And nestled between a candle shop and an organic dog bakery is the place I’m looking for: The Sand Dollar Club. The sign above the door is local driftwood with inlaid seashells. The window display is a nightmare of mermaid dolls, each one stranger than the last, their painted smiles just a little too wide.

  I’ve got a detective friend up in Seattle, name of Alexis Silver. Needed her help on a case that went sideways. She mentioned mermaids an awful lot. Had me wondering. With her long black hair and magnetic eyes, she could’ve been one herself.

  So I did a little snooping. Turns out Seattle has a higher-than-average number of mermaid sightings.

  Alexis Silver… is that you?

  Anyway, I step inside.

  Inside is the kind of smooth, pastel-toned coastal vibes people buy into when they’re trying to forget that their desk job is killing them. Chimes tinkle overhead. The place smells like sunscreen and lemon verbena. A woman behind the counter looks up. She’s somewhere between thirty and ageless (a mermaid herself?) with seafoam-green glasses and a tan that either came from decades of surfing or one very expensive weekend in Cabo.

  I note the handful of beach-glass jewelry displays.

  Hold me back.

  “Hiya,” she says brightly. “Welcome to The Club. Everything you see is locally sourced, ethically harvested, and infused with positive intention.”

  I look around. “That doesn’t explain the angry dolphin statue,” I say, pointing to just that.

  She laughs. “Oh, that’s Daryl. He represents chaos and mystery, or so I was told.”

  “Looks like he’s planning a swim-by hit.”

  “Swim-by.” She shakes her head and flashes a smile that says she’s used to banter. “How can I help you, mister?”

  I pull a photo up on my phone of one of the sand dollars from our room’s welcome basket.

  “Recognize this?”

  She squints. “Sure. That’s one of ours.”

  “You can tell?”

  “You bet. I glaze them just like that. Been selling them for years.”

  She slides out a shallow display tray from behind the counter, plastic and lined with black felt. Inside are maybe a dozen sand dollars, bone-white and identical, each resting in its own little compartment like rare coins. “These are locally collected, cleaned, and glazed by yours truly to preserve the detail. They’re kind of our thing.”

  I nod. “Have you sold any to guests staying at the Gull’s Nest Inn?”

  She tilts her head. “All the time. The owner, Fran, likes to put them in welcome baskets. She and I go way back.”

  “How far back?”

  “Well… when she and her husband first turned up in town, maybe twenty years ago. Folks said one of them had just gotten out of prison. Never did hear which one, and I never asked.”

  “Why not?”

  “Always got the feeling it was best not to pry.”

  She says this quietly, conspiratorially.

  I ask, “Did Fran pick some up recently?”

  Her brow furrows. “Maybe two weeks ago. Said she had some important guests coming. Wanted the really good ones.”

  “Did anyone else come in and ask for them?”

  “No. Just Fran.”

  I thank her for her time, give the shop one last glance, then step out to the street, and promptly get swept into a throng of tourists drifting downhill toward the ocean, glittering a mile or so below. Lemmings with credit cards.

  Chapter Eleven

  The fog hangs low over Ocean Avenue, soft as breath but cold, like a witch whispering on your neck.

  Not that I would know.

  Meanwhile, Carmel keeps up its quaint little village routine: whitewashed storefronts, tidy flower boxes, tourists drifting by in fleece jackets, while the ocean hammers steady a few blocks downhill. I’ve had enough of the inn’s stale coffee and pine-flavored wine, so before heading back, I duck into a small café that smells like fresh-baked bread and sanity. The bell over the door gives a polite ring. A chalkboard promises scones, strong coffee, and a blueberry square that looks like it’ll make me happy.

  I order a black coffee, a scone, and the breakfast square, because why the hell not? I pay cash, turn to scan for a seat, and that’s when I see him.

  My old pal Jack. Sitting by the window, framed in gray light and something else... his own internal glow, though admitting that makes me sound nuts. Same second-hand jacket. Same sun-weathered face. Same eyes like deep water.

  It’s Jack, all right. Holding a steaming mug in both hands like it’s a campfire in miniature, warming himself from the inside out. At the moment, he’s just watching the tourists move down the street with that secret little smile of his.

  And if he’s noticed me, he isn’t letting on.

  I make a sound that’s not quite a laugh. I take my coffee and grub and stop beside his table. “You’re probably going to tell me,” I say, “that you’ve been here the whole time, waiting for me.”

  “You knew I was somewhere, Jim. Here’s as good a place as any,” he says. His voice is gentle sandpaper. “Take a seat.”

  I do just that, the chair creaking like the Demeter in a storm. Up close, he looks exactly as I remember: a man who walks everywhere and seems comfortable anywhere. No plate in front of him, just the mug and that patient smile.

  Outside, a pair of gulls argue over something invisible on the sidewalk. Inside, the barista calls out a vanilla latte for a woman in a red scarf. Life goes on. It always does, until it doesn’t.

  “How’s the leg?” Jack asks, as if we were picking up a conversation from five minutes ago instead of years.

  “Better than ever,” I say. “You still handing out free miracles with the fries at McDonald’s?”

  Jack’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He lifts his mug. “Miracles don’t come with fries, Jim. They come when people are hungry enough to ask.”

  “Did I ask?”

  “With every step,” he says softly. “Every time your leg hurt, your heart cried out for help.”

  “And God heard every cry?”

  “Every single one, Jim.” He nods into his mug. “Now look at you. Two strong legs ought to carry you where you need to go.”

  His gaze drifts past me, toward the open door where the fog is creeping in. Funny how it seems to head straight for him; that is, until I notice the faint twirl of his index finger. Now, the fog begins to spiral, too. Could be a coincidence. Or a sudden draft from somewhere. Maybe someone opened a window. Hmm.

  “The sea’s in a mood,” Jack says. “Big storm tonight. Be glad you’re not a fisherman.”

  “And if they pray to God for safety, what then?” I ask.

  “God hears their prayers and weighs them against their heart’s desires, their choices, their beliefs… and what is written.”

  “Meaning some sailors die, no matter what.”

  “A good summation, sad as it may be.”

  “Does it hurt God to see his creations perish? Hypothetically, of course.”

  “God doesn’t feel sadness at loss of life, Jim, because life goes on. Some of those who perish are ready. They have no fear of death, only readiness for the next adventure.”

  “But what about suffering? Drowning’s a hell of a way to go.”

  “They’re taken before the suffering,” Jack says. “God is not a psychopath.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “Then again, I’ve never been afraid of pain. Or death.”

  “I know, Jim. But be cautious with recklessness. A person can get themselves killed inadvertently, outside of their appointed time. That’s why God suffuses the world with angels.

  “People think when a deadly car crash happens, the angels must’ve looked away or played hooky. That’s not the case. They, too, know the life plan. What people don’t see are the moments when an angel nudged the wheel, or diverted a drunk driver months earlier.”

  “Because it wasn’t their time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But someone could do something stupid that kills themselves, so stupid the angels can’t help them.”

  Jack tilts his head. “Even then, Jim. Angels don’t fail. But people are given free will, and free will sometimes writes its own ending. A sudden detour, a reckless decision, being seduced into the wrong path… their lives can end abruptly, faster than an angel can intervene. This is not ideal, Jim.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What I mean is, their deaths can take even their heavenly entourage by surprise. Sometimes there’s no one waiting for them on the other side.”

  “What happens then?”

  “They wander. See things they never believed possible. And if they continue to cry out for help, help will come... and lead them away.”

  “Away to where?”

  “One they’ve earned, for better or worse.”

  “In other words, I’ll need to die to see it.”

  “Indeed, Jim. God can’t give away all His secrets.”

  “God created a weird system.”

  “Well,” Jack says, with that little smile, “someone certainly did.”

  “God didn’t create the whole cycle: being born, living, dying, then returning to the afterlife?”

  “God had His hand in some of it. Others wished to use it for their own gain.”

  “Like the devil?”

  “Not quite. But the one you call the devil does have his hand in the afterlife.”

  “He created hell, if it exists?”

  Jack arches a brow. “Would a God of love allow His creations to be punished in such a place?”

  “Seems hard to believe. But I was taught it was so.”

  “Taught by people who were taught by people… and so on.”

  “For control?”

  Jack shrugs. “Your words, not mine.”

  “Okay, fine. So why are other entities involved in the afterlife, if not you and the devil?”

  “There are other powerful forces out there, Jim.”

  “You mean gods?”

  “Well, some would call them gods.”

  “You don’t?”

  “They fit the description... except for one big factor.”

  “They can’t create people or souls.”

  “No, they cannot.”

  “Then what are they doing in the afterlife?”

  Jack leans back, eyes half-lidded, like he’s listening to a choir only he can hear. “The Essenes called them archons. Some would call them gods, but I don’t. A true God creates. Breathes life. Shapes a soul. Archons can’t do that. They siphon. They feed.”

  “Feed on what?” I ask.

  “On the currents people give off: fear, devotion, longing, worship. They drink it like wine. And when a soul passes on, raw and disoriented, that’s when the archons lean in. They whisper, they promise, they frighten. They can trap a spirit for a time, keep it circling. That’s how they survive. Parasites.”

  “And God allows this?”

  Jack smiles faintly. “God allows many things. Free will is messier than you think. Even in death, choices echo. A spirit can cry out for help, and help will come. But if they hand their fear to the archons, and believe in the trap… well, they’ve given permission. And God does not break the laws of consent.”

  I rub the back of my neck, trying to process. “So let me get this straight. Even dead, I can still screw it up. One wrong step, and I’m ghost chow for some cosmic leech in a bathrobe?”

  Jack’s eyes glimmer. “Only if you mistake the trap for home.”

  “Great,” I mutter, reaching for my coffee. “After a lifetime of avoiding potholes and bill collectors, now I gotta watch out for trick doors in the afterlife. Sounds about right.” I snort. “Yeah, but that doesn’t add up. If these archons are so hungry for fear, why wait until we’re dead? They could just raid our nightmares and skim fear like cream off the top. Seems like sloppy business management to me.”

  Jack’s eyes crease at the corners, the hint of a smile. “They do, Jim. Every nightmare, every panic that grips you in the dark, that’s them drinking the surface froth. But dreams end. Fear fades. And daylight burns away the shadows.”

  He lifts his mug, takes a slow sip. “Death is when the soul loosens its grip on the body. That’s when the whole harvest ripens. Not just scraps, not echoes, but the soul itself. That’s the prize.”

  I shake my head. “Terrific. So while I’m alive, they snack on me. When I’m dead, they throw the banquet.”

  Jack shrugs. “Only if you forget who you are. But a soul that remembers its own light... the archons have no power. But many people don’t. Again, that’s why angels walk among you: to remind, to nudge, to keep the balance. That, Jim, is what the Essenes tried to teach. Few listened.”

  I’m not sure what’s really going on, but I know that if I ever cross paths with those pathetic, god-like creatures in the afterlife, they’ve got a fight on their hands. Though I’m a footballer at heart, I love a good fight. Some have even said I could give Jack Reacher a run for his money in some weird fictional MMA pay-per-view fight. Which gives rise to my next question: “Who wins in a fight: these archons or God?”

  He chuckles into his coffee. “Light doesn’t wrestle with shadows, Jim. Light simply shines, and the shadows vanish. In short, God, of course.”

  I break the scone and slide half onto a napkin in front of him. He doesn’t touch it, not at first. He studies the steam rising from my coffee. He has a way of making awkward silence feel like a choice we both made. Outside, a dog shakes condensed mist from its damp coat.

  Jack’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something quieter. “The sea brings things back, Jim,” he says. “Even when we’d rather it didn’t.”

  “Bodies?” I say.

  “Things people try to hide from the light. A woman like Claire Holt doesn’t go quietly, Jim. Even murdered, she’ll leave something behind. A trace. A mark. Maybe even a message.”

  I sip the coffee, which is blessedly hot and blessedly not pine-flavored. Who knew that was even a thing? “I heard footsteps last night. Around three in the morning. Someone trying not to be heard, if you asked me. The footsteps came from the direction of the dead woman’s room.”

  He watches me stare at my coffee. “Houses can talk when people can’t or won’t,” he says. “But who’s listening?”

  “I was,” I say. “And I think there’s something else going on. Not only was Claire on the run from someone she helped put away, she might have come across someone up to no good here at the inn, Jack; in particular, a man with a daughter who both disappeared.”

  Jack breaks the scone, splits it neatly along an invisible seam. He lays the two halves back together, then apart again, as if demonstrating a trick. “Hold everything up to the light, Jim, and see what doesn’t cast a shadow. Let the silence tell you where the truth is hiding.”

  “Silence doesn’t tell me much except to remind me I need to pee.”

  “Jim... it told you there was someone on the other side of a door, listening as hard as you were,” he says. “It told you a room meant for two was dressed for one. It told you a child’s presence was on paper only.”

  I find myself nodding. “And a scared kid doesn’t make much sound,” I say, thinking again of the quiet creaks I heard. The very, very quiet creaks. Had I heard a child walking? And maybe her father, too?

  “You are on the right track, Jim. Solve this and help them all.”

  “Too late for Claire,” I said.

  “She’s watching you, Jim. Guiding your investigation.”

  “And what of God? Is he guiding?”

  “More than you know, my friend.”

  “She’s just a kid, Jack. Maybe only ten years old.”

  “Ten and a half, and she is alive. Find her. Find him. And find Claire’s killer.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who it is, and where the girl is?”

  “God works in mysterious ways. I suspect you have been shown enough clues. Think back to the night you saw Claire alive.”

  “I am, trust me.”

  “Did anything stand out? Think, Jim.”

  “She was alone, quiet, watching everyone. Nervous, maybe. Drinking and eating. She smiled at me once. I smiled back.”

  “Good, Jim. Good. Keep plumbing that memory. Ask God to help reveal more. Ask Claire, too. She’s here now, at this table.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Why do you think you suddenly wanted to dip in here? You thought it was your idea? Or were you nudged?”

  “I... I dunno. It smelled nice in here anything but pine.”

  “Spirits are magnificent at manipulating scents and odors.”

  “You’re saying Claire helped waft the scents toward me.”

  “She was wafting like crazy, Jim.”

  “And here I am.”

  “Here you are.”

  “Talking to God, who knows everything about everyone.”

  “I’m flattered you think so, Jim.”

  “Why was Claire killed?”

  “God cannot make your path any easier, Jim. The clues are everywhere.”

  I turn to the empty seat, where I imagine the dead woman is sitting and listening to all of this.

  “Can I ask her?” I say.

  “Free will, Jim.”

  I nod and reach out an empty palm toward the empty chair. I feel nothing. No sudden sense of cold. But I do feel a small jolt that runs down my spine, a jolt that has me sitting up.

  “Guess who, Jim?”

  “A gal who died last night, in her sleep, I suspect.”

  “Now, why would you say that, the dying in the sleep part?”

  “It’s just something I knew to be right.”

  “What else do you know, Jim?”

  “That the scone isn’t sitting right,” I say. “It’s upsetting my stomach.”

  “Oh, come on, Jim. It’s a scone. They’ve never upset anyone’s stomach, ever. What do you always say about scones?”

  “That ‘scone’ is Irish for stale.”

  He chuckles. “You do have a way of cracking me up. How many scones have you had in your life?”

  “Tens of thousands.”

  He chuckles again. “Not quite, but definitely more than the average. And have they ever upset your stomach?”

  “Never once,” I say, feeling my stomach turn over and over. I feel it but I don’t feel it. “Until now.”