“What in the name of ancient Britain is she doing?” I mutter, watching Nettie duck under the rope barriers with surprising agility and absolutely zero shame.
“I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF THEY WERE HOLLOW!” she shouts over her shoulder at the pursuing guards, her heart-shaped sunglasses askew and her pink beret flying off her head like a textile flamingo taking flight.
Tourists scatter like startled sheep while Nettie plays an impromptu game of ring-around-the-prehistoric-monument. One security guard speaks rapidly into his radio while another tries to cut her off at the heel stone with all the success of a fisherman trying to catch lightning. A group of tourists starts taking photos as if this is part of the scheduled entertainment, which honestly, it probably should be.
Bess charges after her friend with the fury of a bestie who’s spent decades cleaning up Nettie-related disasters and has the insurance claims to prove it. “Nettie Butterworth, you get back here this instant before you bring down five thousand years of history and get us all banned from England!”
“Or the planet,” I mutter.
“She’s really quite spry for someone her age,” Richard observes with ghostly admiration. “I’m actually impressed. Most people herage couldn’t outrun a mall security guard, let alone professionals at a World Heritage Site.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” I plead. “She’s already convinced she’s invincible after surviving umpteen marriages.”
Wes appears at my side, his captain’s authority looking slightly less effective on dry land. “Should I be concerned that our friends are about to become the first people ever to be banned from Stonehenge?”
“I’m more concerned they’ll accidentally solve the mystery of how the stones got here by knocking them all down,” I reply, watching Nettie execute what can only be described as an eighty-year-old’s version of running an obstacle course—very slowly but with enough hip-shattering implications to warrant the arch of my brow.
Ransom materializes like a security-trained superhero, striding across the grass with the confidence of an ex-FBI agent who’s dealt with international incidents less complicated than this. Although, somehow, I doubt that. He approaches the lead security guard, flashes his credentials, and within minutes has transformed chaos into something resembling order—or at least organized chaos with proper documentation.
“Your husband is remarkably efficient,” Richard observes. “Does he moonlight as a miracle worker, or is this just standard security training?”
“Standard Ransom,” I reply proudly. “The man could probably negotiate peace treaties over breakfast and solve world hunger by lunch.” Among other, much more exciting things that involve the lower half of my body. I turn back to Richard, who’s watching the spectacle with ghostly amusement. “I’m so sorry you had such a rough time in your marriage. What do you think happened to cause her personality to change so drastically?”
His entire countenance turns bright red—an impressive feat for someone who’s technically dead. The temperature around us drops ten degrees, and I swear the ancient stones seem to lean in closer as if they’re eavesdropping on our supernatural conversation.
“I don’t know,” he says, but his dark tone suggests he knows more than he’s saying and possibly more than he wants toremember. “Jazz might, but I’m in the dark. She and Jazz worked on a special project together for years—some kind of research that consumed both of them completely. And the unthinkable happened.”
I offer him a mournful look, preparing to tread carefully on what’s obviously painful ground and possibly unstable ghostly emotions. “You couldn’t take it anymore, and you ended things for yourself?”
He shakes his head, and when he looks at me, his kind eyes have turned hard as the stones surrounding us and twice as cold. “She killed me.”
And just like that, he disappears in a vat of shimmering red stars—every last one of those stellar fragments pulsing with rage and possibly supernatural indignation.
My mouth falls open as I try to process what I’ve just heard.
“NETTIE!” someone shouts at the top of their lungs.
I turn that way and gasp.
The scream that follows isn’t from Bess this time—it’s from the tour guide who’s just realized one of her charges has managed to wedge herself between two trilithons like a gray-haired cork in a prehistoric bottle.
“How did she even GET in there?” Wes asks, staring at the spectacle with the expression that says he’s reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
“Nettie has a gift,” Bess pants, having finally caught up to the action and looking thoroughly winded. “She can find her way into places that shouldn’t be physically possible to access. It’s both impressive and terrifying.”
“Should we call the fire department?” asks a concerned German tourist with more sense than the rest of us combined.
“I’ve got this!” Nettie’s voice echoes from between the ancient stones, sounding remarkably cheerful for someone who’s basically become part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site. “This is actually quite comfortable! The druids really knew what they were doing with ergonomic design!”
“Ergonomic design?” I repeat weakly. “She’s treating Stonehenge as an ancient furniture showroom.”
“Someone get her out of there before she decides to redecorate,”Bess pleads with the security guards, who are now speaking into multiple radios and possibly calling for backup from London.
But before any of us can figure out how to extract an octogenarian from between prehistoric stones, Nettie’s voice rings out across the ancient monument one more time. “I REGRET NOTHING! This view is spectacular! It’s like getting a big stony hug! You should all try this!”
“Please don’t,” the tour guide begs, obviously envisioning a thirty-tourists-wedged-between-ancient-stones tour group sandwich of archaeological disasters.
And honestly, looking at the chaos we’ve just unleashed on one of humanity’s greatest mysteries, I’m starting to think Nettie’s got the right idea about regretting nothing—because when you’re dealing with murdered husbands, wife killers, and elderly friends who treat World Heritage Sites like playground equipment, regret is a luxury none of us can afford.
