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Chapter One

By six-thirty, the temperature had dropped eight degrees, somebody had spilled half a gallon of cider beside the pumpkin-picking checkout, and the line outside the Widow’s Cellar had backed up far enough to interfere with guests entering the next corn corridor.

In other words, Thursday night at Hollowfield Farm was going beautifully.

I pressed the button on my radio as I cut between two rows of cornstalks, my work boots sinking slightly into damp earth. “Clinton, can you send one more person to the Cellar exit? We need to clear each group faster before the next cue.”

“Already moving someone,” he answered.

That was one problem handled before I reached it. I could have kissed him.

Instead, I tugged my utility jacket tighter over my thermal and stepped aside for a family following the amber path lights toward the next scare. The youngest kid clutched a caramel apple in both hands while his older sister insisted, much too loudly, that she hadn’t screamed inside the last room.

A shriek erupted behind them.

The sister jumped.

I smiled and kept walking.

Dry corn leaves scraped together overhead, mingling with radio chatter, distant laughter, and the occasional mechanical clank from one of the enclosed sets. Wood smoke drifted from the public area, carrying cinnamon and hot cider with it. Somewhere beyond the attraction, Hollowfield was still a working farm with acres of vegetables, equipment sheds, and pumpkin fields.

When I was little, Aunt Laurie and Aunt Pamela had brought me here to choose pumpkins.

Now my company name was printed across the staff credential hanging from my neck.

Sybil’s Signature Events.

Two years ago, I’d come home from New York determined to prove that leaving the city wasn’t the same thing as failing.

Hollowfield was the biggest contract I’d landed since.

And if I got this weekend right, it wouldn’t be the last.

I rounded the next bend and heard an angry male voice carrying through the corn.

So much for beautifully.

The raised voice belonged to Justin McMullen, which was unusual enough to make me speed up.

Justin spent most nights moving through Hollowfield with the calm patience of a man who understood that people paid us to scare them, not send them home with actual injuries. He could tell a performer to stop swinging an axe prop too close to someone’s head in the same tone another person might use to ask for the salt.

Tonight, there was nothing mild about him.

The corn corridor opened onto one of the smaller enclosed sets, a crooked farmhouse kitchen we called the Harvest Table. Orange light flickered behind grimy windowpanes. Bundles of dried herbs hung from ceiling beams, and fake butcher paper covered the long table beneath an assortment of rubber vegetables and very convincing imitation body parts.

Troy Jennings stood just outside the performer entrance, still wearing the stained canvas apron from his scare costume. His wavy hair was damp at the temples from hours beneath the low set lights, and the easy grin he usually wore for staff had disappeared.

Justin pointed toward the marked strip of floor inside the doorway. “That tape is your limit for a reason. The guest backed into the wall hard enough to knock the lantern bracket loose.”

“He backed up because he got scared,” Troy said, but his tone had lost most of its earlier heat by the time I reached them. “Nobody touched him.”

Justin glanced at me before returning his attention to Troy. “We don’t wait until somebody gets hurt before deciding a cue was too aggressive.”

The wall bracket behind them hung slightly crooked.

That settled the question for me.

I walked inside and tested the lantern fixture with both hands. It had shifted against the plywood backing, not enough to fall, but enough that another hard impact could loosen it further. The room smelled of damp lumber, theatrical fog, and the cinnamon oil we used near the entrance to make the first few seconds feel almost welcoming.