from.

***

Jack stood still for a moment, staring at Susan’s door. He started, like he’d been slapped by an invisible hand, and walked back toward his own room.

When he opened the door, Driscoll looked up from the paper he was reading on the bed, immediately noticing something off about his friend.

“What?” Peter asked. Jack looked disheveled somehow, almost comical. Jack shook his head and crossed the room to sit down his own bed, his mind working through the encounter he’d just had.

“I’m not sure,” Jack said. “No one’s at the office right now. They’ll be back at midnight.”

“Something happen?” Driscoll was smiling. “I mean, what?”

“It’s nothing,” Jack said. “A girl I met just now. I helped her get back in her room after she’d locked herself out.”

“A girl?” Driscoll laughed and stood up, dropping the paper on the bed behind him. “Did you get her number?”

“She might have been seventeen, Peter.” Jack gave his friend a look. Driscoll laughed again.

“You know,” he said, “from the look on your face, Jack, I’d think you were having a crisis of conscience.”

Jack rolled his eyes at him as Driscoll walked over to the dresser and started looking through the remains of the Chinese food they’d ordered. He turned back to Jack after a minute. “So, what about her?”

“What?”

“This girl who might have been seventeen,” Peter said. “You seem shaken. Must’ve been something about her.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She reminded me of someone.”

Peter stood looking at him as he used a pair of chopsticks to pull cold sesame noodles from the container he’d picked up.

“She reminded me a little of Brenda,” Jack said as he felt the knot of the tie and thought of crossword puzzles.

“Ah.” Peter ate quietly for a moment. “How’d that make you feel?”

“How did what make me feel?”

“Seeing someone who reminded you of her,” Peter said between mouthfuls. “How’d that make you feel?”

Jack thought about it for a while. He’d been surprised, shocked. Of course, there were certain other thoughts thrown in the mix, thoughts he wasn’t the least bit comfortable with, but…

Brenda had been like no other girl in school, nor like any other woman he’d known since. Meeting someone else that even vaguely reminded him of her was something he’d never expected, and in some way it delighted him.

Meeting Susan had made him happy in a way, happy that someone so new in life shared something in common with his wife whose life was over. It was like a part of Brenda had lived on.

“Better,” Jack said, smiling a little. “I don’t know why, but I feel better.”

***

Samantha Devlin woke up, her face pressed against the pillow, a hand wedged between her legs. Her breathing was rough, quick; sweat poured from her body. She sat up and shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs from her mind.

“What the fuck,” she said when she realized what she’d been doing as she slept. She groaned and laughed, falling back onto the mattress. “I seriously need to get laid.”

She’d been dreaming. The details had left her immediately, but knew the dream had been intensely erotic. She remembered flashes of bare skin, the smell of sex, hands lifting her hips.

She sighed and closed her eyes hoping to find her way back to the dream. A loud series of beeps interrupted her.

“Fuck,” she whined and sat up. She fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside the bed, nearly knocking it over twice before she managed to turn it on.

Her laptop was still on, but it was the cell phone connected to it that was complaining.

“Oh come on, I thought I turned this fucking thing off.”

She hit the space bar and her laptop’s screen came up. Sam had left it connected to the internet and her phone’s battery was dead.

Sam disconnected the phone and got up to hunt for the charger she hoped she’d remembered to take with her. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found it and set her phone up to recharge on the nightstand.

“Arise!” She commanded, then turned back to her laptop.

She’d left her mail program open, which proudly proclaimed it had thirty-seven new messages for her to review. She slid the computer onto her lap as she dropped on the bed.

She was up now, and knew she’d be awake for hours. Sam looked at the clock. It was one in the morning and as her stomach growled, she wondered if any place in the area was still delivering.

Most of the email messages were from advertisers, public relations firms and other people that wanted cheap or free exposure on her site. Under normal circumstances she’d offer them a snarky reply but she wasn’t in the mood.

She sent them all to the trash and looked through the few messages which had been sent to her “tips” address. It hardly seemed worth it most of the time. Sam thought she might have gotten a grand total of two solid leads since asking people to send her information about strange occurrences or weird phenomena.

There was a sighting of Sasquatch near Seattle, two more hits about the crop circles she was avoiding, the usual crap. One message was huge. She opened it and saw someone had mailed her a dozen high resolution photos, all attached to the same message.

“Jesus, send a link next time.”

The first image looked like a scan of a missing persons bulletin from the mid-nineties. A couple, Frank Burns and his wife Cassandra, last seen August 1994. The rest were a combination of crime scene and autopsy photos.

Sam had seen her fair share of fakes, but these seemed real enough to be interesting, if not a little creepy. It looked like the photos were all of the man in the bulletin. Sam read the text of the message.

“Dear Sam, I am an employee of the Cedarford County Medical Examiner’s Office in New Hampshire…”

***

Ralph Harper had a lot of time to think as he walked. The diner and Brown’s Junk were on opposite ends of town and although Cedar Mills had a small population, its boundary encircled a large area.

He smoked, lighting cigarette after cigarette as he endured the chill air and put more miles on his boots than his feet liked.

He felt wrong.

That’s all the explanation his brain could muster. He’d heard people sometimes had dreams where they’re standing naked in a crowd. They feel helpless, confused and embarrassed all at the same time. Ralph had felt that way for months.

His memory was shot, his nerves seemed out of whack. He’d caught himself more than once just staring at the food as it cooked on the grill, watching it sizzle and burn. As he stared, he’d felt horrified, an indescribable terror flowing through his nervous system like lightning. The red flesh bubbled, browned and blackened, the smell of burning meat filled his nostrils.

He’d heard that scent and memory were closely linked, the result of some evolutionary advantage humans had picked up on their journey from fish to ape to man. Ralph didn’t know if it was true, but the smell of cooking meat tickled something in his mind. It sickened him.

Nothing made sense anymore, not even Jenny. Especially Jenny. They did things to each other that brothers and sisters weren’t supposed to do, things no one was supposed to do.

That night, as they’d done those things on the floor of the diner’s back room, he’d felt a wave of revulsion course through him. He’d almost vomited, but hung on. She’d known something was wrong, but he’d brushed it off, throwing himself into the act until they’d collapsed into a heap together.

He didn’t know if he could do it again. The thought of doing that to his sister turned his stomach inside out.

Ralph’s skull felt two sizes too small for his brain, his hands shook as he chain smoked and the world kept going in and out of focus. He was worse than ever and he hadn’t been good in a long time. Seeing Holt had shaken him, shaken something loose.

Jenny’s words. “We’ve seen worse, baby.”

What the hell did that mean? Ralph felt condemned, damned. He felt the weight of something hideous on his shoulders, but didn’t know what.

Burning meat.

He shook his head as tears filled his eyes again.

Finally, he came to the hill and walked up the dirt road leading to junk yard. The place was deserted.

Apart from the chain link fence, locked gate and an ancient mutt that had died the year before, Bob Hicks had never bothered with security. Ralph took hold of the fence and climbed up, dropping over to the other side with ease.

The lights were off, but the half-moon above let him see well enough. The front lot held several vehicles, most were totaled but a few had been government tows, cars which had been parked illegally or abandoned.

Hicks had a good racket going there, especially in the winter when the town and county officials kept him awake all night, towing cars so the snow plows could do their work.

It took Ralph nearly twenty minutes to find his car; he walked past it four times before recognizing the heap of broken glass and twisted metal. The front end was pulverized, but the rear was more or less intact. He stood staring at the wreck, willing himself to remember what it was that had brought him there.

His car. Something was important. Something he didn’t want anyone else to find.

He remembered doing something the night before. It was dark, cold. He’d been…somewhere. Outside? Ralph remembered trees, stumbling through bushes. He squeezed his eyes shut, tugging at the tattered strands of his memory.

He’d been carrying something.

He was in the woods, near the lake and he’d been carrying something. A bag? He clenched his teeth and his fists. He’d been out in the woods for hours. His muscles hurt, his hands were dirty. Ralph stumbled through the underbrush, a flashlight in his hand as he picked his way along a path, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. Something in the bag was digging into his side with every step, no matter how he adjusted it.

The images faded and he shook his head.

Ralph stared at the remains of his car for another minute, then walked toward it. He reached the trunk and saw that the latch had held but the lock was smashed. He turned and walked back to the shop.

Hicks kept the place locked but without an alarm, getting in was just a matter of smashing the glass in the door and opening it from the inside. He was a mile from anywhere but didn’t dare turn on the light. The sheriff’s men would be out in full force tonight after what had happened and Ralph didn’t need one of them passing by and noticing his visit.

He found a crowbar and went back outside. A minute later he popped the lid open and peered into his trunk.

Ralph stood and stared.

His mind shattered in the moonlight.

***

Rachel Taylor woke up at seven thirty and smiled before her eyes were even open, which surprised her. She’d never been a morning person and usually got up feeling like a blind, angry bear.

That morning, though, instead of sliding half-heartedly out of bed to stumble toward the coffee pot, she stretched, threw off her blankets and headed into the shower.

There was a certainty about her, hanging in the very air. Something amazing was going to happen. It wasn’t exactly a feeling of anticipation, but that was the best word Rachel could come up with as the hot water flowed over her body.

It was going to be the best day of her life and she didn’t know why.

Ten minutes later she was brewing a pot of coffee as she flipped through a nature magazine one of her customers had given her, feeling the good mood swell inside her.

She didn’t dwell on the feeling or try to figure out the reason behind it. Most people probably would, their rational minds working to solve the mystery. Rachel didn’t bother. Happiness was something to be welcomed, not examined.

A good mood wasn’t a puzzle which needed solving.

Rachel poured her coffee and read about Bengal tigers as she sat, enjoying each moment without worrying about the next. She was half-way through her second cup when the phone rang.

“Absolutely!” Rachel said when Jenny asked if she could come in.

The woman seemed taken aback by Rachel’s enthusiasm but didn’t question it. If she had, Rachel wouldn’t have had an answer. Going to work just felt…right. She belonged there that morning.

Why else had Jenny called her in? Part of her was aware that how she felt, what she was thinking, didn’t make any real sense. It wasn’t knowledge or reason, it was faith.

Some people believe in a divine plan, that every single event is part of a grand design. They believe so wholly in its truth that to question any part would be no different from blasphemy.

As Rachel got ready for work, she understood that belief more than anyone.

The Pine Grove Motel had hot water that wouldn’t quit and Sam took her time in the shower, washing away the sweat and road dust she’d accumulated on her walk from the garage. It was wonderful. By the time she’d had enough the skin on her back and breasts was bright red and her mood had improved.

She walked naked out of the bathroom, dripping water on the carpet as she crossed to the bed and turned up the volume on her laptop. She was on an AC/DC kick, Bon Scott’s aggressive attack in Touch Too Much was doing a good job of keeping her misery at bay.

Back in the bathroom she ran a brush through her hair, gave her figure a token swipe with a towel then threw on a pair of panties and a tee shirt. The fabric clung to her damp skin as she turned off the bathroom light and walked out.

She dropped on the bed, pulled her laptop over and tried to get it to talk to her cell phone so she could get online. The woman at the front desk had been less than truthful when she’d endorsed the reception. Sam managed to give her inbox a once-over, but accomplishing any real work would mean more frustration than she was willing to endure.

She sighed and wondered if the motel had any pay-per-view porn. Sam turned off her music and turned on the television as her phone rang.

“Hey Janie,” she answered after giving the name a quick glance.

“So, did you forget about me or what?”

“Car trouble. I only just got settled into a motel,” she said. Sam brought up the program guide with the remote control, disappointed in the offerings. “How can anyone watch soft-core crap like this?”

“What? Where are you?”

“Vermont,” Sam replied. She ran through the free channels before giving up and turning down the volume on some random comedy.

“Wait, isn’t that a little off your route?”

“Yeah. I zigged when I should have zagged.” Sam thought about her father. Before he died, that had always been his answer whenever she’d asked him how he’d met her mother. “It’s been a long day.”

“What happened?”

“Eh, some sort of early mid-life crisis, probably,” Sam said. Her stomach growled. She got up and walked over to her backpack, hunting through it in search of a snack bar she couldn’t remember eating.

“I don’t know, I just started thinking maybe my mother was right,” she said.

“Sam, don’t say shit like that.”

“It’s true. I mean, what do I do? I drive around, write crap I don’t even believe. I’m in it for the money, like a prostitute or something. I haven’t done shit with my life.”

“Is this about last night? Sam, I was drunk-“

“No. Yes. Kind of. It’s not like you were saying things I didn’t already know. I thought I wanted to change the world when I left home. Now I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“Forget it, you’ve got an awesome thing going on. Christ, I’d kill to get out of this nine-to-five crap,” Jane said.

“You don’t work nine-to-five, Janie. In fact, I’m not convinced you even have a job.”

“You know what I mean,” Jane said. “Seriously, how many people would hear what you do and not be totally jealous? You ride around the country in a classic car, investigating the supernatural. You’re like those hunks on that TV show.”

“I’m asking inbred rednecks to show me where the nasty little alien touched them. It’s all bullshit, Jane.”

Sam finally gave up on the snack bar and settled for a cigarette. She cracked open the window and flicked her ashes outside.

“It was something this morning, on the road. I don’t know what, I lost the faith or something,” Sam said.

“What are you talking about? Faith?”

Sam sighed, realizing how little she wanted to talk about what was going on in her head.

“Part of me sort of always wondered, you know,” she said. “I mean, sure, half the people I talk to are just nuts or want attention. You’d be amazed at how many places send me email, begging me to spend the night and write a story about their creepy little hotel. Advertising, you know? But some of these people…”

“What?” Jane asked.

“When you listen to some of them, they’re not crazy or looking to make a buck,” Sam said. “They’re just regular people and they’re totally sincere. The belief, I mean, it’s deep. They really believe what they’re saying.

“That sort of sane sincerity is powerful. It works on you, eats away at your skepticism. I guess a part of me always saw that as hope or something. As some sort of hint that not everything I wrote about was bullshit. Like, maybe there was some truth to some of it, somehow. Not the UFO crap, but the ‘worlds beyond our own’ paranormal stuff.”

“So maybe the crop circle stuff just isn’t right for you. Lose the UFO shit and what do you have left?”

“About half my readers,” Sam said. “Aliens are practically my bread and butter. No, I don’t even think that’s it.”

Sam was silent for a moment. She’d been friends with Jane for years, but always felt pain when she talked about certain things. Pain and fear. Fear that people like Jane would recoil away if they knew who she was and what she’d been through. Finally, she closed her eyes and spoke.

“You know, there were times when my mother got real bad. Just…horrible shit. I didn’t get religion back then or anything, but I always dreamed or hoped there was more to life. You know, more than what I was going through. It was…”

Sam stopped, the tears coming, the images. Visions of her mother and the house she’d left when she took off for college. Memories of shoving everything she owned into trash bags as her mother screamed and laughed at her, calling everything she owned garbage. Calling her garbage. She shook her head.

“I was wrong. I was driving and I realized all the shit I told myself back then was just a lie.”

“Sam, even if it was, you needed it. It kept you sane and got you out. Who gives a shit what it was that got you through it?” Jane was quiet for a moment, hearing Sam struggle with her tears. “You know, you can’t hide in Vermont forever, Sam.”

“Hey, I’m not hiding. Doris blew her radiator. And don’t pick on her! She’s a good girl and doesn’t need your abuse.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything! Well, just that I still think it’s creepy you talk to her like a real person.”

“She gets lonely. We both do,” Sam said. She wiped her eyes and took a drag of her cigarette, watching out the window as a tractor trailer drove past, the window next to her rattling.

“So what’s the plan? I mean, if you’re not doing this stuff, then what?”

“I don’t know. Probably keep doing what I’m doing anyway, ‘cause what the fuck, you know? Grow up, accept that I’m a fraud and just go with it. Bad day, like I said.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s with you and the married guy?” She asked.

Jane laughed. “No way. We’re talking about you tonight. I’m not dumping my crap on you now.”

“Shit. I was hoping you would. I need a break from my crises and yours are great comic relief.”

“Fuck you!” Jane laughed again and Sam felt a little better. “You want me to get Cheryl up and put her on for a minute? She’s usually good to brighten your mood.”

Sam checked the clock and saw it was after nine.

“Nah. Let her sleep. How’s she doing, anyway?”

“Great. She was tested last week, I told you that right?”

“Yeah, how’d that go? Do they know how to help her?”

“Apparently she’s not the one that needs help, it’s the school that does,” Jane said. Sam frowned, lighting another cigarette off the remains of the first.

“I don’t understand. You said she’s failing half her classes.”

“According to the experts, Cheryl has an IQ in the one eighty range. She’s failing because the classes are putting her to sleep.”

“Hah! I fuckin’ knew it! What’d I say, Janie?”

“Please, we both know she’s smart as hell but don’t even try to tell me you knew I was raising the next Einstein. Hey!”

“What?” Sam asked, knowing she was busted.

“You’re changing the subject! How do you even do that without me noticing?” Sam smirked.

“Sorry. It’s a habit. But you know, I think I’m good. I mean, hopeless, but still good.”

“Sometimes I just don’t know what’s wrong with you. Seriously, what are you going to do? I mean, I hear Vermont’s beautiful this time of year, but that’s going to grow old quick.”

“Already has,” Sam said.

“So what, then?”

“I still haven’t figured that out. I’m not going to Florida, I know that much anyway. Maybe I’ll do the book sooner than I thought.”

“The haunted hotel guide thing? That’d be cool,” Jane said.

“Yeah. I just feel like I got slapped in the face today. Like I lost something, perspective or whatever. I need to find it, figure it out.”

Sam tossed the cigarette out the window and dropped back onto the bed.

“Well, let me know when you find it,” Jane said. “I could use some perspective myself.”

***

Susan lay on the bed in her motel room, alternately staring at the ceiling and watching television. Mary had decided they’d stay the night in Cedarford and sprung for two rooms at a cheap dive they’d driven past on the way into town.

Her mother had driven the short distance herself, all the while telling Susan how hard her father’s accident was on her, never once asking how her daughter was holding up.

Susan was thankful they wouldn’t be in the same room that night, though she knew that arrangement was more for her mother’s benefit than her own.

Within minutes of checking in, her mother would have been on the phone to one of male friends looking for a shoulder to cry on. She’d talk about how horrible everything was, then one thing would lead to another until he got in his car and came to spend the night. Susan tried not to think about it.

Mary had gone in to see her father after he’d gotten out of surgery, telling Susan to wait in the hall. She didn’t mind, a part of her wanted nothing more than to let this whole event blow past, with her as a silent spectator.

Susan felt unreal and numb. The only break she’d had, the only time she’d felt alive at all that day, was when Larry had come to see her. The woman, Maggie, she’d given her something like it, but those stolen minutes with Larry had been the only time she’d really felt anything since Joe Simmons had knocked on her door.

Susan got up and walked to the bathroom, staring at the tub for a minute before finally turning on the water and running a hot bath. She looked at herself in the mirror, staring into blue eyes with a hint of gray, wondering what the future would bring.

Her father had made it through surgery. That he’d survived the accident at all was something everyone around her had marveled at. She was surprised none of the men her father worked with had been by yet, but then again none of them really liked him. Maybe Joe would visit tomorrow. He seemed the most likely.

Her father had always treated Joe as if he were next in line to be sheriff. It’d be Joe that came calling if anyone did, she decided. He’d check with the doctors, speak to her and her mother, leave. His visit would seem cold, official, necessary.

Joe had given her a brief look of sympathy after telling them the news, but even that felt like something that was simply supposed to happen. It was a gesture.

She turned, checked the water and got undressed. As she lowered herself into the tub, the water scalded her but she didn’t care. She let it sting. It was a feeling she could cling to.

She leaned back in the tub, working her toes on the taps to shut the water off. The ceiling in this room was the same white, rough surface she’d regarded in the other. Susan closed her eyes and felt the heat of the bath soak through her skin.

***

The woman Cedar Mills knew as Jenny Harper stood naked at the window. Her house was as dark as the night outside, the shadows concealing her from the outside world as a cool draft caressed her skin.

She was beautiful, perfect. Her long red hair was a waterfall on her bare back. It spilled down, not quite reaching that sensitive place where her buttocks began.

Not a single mark or scar showed on her pale skin. Her muscles were subtle, yet defined, their lines collecting shadows and hinting at a hidden strength even as her posture and graceful movements revealed a practiced dexterity.

She had left her brother spent in the back room of the diner and come home, peeling off layer after layer of wretched fabric the moment the door closed behind her. She hated every thread, hated anything that touched her out of necessity instead of desire.

Every moment she was denied the teasing of the air upon her body, the feel of the ground beneath her bare soles, felt like torture.

She caressed her smooth skin, letting the tips of her fingers play on her stomach as she looked out the window at nothing in particular, each touch sending a shudder through her.

Something changed.

She had felt it, felt it when the sheriff crashed his stinking machine at the diner that morning and the feeling had only grown stronger as the day progressed.

Something small, something with potential.

She didn’t know what it was, but knew it was significant. Something had disturbed the normal patterns of the town. The shift was tiny, but it was there.

The fine hair on her arms stood up. She slid the tips of her fingers over the gooseflesh and let out a quiet sigh as her thoughts turned to her brother. Her eyes took on an aura of pity and anger.

He’d been so strong in the beginning. He had saved her, held her up when she had fallen, dragged her forward when she couldn’t go on, carried her when she didn’t have strength enough to flee.

Now he had lost his strength. Now she was losing him.

Tears came to her eyes then. Hatred and sadness flooded her mind, raging demons of emotion threatening to tear out of her grip. Jenny focused on her breathing, letting the simple act hold her attention as she rode out the storm.

Her brother was the only one she had in this place. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

***

Rachel Taylor walked along the bank of the Mannitok River where it passed beneath the Island Street bridge, her black coat pulled tight around her, the cold creeping in through her leather boots. Rachel’s purple and black hair was stirred by sudden breezes which moved the air around her and gently bent the boughs of nearby trees, already beginning to drop their leaves.

Autumn had come early.

The Mannitok ran through Southwestern New Hampshire like a silver ribbon, gently curving through town after town, lingering in Cedarford just long enough to fill Hodder Lake before plunging toward the Connecticut River, joining it a few miles past Cedar Mills, the town Rachel now thought of as home.

The rough ground near the river was littered with loose rocks and riddled with dangerous holes which threatened to break the unweary ankle, yet Rachel never once stumbled or lost her footing.

She listened to the deep echo of the rushing water as she passed under the bridge, briefly losing the stars and moon above but regaining them on the other side. She turned and followed a narrow path through the goldenrods, left the river behind and walked back up to the road.

Cedar Mills had never really flourished in any visible way. Instead, it lay almost hidden, surrounded by thick woods and sheltered ponds which gave way to the occasional swamp. For the people who lived there, the town was a secret. It was a place that knew few tourists and even fewer transplants from bigger cities, facts which suited the town’s citizens just fine.

Most of those living there were descendants of the first settlers, their roots in the town reaching back to the early sixteen hundreds when John Cutler had led his flock there from England.

Somehow Rachel could sense the history around her, the long centuries filled with brief lives. She enjoyed it, especially on the walks she took after leaving the diner where she worked.

Rachel never traveled the most direct route to her apartment above the bookstore on Main Street. Instead, she preferred to explore the night, to enjoy the town when it was at its least revealing, delighting in the quiet shadows which filled the streets and yards.

She’d only lived there a few short months and yet hardly anyone treated her like an outsider. She belonged there.

Rachel’s first year at college had changed her in some way. Her roommate, Tabitha, had intrigued her. Tabby slept with stuffed animals and drew hearts on her notebook. She was the last kind of girl Rachel would fall in love with and yet she did. Despite the girl’s preppy clothes and cheerleader cheerfulness, Rachel had been drawn to her instantly.

Not that it mattered, of course. Tabby was as straight as an arrow, only ever friendly in that way which told her they’d never be more than neighbors, never even friends.

It had hurt to watch it happen.

Tabby had belonged to her church’s choir, back in whatever flyover state she’d called home. She sang to herself every day while she studied or surfed the web. They were wonderful songs even if most of them were about Jesus and salvation.

Then came a quiet night.

Rachel had found her sitting up on the bed, clutching at “Mister Huggles”, the white bear with the red heart that said “I Love You”. She wasn’t even crying, just staring, still.

Tabby did that a lot for a while. She sat, she stared, she wouldn’t speak. She hardly ever left their room.

She’d asked Rachel to hold her one night and they had laid together until dawn.

One night she asked Rachel if she loved her and quietly said “thank you” when Rachel whispered yes.

Two days later, Rachel found her on the floor, Mister Huggles laying quietly next to his only friend.

Rachel spat on a map after finals and hitched a ride out of Boston to the wet spot the next day, letting fate take her away from that room and the nightmares about a pretty girl she’d never even known yet fell in love with anyway.

She’d planned to go back in the fall, but never made it there. Instead, she’d taken the job at the diner, working for the Harpers.

Ralph gave most people in town the creeps, but she sort of liked him. He reminded Rachel of an uncle she’d heard a lot about but never met. He was sad inside, though Rachel didn’t know why, or even how she knew. Those few times she thought about it, Rachel figured he’d done something wrong. Something he regretted.

Jenny was something else, too, a woman who immediately filled Rachel’s head with all sorts of thoughts, most involving a bottle of wine and a large bed. She’d close her eyes and think of Jenny’s red hair and impossibly green eyes, behind which a secret passion burned that scared her a little when Rachel thought too much about it.

It was the customers she liked most, though. Simple people, some from town, some truckers. Most seemed happy, smiling whenever you filled their coffee mugs or cleared their plates. Every one of them felt something like family to her.

She cared about the people she waited on, wondered how their day was going or how it had been. She was happy for their good news and sad when the news wasn’t good. Before, she’d always been cynical, sarcastic, content to watch the world and the people in it like it was all some great dark comedy staged for her benefit. Here, things were different.

Cedar Mills was exactly what she’d needed, but nothing like she’d expected. She had gone looking for a place to put that room behind her. A place to forget about Tabby and Mister Huggles, the lonely bear she’d watched get boxed up by a crying mother who wouldn’t stop hugging her, and an older sister who told Rachel things that broke her heart.

She wanted a place to hide and instead found a place to live. Perhaps she’d even found someone to share it with.

Rachel watched her drink coffee every morning. She watched the young woman watch her. She knew her name was Barbara and she was married to one of Sheriff Holterman’s deputies. Rachel also knew the look in Barbara’s eyes. It reminded her of how she had looked at Tabby, her heart twisting in knots because she wanted so much to say something but was afraid to hear the answer.

Barbara had no reason to worry what Rachel’s answer might be. Rachel felt the same way. It was love at first sight, just like it had been with Tabby. Rachel wanted so desperately to hold her, but knew she had to wait. Barbara had a choice to make and she had to make it on her own.

That same, deep place within that told her Cedar Mills was home also told her to have patience. Barbara would choose her and Rachel would be there when she did.

It was amazing, really, like so many other things she’d experienced in the town. When Tabitha had stolen her heart with a single glance, it was a feeling unlike any she’d felt before.

She’d never expected to feel it again.

Rachel walked, letting her mind wander freely as she walked in long loops from the diner to her home. She felt the town’s embrace like it was an old friend welcoming her back after some long journey. It felt alive, sometimes. It felt like it had missed her.

That night she reached her building around ten and checked the mailbox before climbing the stairs and unlocking the door to her apartment. Rachel cast a quick glance at the only other door in the hallway, “2B” painted neatly upon it.

She’d never seen her neighbor but often heard them. Whoever lived there played the violin, which filled her place with haunting music nearly every night. She loved it and found it hard to sleep whenever the hidden musician chose to take an evening off.

Rachel felt some guilt at having never said hello, yet also wondered if it wasn’t better that way. The secret musician and the secret admirer.

She closed the door behind her and turned on the light. Rachel dropped her small black bag on the kitchen table and unbuttoned her coat, looking around as she kicked off her boots and stripped away the pink uniform she wore while pouring coffee and taking orders. She thought of her place as snug, a perfect fit for one, with room enough for two when the time came.

There were three rooms including the bathroom. The combination kitchen and living room, with its half-carpet, half-linoleum floor had thrown her for a loop at first, but she’d quickly grown used to it.

Her furniture was mostly handed down from friendly customers who’d offered to help get her settled in. She’d found her couch on the side of the road and was rather proud of having gotten it up the stairs by herself.

Rachel had everything she needed and some part of her was tempted to believe she always would, that she would never be want for anything in this place.

She walked into the bedroom wearing a black bra and panties, stuffed the uniform in the small laundry bag laying in the bottom of the closet and threw on a pair of flannel pajama pants. Back in the kitchen, she put a container of macaroni and cheese in the microwave and got a soda from the fridge.

Rachel thought while she waited for her dinner, wondering about her new life in Cedar Mills.

Rachel done more than run away from Tabby, she had struck out on her own. This was the real world she’d always feared a little, yet now it seemed so effortless. The rent was easy to make with the hours she got at the diner. She still didn’t have cable but had never really watched television anyway. Between her check and tips, she had more than enough money to take care of herself and still managed to put a little in the bank every week.

It was all so amazing, the ease with which her new life had come to her.

Rachel Taylor was home.

***

Barbara Arnette carried a large bag of trash outside, feeling the chill of the night air on the bare skin of her arms. She’d put her blue dress back on, the simple act of defiance both thrilling her and terrifying her.

Night duty.

Roy had left right after he’d “made love” to her and wouldn’t be back until dawn.

She opened the lid to the green trash can, the plastic monster she rolled out to the curb every Tuesday morning, and tossed in the bag. After a moment, she looked around and slowly undid the knot, opened the bag and sifted through it.

She found her white nightgown and touched it, remembering how pretty it had been. How simple, elegant and innocent it had seemed to her when she’d first seen it. She shuddered, felt her stomach begin its revolt. She turned and vomited.

It felt like her body was turning inside out, tearing itself apart. Barbara dropped to one knee and clung to the trash can like a drowning woman clings to a lifeguard.

The yard around her spun for a minute, but finally she stood, her legs shaking. She’d have to clean up the mess before Roy got home, but she still had time. She turned and stuffed the tattered white fabric back into the bag with the rest of the garbage.

Roy giveth, then he taketh away.

Barbara sprinted back into the house after closing the lid and rushed to the bathroom to scrub her hands and face. She rinsed her mouth and checked herself over in the mirror, fixing her hair before heading out into the hall. The clock said it was seven thirty. She’d have to hurry.

She grabbed her coat and purse from the kitchen and struggled to put them on as she fumbled with the back door. She locked it behind her and took off across the lawn, making her way through the darkness to the gap in the fence Roy had never gotten around to fixing. She passed through with ease and ran down the narrow bike path which ran parallel to their road.

Neighbors in a small town rarely minded their own business and Barbara didn’t want to risk one of them seeing her and mentioning her adventure to Roy.

Outside, in the crisp night air, Barbara was reminded of the prison her house had become.

It’s not a prison. It’s a lair.

The thought made her shiver, but she couldn’t deny its truth. It was a liar. The lair of Roy Arnette.

The house felt like the shadows under her bed when she was a child. It was where the Boogeyman lived, lurking among the lost socks and the dust bunnies.

Barbara thought of all those children, even then hitting the light switch and racing, diving head-first into bed as they yanked their feet away from the imagined horror waiting in the darkness beneath them.

They didn’t have to worry. He wasn’t there.

The Boogeyman slept next to her.

She pulled the tan coat around her and turned onto Park Street. There were no cars there, though she could hear a few motoring near the center of town. She dug in her purse and glanced at the watch she kept there. It was quarter to eight. Barbara quickened her pace.

As eight o’clock came, she found herself leaning against a tree, hidden in its shadow, standing in the tall grass near the turn off across from Ralph’s Diner. She was still trying to catch her breath as Rachel walked out. Barbara stood and stared, pulling back, deeper into the shadows, even as she wanted to run forward and wrap her arms around the young woman.

Rachel had changed her shoes for the walk home, black boots taking the place of the cute little white shoes that were part of the uniform she wore under her coat. Barbara watched as she turned and walked up the road toward town.

Barbara began to count.

One.

She’d first seen her seven weeks ago. Seven weeks, two days, seven hours and thirty-seven minutes. Barbara had checked her watch then, overcome by the feeling her life had changed. It was a powerful thought, fully consuming her with its certainty.

She’d checked her watch when she’d lost her virginity, checked it when she said “I do,” and checked it again the moment she’d seen Rachel Taylor walk into the diner.

Her grandfather once said that even the longest, fullest life was built upon a handful of moments and it was a sin to let any of them slip by unobserved.

This was one of them. The moment she fell in love for the first time in her life.

Two.

No one had made her feel that way, no man, no woman. It felt like being completed, like suddenly finding your way when you were lost. In that moment, Barbara was overcome by the knowledge, the absolute, undeniable knowledge that she would never be alone again.

An avalanche of hope, hunger, joy and ecstasy crushed her under its weight. She’d spilled her husband’s coffee and Roy made her pay for it when they got home.

She cried as he beat and raped her that night. Roy mistook them for tears of anguish and terror.

They were tears of joy.

Three.

It was freedom. That was the only word that made any sense. Seeing Rachel had freed her, from herself, from Roy, from everything. She didn’t know how or why, or how any of her thoughts and feelings made any goddamned sense at all.

“Barbie’s bat-shit bonkers,” she’d told herself when she plastered makeup over the fresh bruises the next morning, but she knew that wasn’t true.

Nothing in the world mattered anymore, nothing but this woman. She didn’t even know her name then, but it didn’t matter.

Four.

Barbara played detective after that, risky business with the Boogeyman around. She stayed away the first week, but then found excuses to swing by the diner to see this amazing girl who’d saved her life without even knowing it.

Barbara learned her name was Rachel easy enough, it was on her name tag. The last name was harder. She’d excused herself to the diner’s bathroom one morning, but detoured into the back. She found the girl’s coat and went through its pockets.

An old pay stub became Barbara’s first treasure.

Five.

Rachel Taylor. Barbara read the name and smelled the paper over and over again. She kept the stub hidden in the pantry, among the other items in her private little collection.

The pay stub was a monument, a Rosetta Stone, the key to unveiling multitude mysteries. Rachel had written her schedule on the back and Barbara could see from the one hung up at the diner that it never changed.

Six.

A week later Roy pulled night duty and Barbara went on her first stakeout. Rachel’s shift ended at eight on Fridays and Barbara was there. The girl walked out wearing the thin black coat which came down to her knees and the black leather boots that almost seemed too heavy.

Barbara wondered what she’d look like wearing nothing else and didn’t even blush at the thought.

She had no plan, no idea what to do. She wanted to see this girl, watch her, learn where she lived, but more than anything she wanted to speak to her, hold her, feel this girl’s body against her own.

They hadn’t exchanged a single word and it was maddening, yet Barbara felt powerless to change it. There was a wall between them disguised as a hundred feet of thin air.

Seven.

Barbara had followed her on foot, every minute rattling her nerves more and more. At first it was easy, then Rachel took a turn and headed up Gifford Hill Road.

Twenty minutes later another turn came, this one down Harper’s End where no one but kids went at night, and even then only on a dare.

A single thought played on a loop in Barbara’s mind: She knows I’m following her.

She’d been so careful but all she had to go on were old detective movies. What did she know about tailing someone? She might as well have held up a sign reading “BAT-SHIT BARBIE’S STALKING SERVICE” for all the skill she possessed.

And yet she realized that wasn’t it. Rachel didn’t see her or sense her at all. She was just walking, touring the night. The sounds, the quiet, the shadows looming among the trees and houses.

Rachel saw something in the town at night that no one else did.

She saw beauty.

Eight.

Barbara saw a piece of it herself, that night and the ones that followed. Those night walks through Cedar Mills became a silent, secret passion and Barbara snuck away every night she could.

At first she only went when Roy had the night duty, but soon she couldn’t stand to miss a single moment and risked going out even when the Boogeyman was home. She’d put beer after beer in Roy’s hand.

“Can I get you another, Roy?”

She’d fill his gut, be his whore, do anything to distract him until he passed out and she could leave.

Nine.

Their walks were like making love, really making love. It was something else Barbara hadn’t felt before.

That first night they finished at the bookstore and Barbara learned then where Rachel lived. She watched her unlock the door and walk up the stairs.

Somewhere close, Barbara had heard a violin playing.

Ten.

Barbara crept out from behind the tree and followed Rachel as she walked up the road, wondering what secret place they’d share that night.