“Gotta pay the bills somehow,” I counter. She doesn’t need to know I’d rather starve than live off the Sterling family fortune.
Her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I…I understand what that’s like. I really do.”
A needle of guilt pokes into my chest. I can afford to take time off. She probably can’t. “Is that why you’re here chasing ghost stories?” I can’t help asking. “To pay the bills?”
“Well, yes. I guess so. The newspaper I worked for folded and I…don’t know. I took this idea and ran with it.” Her lips curl into a soft smile. “Combining my favorite things, travel and investigating stories.”
What would that be like, to actually leave Crowsbridge Hollow? “Sounds nice.”
“I know you think I’m just some airhead, rolling into town to take selfies for Internet clout but?—”
“I don’t think you’re an airhead.”
She tilts her head. “Just an opportunist, then?”
“Not exactly.” I glance at my shop again. No one’s lined up outside yet, but my first appointment should be here soon. “Stay out of the cemetery tonight, okay?”
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue.
“Chase the horse.” I cut her off. “Or the orbs. Investigate anything but the Widow.”
She hugs her notebook to her chest. Guilt flickers across her face, then she frowns. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
That’s as good as ano, coming from her.
She whirls around and stalks away from me, heading toward the Tarot shop. Slowly she disappears into the fog, and I have the urge to chase after her. Make sure she’s safe.
It’s daytime. She’s fine.
Hey, maybe she’ll take my advice.
Doubtful.
I hope she’ll reconsider and dig into those harmless stories until she gets bored and leaves town. She must have better things to do than hang around here, right?
But as much as I want to deny it, the truth crawls under my skin, hard to ignore. A foolish part of me wants her to stay.
CHAPTER TEN
Emery
My library researchshould’ve been enough. I found what I came for. A long history of people dying and disappearing. A specific pattern of young women disappearing every twenty years, dating back to at least the 1920s. All the town’s skeletons spilling out of the closet. Exactly what I came for.
Instead, I let Declan’s obvious attempt to distract me with ghost horses and Tarot readings eat up a large chunk of my day. Sure, the farmer was thrilled to answer my questions and try to sell me on picking a basket of apples for sixty dollars. The psychic at the Tarot shop did a reading that consisted of lots of swords, a tower, and a grim little card calledDeath. She swore it wasn’t literal, just “transformation.” Right. Because ominous metaphors are so much more comforting.
At least she allowed me to take pictures of her shop so I could search for the “orbs”—for an extra twenty bucks.
The story I should be chasing—the Widow, the cemetery, Declan dragging me out of the fog—I’ve been avoiding.
Why couldn’t I pluck up the courage to ask about his sister this morning? That’s what a good investigative journalist would’ve done. Not let feelings get in the way.
Feelings?
Okay, I’ve never been attracted to an interview subject before. Was this covered in my Ethics and Media class? Probably not this exact scenario but I already know the answer.
Don’t get involved.
Stay neutral.
