Now that I’d gotten her where I wanted her, I wound the rope a final time, tying her feet to one of the tie-down holes bolted into the trailer’s flooring. Even if she got her hands loose, there was no way she’d ever wriggle free in time.

  “You won’t be getting out of here without a knife, Mrs. Weaver. I’m not leaving you that. No, ma’am, I am not. Sorry about that. But Reggie’s gotta pay.”

  Petting down her brown hair, which she was so particular about, my fingers came away bloody. Hopefully, she wouldn’t feel her death. I didn’t mind giving her that mercy.

  It was Reggie who needed to suffer.

  I wiped my hand on her jeans—couldn’t get her blood on my clothes, after all—and leaned in closer to her. “I don’t really want to do this, but I have no choice. Your death will pierce old Reginald O’Rourke right down to his selfish, dirty heart. Thank you for that.”

  As a final precaution, I straightened the duct tape over her mouth—just in case she woke and tried to work a scream from that flame-breather’s throat of hers. I stood to examine my handiwork.

  Betty Weaver was beautiful. I saw an old picture of her somewhere, and she hadn’t aged much. She was almost as striking as Penelope Dowe.

  All these years of fire-breathing hadn’t done her any harm. Just made her glow brighter in some ways.

  Reggie had taken Penelope’s death hard, as expected, but not hard enough to stay away from Calliope. This death would tear the lecherous bastard a new one.

  All the same, I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped my chest, seeing Betty Weaver like this. It really was a shame.

  I scanned the gas cans in the fuel trailer. All stacked up neat, as usual. “Safety first, Reggie always says.” The man had even insisted this trailer be parked far away from the others, in the name of safety.

  Ironic that he’d lost three performers, regardless of his special measures.

  And he was about to lose another.

  I deeply hoped she’d sleep through it, though. Maybe that last knock on the head had done her good. She really was a kind woman.

  “Maybe we’ll just sit here a while, huh? The winter sky is gorgeous tonight, Mrs. Weaver. Bet that’s why you were out walking by your lonesome, huh?”

  The trailer was outfitted with a single window.

  Out here, on the edge of the city, the stars shined brilliantly. A reminder of how Betty liked to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to Bunny, even though the girl was now eleven years old.

  Maybe it was silly to think so, but the song might be a comfort to this woman. I started humming the tune, taking it slow and steady, like Betty would have for her daughter. At the song’s end, I patted her on the shoulder and gave her a quick squeeze.

  “I’ll take care of Bunny for you. Don’t you worry about that. Just sleep your way on over to the other side, and I’ll make things right for all of us.”

  Betty didn’t stir. Good.

  I hated what had to come next, but it had to be done. Maybe Betty would hear me sighing and understand how pained I was over it, somewhere down deep.

  I went to grab the canister, picking it up by the trailer door and glancing out one last time. Nobody was in the area, and I would’ve seen them, what with those gorgeous stars lighting up the night. So I stepped out of the trailer and started backing away from the entrance, drawing a long line of gasoline with me.

  When the can was near empty, tears burned my eyes.

  If anyone had been with me, I’d have claimed they were from the fumes, but Betty would’ve seen the lie.

  She was such a good woman.

  Had been such a good woman.

  I lit a match, breathed deep, and dropped the flame at the end of the line of gas. It caught, and the fire moved like a flash.

  The heat, so familiar to Betty, surrounded her.

  Throughout the years, I’d watched flames cross her lips, burn down her throat, and singe her hair. No one knew fire the way Betty Weaver did. As the flames grew larger, I knew she couldn’t swallow this. It’d be like swallowing the sun.

  Goodbye, Betty.

  Time to run.

  28

  Emma pulled her spare comforter tighter around her shoulders, blowing on her hands to warm them. She’d seated herself outside on her small balcony to enjoy the night air, but it was cold. The stars were rarely so bright above her apartment, given the light pollution of D.C. proper, but the night was too pretty not to enjoy it, cold or no cold.

  With the temperature keeping her so awake, she didn’t put off this task any longer.

  With her laptop balanced on a pillow settled in her lap, she typed I see ghosts into the search bar then scanned the results.

  A Psychology Now article explained that she just might have an open-type personality or late-onset schizophrenia.

  Those are my choices?

  There was a link to The Sixth Sense movie site.

  Another site offered other possibilities for her ability, including stress, lack of sleep, demon possession, and a vitamin deficiency or overdose.

  She sighed. Turned out, it was hard to investigate a situation where she was the only eyewitness and had no physical evidence.

  Taking control of her ability, no longer denying it, was the only option at this point. Over the past few weeks, her power had intensified. Emma felt off kilter. She couldn’t focus with the phantasmic apparitions distracting her.

  She had to learn about it, control it, and use it to her advantage. Appearances from the Other wouldn’t keep dictating her life. Plus, she was sick of wishing for communication that didn’t come. One way or another, she needed to regain control.

  If knowing about the ghosts helped her solve cases, great. If it didn’t…well, at least she’d be able to integrate the knowledge into her life. Hopefully. If worse came to worst, maybe she’d at least school herself on how not to look impulsive or like a zoned-out fool in front of her colleagues.

  Mia talking to me about how strong my gut is. Right. But I’m a stammering fool because of it.

  “If I’m pulling this stuff from the inside out, maybe I should work on it from the outside in.”

  She sounded like a lunatic, even to herself. But she kept thinking out loud. “What’s something that involves the body and ghosts? Or spirits?”

  An exorcism was out of the question. Acupuncture? Psychotherapy? Please. What would I even say? Reiki? That’s some kind of energy healing thingamabob. She’d heard of tuning fork therapy. But all these things took time and required a lot of sitting or lying still. Not her thing. Yoga?

  “Yoga. Yoga’s a better choice.”

  From everything she’d heard, yoga was an established practice that helped people center themselves and improve their concentration, as well as their health. It seemed like a good starting point. And it was a physical activity—right up her alley. Since she couldn’t go anywhere without tripping over a yoga studio in D.C., maybe the universe was directing her.

  She replaced I see ghosts with yoga studios nearby.

  The results of her search showed more than a dozen yoga studios within a twenty-mile radius of her home, all of them with plenty of four- and five-star ratings.

  Her eyes caught one located on a street she passed by every day when leaving her apartment.

  The Yoga Map. Well, a map is what I need, right?

  She pulled up the website, which was plain and professional. Simple, too, which suited her. Didn’t seem like a studio focused on fitness should be turning somersaults to bring in business with a fancy website.

  Clicking on the About page, she found a variety of class descriptions and a link to the studio owner’s bio. A man named Oren Werling. Handsome, thirty-two years old, brown-haired and blue-eyed…he looked like someone confident in his own skin. Fit, too, as someone in his position should be.

  No harm in learning self-mastery while looking at a pretty face. Time to pull the trigger, girl.

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, she signed up for an early morning beginners’ class, paying in full rather than taking the one-lesson-for-free option the site offered. She wasn’t going to give herself the chance to back out. Better to pay now and feel compelled to go so she’d get her money’s worth.

  And if this Oren Werling was a shitty teacher, she’d at least enjoy the view before finding another studio.

  Closing her laptop, Emma took a deep breath of the cold night air. She debated getting a piece of the frozen cheesecake in her freezer to congratulate herself on taking this step…but celebrating signing up for a fitness class with a fatty dessert felt way too middle-aged. She was only twenty-eight, dammit.

  So what if she was alone and ready for bed at half past ten, and had no relationships and few friends? And so what if her biggest personal risk over that last year was taking a class at a new yoga studio?

  Little steps. She’d take little steps, she’d get her life in order, and she’d have more fun while doing so. Emma didn’t want to be living for her job three decades down the line.

  Assuming, of course, the job didn’t kill her before then.

  Or the ghosts.

  Emma shivered, colder than she should be—even outside on a January night.

  She waved across the street to the balcony facing hers.

  Madeline Luse sat observing her. The twenty-nine-year-old ghost had died last month of a sudden, shocking stroke. Madeline’s widower and two young children still lived in the apartment. The woman liked to watch over them. She and Emma often exchanged waves and smiles, like now.

  The woman had been friendly when she was alive, too, and Emma had grown used to seeing her on the balcony late at night, after her children had been put to bed. She sometimes forgot Madeline was dead now.

  Even in the comfort of my own little apartment complex, I have two ghosts who visit me on the regular. Good thing I don’t live in a downtown high-rise.

  Inside, Emma changed into her softest pajama pants and a cotton tank top. The expanse of soft pillows and her worn-in blue quilt looked inviting. Aside from the photo of her mother sitting on the nightstand, her expensive mattress was her most prized possession.

  Speaking of…

  The photo had fallen over again. Emma righted it, making sure the stability flap on the back wasn’t bent or broken. It didn’t wobble, so she didn’t need a new frame. Odd.

  Settling back into the bamboo sheets—her favorite ones, in a calming olive green—she finally let her body relax. A sigh escaped her chest, partly from the satisfaction of her bed’s softness and warmth. But partly due to the question that so often assaulted her mind when she gazed at her mother’s picture.

  Why didn’t her parents’ ghosts visit her?

  The question was followed by the old terror that accompanied it…how would she feel if they did?

  Emma closed her eyes, shutting out the questions about her own life as well as the ongoing case. Her breath evened out. She usually fell asleep fast, and tonight was no different.

  A few hours later, Emma’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. She blinked away a vague dream involving trees or maybe buildings. Faces had peered out from behind the trunks…or the concrete walls. She shook her head, and the dream was gone.

  At least the freaking ghosts can’t use phones.

  She pulled herself upright and glanced at the clock. A quarter ’til two in the morning.

  She grabbed the phone and looked at the screen.

  SSA Jacinda Hollingsworth.

  “Jacinda, hi. I’m here.” Emma rubbed at her eyes, working up the gumption to get out of bed. No doubt, if Jacinda was calling, there’d be no more sleeping tonight.

  “Emma, the team’s needed at the fairgrounds. The Ruby Red’s fuel trailer was set on fire. Officers called it arson right away because the trail of gasoline made it obvious. Detective Griff is on scene. We just talked. The fire was massive, but they’ve got the flames under control. Nearly out now. They found someone inside the trailer. It’s time for us to come in.”

  Already out of bed, Emma pulled on a fresh pair of pants, balancing the phone against her shoulder as she pulled socks out. “Any idea who?”

  “I don’t know.” Jacinda’s frustrated sigh leaked through the phone speaker. “Nobody’s been able to find Betty Weaver. There are a few other names that haven’t been accounted for yet. We need the team on-site as soon as possible.”

  Emma swallowed down a curse. “I’ll be there. See you soon.”

  She wouldn’t have thought anything could wipe the disturbing image of that yellow leotard from her mind. But the grief on Bunny Weaver’s face, should her mom indeed be the latest victim, made quick work of replacing it.

  Grabbing an extra sweater to combat the cold night, Emma whirled from her dresser so fast she almost tripped over her nightstand.

  And froze.

  Her mom’s picture was face down.

  Again.

  29

  Leo parked his Dodge Ram a few spots down from Emma’s Prius. Trails of smoke still trickled into the stars, glowing eerily in the patrol cars’ whirling red-and-blue lights. He rubbed his eyes, stinging from the smoky air as he climbed out of his truck. He’d only just managed to fall asleep when Jacinda’s call came in. He was wide awake now.

  Somewhere beyond the smoke, a ghostly wail echoed in the cold night.

  He spotted Mia, Vance, and Emma zipping up coats and pulling bags from vehicles, but Denae was well on her way toward the base tent. He dropped the strap of his bag twice as he hurried to catch up with her. His nerves were racing.

  Every face he passed was grim. Firefighters, officers, agents, and even the rare carny near the Ruby Red’s entrance…they all wore tired frowns. A couple of the firefighters had their eyes closed against the crying coming from somewhere deep in the maze of campers.

  Leo couldn’t blame them. The sorrowful keening would break anyone’s heart.

  As he caught up with Vance, they had to pause for a couple of techs from the medical examiner’s office to pass by. The two carried a wheeled stretcher and a body bag, along with other equipment.

  Vance zipped his coat up tighter, pulling a scarf more firmly around his neck. “One more, huh?”

  “I was hoping not.” Leo’s rushing heartbeat didn’t match the casual nature of his words.

  All the way over to the fairgrounds, he’d prayed the arson had been a mean-spirited prank—more along the lines of the ketchup war and the firecrackers set off by protesters—as opposed to another murder. Especially considering their leading suspect was detained in a station miles away.

  Detective Griff stood with Jacinda by the six-foot-long table edging one side of the base tent. Both their faces showed tense lines.

  Griff gave tight nods to the group as they gathered. “I appreciate all of you getting here so fast.”

  “Who’s dead?” Denae’s blunt question seemed to freeze the detective for a moment.

  After a quick scrub of his face, Griff blew out a breath. “Right. We’re not confirmed yet, but we think it’s Betty Weaver. I’m sorry to say it.”

  Leo’s stomach sank as he placed the haunting cries.

  Bunny.

  “The medical examiner arrived in record time after the fire department found the body. As of now, all we can say for sure is the victim was female.” Griff rubbed at his brow, and soot came away on his fingertips. He must’ve been close to the flames. “The position of her remains indicates that she was bound at the wrists and ankles.”

  “What has us thinking it was Betty Weaver?”

  “Her husband said she went for a walk.” Jacinda sighed, pulling her hair through the back of a ball cap as she spoke. “Said he didn’t want her to go, but she’d been with their daughter all day and needed some breathing room. They thought it would be safe, with all the officers posted. No offense intended, Detective.”

  He’d closed his eyes on that last comment but nodded, offering a slight dig of his own. “None taken. Everyone thought the perpetrator was detained for the night.”

  A uniformed officer approached and whispered something to Griff, whose face fell even more as he listened.

  “Well, that’s what we all didn’t want to hear, but…a pendant necklace found on the body was just shown to Billy and Bunny Weaver. They’ve confirmed it belonged to the mother, Betty Weaver.”

  “Dammit.” Emma knocked her boot into the leg of the nearby table, emphasizing the under-the-breath curse. Leo felt her anger and frustration.

  And I thought it was O’Rourke. I was so damn sure.

  Mia rested one hand on Emma’s shoulder but addressed Griff and Hollingsworth. “The fairgrounds are sizable, and you’re right…we had a good suspect. Is there any other evidence so far? Or are we starting from scratch?”

  “Nothing so far.” Jacinda straightened up, her eyes searching outside the tent. “But that only means we need to expedite the process of interviewing every performer and carny attached to this outfit. Officers have a tight circle around the fairgrounds, and the circus crew are all at a hotel, being awakened as we speak so they can be brought back here for questioning.”

  “And O’Rourke’s still behind bars.” Vance hadn’t bothered to leave a question mark on the point.

  Jacinda nodded. “O’Rourke’s behind bars, yes. If we weren’t convinced before, this should put the question to rest about it being an inside job, given the security around here. Either that or we’re dealing with a professional assassin.”

  “If it wasn’t O’Rourke or the crew, then our killer’s one of the performers.”

  “Correct, Agent Ambrose. And they probably haven’t had time to clean up properly or get rid of the evidence, so this is our chance. I want every person associated with the Ruby Red rounded up, ready for questioning. Now.”

  Even above Jacinda’s voice, Leo’s ears had latched onto the unearthly loud sobs of the eleven-year-old girl. Her cries were coming from somewhere off to the side of the main tent.

  He gritted his teeth. “Even Bunny? After what she’s been through—”

  “Even Bunny. Particularly because of what she’s been through.” Jacinda’s expression remained firm, though her eyes had gone a bit softer. “There’s no telling what she knows and can tell us. Not to mention there’s still the question of the clothing in O’Rourke’s trash.”