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Chapter One

By the time my dark-blue SUV rolled beneath the wooden WELCOME TO MAPLE LANE FALLS sign late Thursday morning, the thermometer on the dashboard read fifty-three degrees and a chilly wind was chasing clouds across a pale October sky.

I lowered my window anyway.

Cold air rushed inside carrying the faint smell of wood smoke, and my curls immediately began plotting against me. I laughed and pushed the window back up before the breeze could turn the long drive from Chicago into a full-scale hair emergency.

Maple Lane Falls looked exactly like the kind of town that understood October. Old brick storefronts lined Maple Lane beneath trees burning orange, copper, and gold. Black-and-orange bunting hung from lampposts, shop windows advertised cider and costume contests, and workers were already hauling folding tables and wooden signs toward the municipal park where Fall Fest would open the next day.

For six weeks, I had known this town through photographs, maps, spreadsheets, vendor lists, reviews, and video clips.

Seeing it made the assignment feel real.

So did the knowledge that Janine Pomeroy, my demanding but fair boss at Lakefront Event Group, had trusted me with it because I had asked for the chance. I was still a junior event producer at the Chicago firm, and turning around a troubled small-town festival attraction was exactly the kind of assignment that could prove I was ready to lose the junior.

The furnished cottage Lakefront had rented sat a few minutes outside downtown on a quiet road bordered by mature trees. I parked beneath an oak shedding leaves across the gravel drive, tugged my warm tan coat closed over my sage-green sweater, and carried my suitcase, laptop bag, and overstuffed work tote inside.

The cottage was small but comfortable, with cream walls, polished wood floors, a deep green sofa, and enough plaid pillows to survive a minor lumberjack convention. I hung my floral scarf and coat by the door, kicked off my ankle boots, and spent the next half hour making the place mine.

Clothes went into drawers instead of remaining in my suitcase. Toiletries claimed the bathroom counter. I plugged in my laptop and phone, then spread my notebooks, printed layouts, performer schedules, vendor contacts, and heavily annotated plans for Factory of Screams across the little dining table.

Factory of Screams was Maple Lane Falls’ haunted-house attraction and one of the biggest draws during Fall Fest. It had also spent the past several years earning worsening reviews, which was why I was here.

By the time I shrugged back into my coat and headed for the festival grounds, I felt settled enough to work and restless enough to prove I belonged here.

The municipal park was already humming when I arrived. Food trucks backed into assigned spaces while workers raised canvas booths along the paved paths, and the steady thump of hammers carried above the wind.

Tomorrow, Fall Fest opened.

Tonight, I needed to know whether the haunted house I had come to save was actually ready for it.

Factory of Screams occupied a long exhibition building near the far side of the park, beyond a broad lawn that was rapidly disappearing beneath vendor tents, temporary fencing, stacks of hay bales, and wooden crates of pumpkins. The building had corrugated metal siding painted a tired charcoal gray and a deep overhang across the front. Temporary black drapes covered the entrance beneath a large FACTORY OF SCREAMS sign whose red lettering had faded toward pink around the edges.

A crew member balanced on a ladder to my left, trying to fasten a strand of orange lights beneath the eaves while the wind kept slapping it against his shoulder.

“You need another set of clips,” a woman called from somewhere behind me. “Those are rated for indoor use, and I’m not explaining to the insurance carrier why our decorative lighting became airborne.”

I turned.

Lisa LeBlanc was crossing the grass toward me with the purposeful stride of someone who had already solved fourteen problems before lunch and expected number fifteen at any moment. She looked to be in her forties, with medium-brown skin, rectangular glasses, and long brown hair heavily streaked with gray and silver. The whole mass had been pulled into a loose braid that hung between her shoulder blades, although the wind had freed wisps around her face.

Her navy Parks and Recreation fleece was zipped to her chin. A radio hung from one side of her waist and a ring of keys from the other, and she carried a clipboard beneath one arm while holding her phone in the opposite hand.

“You must be Goldie Graham. I’m Lisa LeBlanc.” She shook my hand, then glanced toward a pickup trying to nose into a lane already blocked by hay bales. “I’d give you a proper welcome, but the day before Fall Fest is when everyone remembers the one thing they forgot to order, reserve, plug in, or bolt down. I’ve already relocated a cider vendor twice, found a missing tent, and explained to three different people that a fire lane is not optional.”

“Then I’m arriving at exactly the right time. I was worried everything might be running smoothly.”

Lisa laughed, but the sound faded as she looked toward Factory of Screams. “The rest of the park I can manage. The Factory is why I’ve been watching for your car. The crew is working hard, but some of the specialty effects are in much worse shape than the latest reports made them sound. A couple deteriorated fast this week, and some were never as close to finished as I was led to believe. I’d rather walk you through it than give you a disaster speech in the parking lot.”

Her radio crackled before we could move. She listened to a question about the second handwashing station and gave the location, then added, “And please put it where it’s marked on the setup map this time. The health inspector doesn’t care that somebody thought the original spot was ugly.”

She clipped the radio back onto her belt and sighed. “Welcome to Maple Lane Falls.”

“I already feel at home.”

“Give it another hour.”

Lisa pushed open one of the heavy doors.