I shake my head behind the glass. Coward to the last. A man who’d hide behind a child, now hiding behind his employers.

  Marquez mutters beside me, “He’s already hung himself. We’ll squeeze what we can out of him. But Fran?” She jerks her chin toward the next room. “Fran’s the one I want.”

  I nod. “Then let’s see how the spider spins her web.”

  ***

  The Santa Cruz sweep hits the news by morning…

  Kids freed, traffickers cuffed, Sanchez wearing his best “don’t quote me” scowl for the cameras.

  Meanwhile, the old lady behind the one-way glass could have been anyone’s grandmother.

  Fran sits at the metal table in her own interrogation room, hands folded like she’s waiting for tea service. She looks smaller than I remember, though her eyes are as sharp as ever.

  Harold’s in another room down the hall, Eddie in yet another. I’m told neither of the men are holding up as well as Fran.

  Good enough.

  Detective Marquez stands on the other side of the glass with me. She’s got her arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes fixed on Fran like she’s memorizing every twitch.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  “Been ready,” I say.

  We watch as a younger detective enters the room and sets down a recorder. He’s calm, steady, all business.

  “Fran,” he says, “you know why you’re here.”

  She tilts her head. “Because you lot don’t appreciate good hospitality.”

  He doesn’t bite. “Because three children were found in hidden rooms in your inn. Because witnesses place you pouring poisoned wine for Andrea Clemmons less than twenty-four hours before her death. And because Eddie Owens and Dorian Finche have already started talk—”

  She cuts him off with a sharp sniff. “Finche? Pathetic. That man couldn’t run a lemonade stand. Eddie, maybe. Harold, definitely. But me?” Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile. More like a crack in the plaster. She taps her chest with one finger. “I made it work. The inn was mine.”

  “They say you orchestrated everything. That you brought kids in, that Harold kept the registry clean, that you used the inn as a front for trafficking.”

  Fran leans back, folding her arms. “Front’s the wrong word. The inn was the thing. A nice little machine. Tourists come and go, no one asks questions. You give people sunsets and wine tastings, and they don’t look at what’s happening in the walls… or in the basement.”

  Cindy’s hand finds mine where we’re standing behind the glass. She squeezes hard. We’d just been inside those walls. In that basement. We’d seen the secret rooms. And now, detail by detail, the whole picture was beginning to bleed through.

  “She’s evil,” whispers Cindy.

  The detective in the room doesn’t flinch. “How long has this been going on, Fran?”

  She exhales, almost bored. “Started not long after Harold and I bought the place. Twenty years, give or take. We had… connections. People who needed privacy. We had the rooms. Eddie and Harold built the crawlways. Everybody made money.”

  “And the children?”

  Her eyes flicker, but only for a second. “Collateral damage. Every business has its costs. We all have issues. So we gave the kids some issues to deal with, big deal.”

  Cindy’s grip on my hand tightens until it hurts. My jaw does the same. Collateral damage. That’s how you talk about potholes, not kids.

  “Issues,” mutters Cindy. “I want to hurt her.”

  I don’t let go of her hand. Probably best to not let her fly off the handle.

  The detective’s voice stays steady. “And Andrea Clemmons?”

  “Claire Holt,” Fran corrects him. “That was her name when she came back. She thought she was clever, nosing around. Asking questions about her sister. She should’ve stayed gone.”

  “She believed her sister’s death was suspicious.”

  Fran shrugs. “It was. Harold took care of it. Stairs can be very punishing if you push just right.”

  My stomach knots, but I don’t look away.

  “And Andrea?” the detective presses.

  Fran’s mouth curls. “She ran her mouth. Saw too much, talked to the wrong people. Took that little girl’s hand like she was going to save her. Idiot move. I gave her a glass of wine. Simple. Clean. My mistake was letting her stay long enough to get bold.” She leans forward, voice dropping to a hiss. “Nobody’s the hero. Not even you, Knighthorse.”

  She turns her head, eyes fixing on me through the two-way mirror. No hesitation, no searching. Just finding me.

  And in that moment, I realize she shouldn’t be able to. Not unless something darker than eyesight was guiding her. How she locked onto me might’ve been nothing. Or it might’ve been proof of the evil that possessed her.

  Marquez mutters under her breath beside me. “Jesus.”

  The detective doesn’t move. “Then you admit to killing Andrea Clemmons?”

  Fran sits back, smooths her skirt. “I admit to pouring a drink only.”

  The detective doesn’t push further. He doesn’t have to. The tape is rolling.

  Beside me, Cindy whispers, “She’s not even sorry.”

  “Nope,” I say, voice low. “She’s proud.”

  And for the first time since this case started, I realize something: Fran never saw herself as a kindly innkeeper or even a cover-up criminal. She saw herself as part of the evil machine. Necessary, perhaps even useful. The world’s rot in an apron and pearls.

  The detective ends the session. Fran folds her hands again, waiting, like she’s the one in control.

  But I see it in her eyes when the door opens. A flicker. She knows it’s over.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Two days later, the world looks different.

  Or maybe it’s just me, standing on Cannery Row with Cindy’s hand tucked into mine. The ocean slaps against the rocks below, and the smell of salt and fried calamari mingles in the air.

  Cannery Row hugs the shoreline like a scar. Once upon a time, this stretch was all sardine canneries: noisy, greasy factories stacked right on top of the bay. Men hauled the catch in by the ton, women packed the tins, and the whole place reeked of fish guts and sweat. Steinbeck called it a poem. I call it good PR.

  Now the canneries are boutiques selling saltwater taffy and overpriced hoodies, and tourists wander where the sardines used to die. But if you squint past the neon and the gift shops, you can still hear the ghosts of the workers, the gulls fighting for scraps, and the rattle of conveyor belts that never stopped.

  The famous aquarium looms ahead, all glass and steel and promise of something gentler than crawlspaces, poisoned wine, and innocence lost. Cindy’s already pointing out the sea otter exhibit like she’s ten years old again. Her laugh is lighter, freer, and I realize just how much she needs this, and I need to hear it.

  She tries, but she’s not built for detective work. Not the seedier side, anyway.

  “You’re smiling,” she says, glancing at me with one of her own.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “Ruins my reputation.”

  She rolls her eyes, but her fingers squeeze mine; meanwhile, the brass plaques along the row commemorate Steinbeck’s words, etched into history. I pause at one, read it under my breath:

  “Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light…”

  Cindy tilts her head. “Fits, doesn’t it?”

  “Like a glove,” I say. Then add, “Or brass knuckles dipped in poetry.”

  “Geez, you can get dark.”

  “We just broke up a ring of child traffickers. Doesn’t get much darker than that.”

  Actually, it can. It always can. But she doesn’t need to know that. Not today.

  We keep walking. For now, no shadows trail us, and no voices whisper from crawlways. Just gulls wheeling overhead and the sound of Cindy humming beside me.

  “You still owe me a vacation,” she says suddenly.

  I grin. “This isn’t it?”

  She gives me the look, the kind that can shut me up faster than any punch.

  “All right,” I say, hands raised. “Soon. Just you, me, and maybe a beach chair or two.”

  “Promise?”

  “On Steinbeck’s ghost.”

  She laughs, leans in, kisses me quick. And for the first time in days, I believe in the promise of something normal.

  The ocean keeps crashing, relentless and eternal.

  We walk on.

  ***

  Back in our room, the noise of The Row still ringing in my ears, I dig the envelope out of my jacket pocket. Cindy’s already half-asleep, curled on the bed with a soft smile.

  Me? I’ve got one more ghost to sit with.

  So I unfold her letter again. Claire’s words blur, then sharpen. I read the letter twice. Then a third time. She came here looking for her sister and found the truth. But it cost her everything.

  The room is quiet, save for Cindy’s steady breathing. Outside, the waves pound the cliffs, same as they always have.

  I fold the letter carefully and slide it back into its envelope. Tuck it into my notebook where it’ll stay for now.

  Claire Clemmons didn’t die for nothing.

  “You can rest now,” I tell her. “You and your sister.”

  A part of me wishes I could feel them, wishes I could see them off, but I’m not exactly a medium psychic. Of course, I do know someone who puts psychics to shame...

  Hmm...

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The sea never really shuts up.

  Even here, hours after everything went down in Santa Cruz, I can still hear it pounding in my ears. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s something calling me.

  Or not.

  But yeah, I do find myself thinking of Jack.

  Cindy’s curled up in the bed of our Airbnb, hair fanned across the pillow, her breathing soft and even. The case is over, or as over as it ever gets. Fran and Harold are in cuffs. Eddie’s cooling in a cell. The cops are sorting through enough evidence to keep them busy for months. Somewhere in the middle of it all, two sisters are hopefully at rest.

  So, why am I still awake?

  I stare at the ceiling of the inn, counting cracks. The night feels heavy, like the split pea soup in my stomach. A tug works its way into my chest. Not a voice, not a dream. Just a pull. Like someone out there is waiting for me.

  And I think I know who that someone is...

  I slip out of bed, careful not to wake Cindy. She deserves rest. Hell, she deserves a week in Cabo and a margarita the size of her head. But me? I lace up my sneakers, grab my coat, and step into the mist.

  I walk quickly, head down, hands tucked deep in my jacket. I shiver slightly, a forlorn figure in the middle of the night.

  The gulls are silent, and the streets are empty. For a moment, I wonder if I’m the only one alive in Monterey. Then neon light bleeds through the mist: a pair of golden arches, glowing faint and soft like a lighthouse for lost souls.

  McDonald’s, of course. I don’t question it. I just go in. Truth was, I hadn’t known it was so close to our pad.

  Inside, it smells like fryer grease and old coffee. A few travelers hunch over trays, eyes glazed from too many miles on the Coast Highway. The staff work like ghosts behind the counter. It’s late, or maybe early, depending on how you look at it.

  There he is, in a corner booth. The creator of the known universe.

  Or a crazy man who’s following me up from Orange County.

  Mr. Jack.

  Steam rises from his cuppa. It catches the fluorescent light. He looks over at me like he’s been expecting me all night.

  I slide into the seat across from him. “McDonald’s, huh? A heckuva place for a sermon.”

  Jack smiles the kind of smile that knows more than it says. “Coffee’s good. Cheap, too. Good fries, I hear.”

  I get the hint. I’m up and order a cuppa for myself, and fries for Jack. And, what the hell... a 10-piece nugget for me with spicy hot mustard, of course.

  Soon, we’re sitting in silence. I sip, burn my tongue, and don’t complain. Jack watches me the way you’d watch a man still figuring out he’s carrying more than just his own weight.

  “You did good, Jim,” he says finally.

  I grunt. “Not good enough. The sisters are still dead.”

  Jack nods slowly, as if weighing my words. “Death isn’t the same as being forgotten. You gave them something tonight. A voice. A chance to be heard.”

  I set the cup down harder than I mean to. “Doesn’t bring them back.”

  “No,” Jack says softly. “But it brings them peace.”

  Something stirs in the corner of my vision. The air shifts, warm and light, like a summer breeze inside a sterile restaurant. I freeze. Jack’s eyes aren’t on me anymore; they’re just over my shoulder.

  “They’re here, Jim,” he whispers. “Both of them. Together. They’re holding hands like they did when they were little girls.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end. For a second, I hear it: faint, like windchimes carried from another world. A laugh, high and bright. Then another, softer, overlapping. The sound of sisters.

  “They want to thank you,” Jack says.

  I don’t turn. I don’t need to. My chest tightens, and for once, I don’t have a smart remark to throw back. Or even a dumb one.

  The air cools again, and the laughter fades, though it lingers in my bones, the way the ocean lingers long after you leave the shore.

  Jack sips his coffee, eyes still on me. “Justice isn’t always about convictions. Sometimes it’s about standing up to evil and saying, not today.”

  I rub my jaw, stare down into the black swirl of my coffee. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

  “It never does,” Jack replies. “But it keeps you going.”

  I shake my head, smirk despite myself. “You always talk like a fortune cookie.”

  He grins. “Maybe. You’re doing the Lord’s work, Jim. You’re one of His avenging angels. Did you know that?”

  I shrug. “Figured there’s a reason why I’m bigger than most... and tougher, too.”

  He chuckles. “Yes, you’ve been blessed with a particular skill set, that’s for certain.”

  We fall into silence again. The hum of the fryers on the frits fills the restaurant. For a moment, I think I see movement outside the fogged-up windows: two shadows standing hand in hand. They immediately fade into the mist.

  When I glance at Jack, his smile has softened into something almost sad. “That was them.”

  “Can you tell them goodbye for me.”

  “Just did. They are saying hello to their grandparents as we speak. And Jim?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not done yet.”

  I snort. “Story of my life.”

  I glance down at my coffee, steam curling in the fluorescent light. I inhale and exhale, and when I look up again, the booth across from me is empty. Jack is gone, and so is his cup of coffee. Only a faint circle of weird condensation remains in the air, slowly fading, like he’d never been there at all.

  What is God’s name?

  Yessss, I hear in my head. Jack is my name...

  God’s name indeed.

  ***

  The arches glow behind me as I step back into the night. The air is cold, but lighter somehow, like a weight has shifted off my shoulders. I walk slow, letting the cold curl around me, listening to the ocean crash against the shore behind me.

  Back at the Airbnb, Cindy is still asleep, her face peaceful in the glow of the bedside lamp. I sit on the edge of the bed, take off my shoes, and finally let the exhaustion take over me.

  Tomorrow we drive home. There will be another case waiting for me.

  “I’m not done,” I whisper. “Not by a long shot...”

  The End

  Knighthorse will return in:

  Night Watch

  A Jim Knighthorse Story

  by J.R. Rain

  Coming soon!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK

  ~~~~~

  More from the world of Jim Knighthorse:

  Easy Rider

  A Jim Knighthorse Short Story

  by J.R. Rain

  Available now!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Audio

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Also available:

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  A mystery novel

  by J.R. Rain

  Over three decades ago, Elvis faked his death.

  Now he’s living secretly in Los Angeles....

  And working as a private investigator.

  A missing person case might just be the King’s final bow.

  Available now!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK

  Paperback * Audio

  ~~~~~

  Silent Echo

  A mystery novel

  by J.R. Rain

  Not much could drag Jim Booker out of a peaceful, if lonely, retirement and back to late nights, crime scenes, and chases. Jim Booker is done with detective work and would just like to enjoy a cup of coffee on a sunny day. But when an old friend shows up with a case about an old flame, Booker can’t say no.

  What starts as a missing persons case soon delivers more than he bargained for, and when Booker’s own past offers clues, it’s clear that no one else can solve this mystery. But there’s a catch: Booker was given six months to live eight months ago.

  Available now!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK

  Paperback * Audio

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Also available:

  Fountain of Lies

  An Agent Lindsey Aeon FBI Thriller

  by J.R. Rain

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  They’re waiting for us.

  But first, the fog rolls in thick and slow, masking the dark waters of the Los Angeles Harbor as I pull up in my unmarked SUV. I check the address again; indeed, this is the drop-off point the informant had given me. Or very near it. The warehouses lining the docks loom like shadowy giants, their silhouettes jagged and foreboding in the moonlight.