Bellamy and the Brute

Prologue

Loose gravel crunched beneath her boots as Special Agent Camila Vasquez navigated the almost-empty parking lot to her car. Darting a glance around, she took in her surroundings, careful to listen for any approaching vehicles or footsteps. Settling her gaze back on her car, she found it undisturbed—no broken windows or picked locks. She took another glance over her shoulder to ensure she hadn’t been followed as she pressed a button on the fob attached to her keychain.

Wellhollow Springs was a small town with a tight-knit community, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. After she slid into the front seat, she glanced in the rearview mirror and spied the stack of files laid on her backseat. The information she’d been gathering for the past month would be enough to put a murderer away for the rest of his life. The fact that he was powerful hadn’t intimidated her in the least, but until she’d placed the evidence into the right hands, she couldn’t be too careful.

She placed her takeout box from the Japanese steakhouse on the passenger seat, dropped her purse onto the floor, and retrieved her phone. It vibrated in her hand. Her pulse began to race when she saw who was calling.

Answering quickly, she pressed the phone to her ear. This is Vasquez.

A familiar voice reached out to her from the other end of the line. Vasquez, it’s Jones.

Yeah, I know, she said with a smirk, jamming her key into the ignition and cranking the engine. Your ugly mug pops up on my screen every time you call me.

Special Agent Jones laughed, but it came out dry and forced. That’s real cute. You want the results of this DNA test or what?

Taking a deep breath, she gazed back through the driver’s side window at the tall pine trees lining the highway beyond her. She’d been feeling as if she were being watched for about a week now, yet when she turned around, no one was ever there. Finding comfort in resting a hand on the sidearm holstered at her hip, she reminded herself that she had protection.

Let’s have it, she replied.

The DNA from skin cells found under Isabella’s fingernails matched the sample of saliva you sent me, Jones said. The findings are consistent with the medical examiner’s report—Isabella fought for her life while she was strangled, scratching and clawing. He’s the one, Vasquez. He killed her.

Her grip tightened on the phone, and her eyes began to sting. Choking down a sob, she fell back against the seat. She’d had her suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. Aside from that, Camila had felt, deep down in her gut, that the man whose DNA she’d painstakingly retrieved from a coffee cup had been responsible for her sister’s murder two years ago. Now, she had proof.

Are you still there?

Jones’ voice snapped her back to reality, and she sat up, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped one eye.

I’m here. I need those results sent to my email as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I am going to present everything I have here to the Young County D.A.’s office. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my sister.

Just watch your step, Jones warned. I’m not even supposed to be giving you this information, and you’re still on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation.

Camila rolled her eyes. A woman insists on investigating the death of a family member, and, suddenly, she’s crazy?

I don’t make the rules, he retorted. And breaking them could cost me my job.

Keep your panties on, she muttered. No one’s going to lose their job. Once I bring this guy down, they’ll be apologizing for not taking me more seriously.

I hope you’re right, for both yours and Isabella’s sakes. She deserves justice, and you deserve closure. Good luck, Vasquez.

I don’t need luck; I have evidence, she said before ending the call.

The wallpaper of her home screen showed an old picture of her and Isabella. They’d taken the selfie together years ago while sitting on a park bench. Camila held the phone up while her little sister leaned into her, smiling and squinting a bit with the sun in her eyes. Isabella looked radiant and healthy—a far cry from the drug-addicted, waif-thin thing she’d been forced to identify in the morgue.

Giving the photo a sad smile, she sniffed and blinked back a fresh wave of tears.

Don’t worry, Izzy, she whispered. I won’t let him get away with this.

She placed her phone into the console beneath the radio, threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the restaurant parking lot. Being one of the few customers leaving at closing time, she found the highway leading back into Wellhollow Springs all but empty. The red taillights of the car in front of her eventually disappeared around one of the many bends in the road, leaving her alone with two walls of pine trees whizzing by on either side.

Glancing at the panel behind the steering wheel, she frowned. The brake light had come on yesterday, and she’d forgotten all about it. She’d been so consumed with her case that she had neglected to have it serviced.

Tomorrow, she told herself.

The moment she’d finished up at the district attorney’s office, she would have her car fixed. Since her administrative leave was indefinite until her superiors decided she was fit to resume duty, she might even stick around Wellhollow Springs for a while. The extended-stay hotel she’d been living in the past month was clean and affordable. Besides, she didn’t want to miss any new developments in the case.

Rounding another bend in the road, she spotted a large, dark shape thrusting up toward the sky from the top of the hill. Baldwin House—the home of millionaire real estate development mogul Douglas Baldwin and his family. His grandfather had made a fortune by building half of Wellhollow Springs, so it seemed appropriate for the family home to overlook it all like the castle of some king looming over the peasants.

Turning her attention back to the road, she found yet another sharp curve and pressed the brake to slow down. She frowned when her foot was met with little resistance, the car neglecting to respond. With a gasp, she jerked the wheel left and just barely made it around the bend. Her heart began to pound, throat constricting as she came upon another turn. She pumped the brake, turning the wheel right. The car went entirely too fast, veering into the metal guardrail and causing sparks to fly. Giving the wheel another jerk, she attempted to decelerate again, her breath coming in short pants as the downward slope of the road became steeper.

The vehicle was out of control now, speeding up into the sixties. It hit the seventies as she bit back screams and sobs of terror, fighting to bring it to a stop. The brakes weren’t responding at all, and another turn loomed ahead, a steep drop-off yawning beyond the guardrail.

No, she whispered, clenching the wheel with damp palms. No, no, no!

In a last-ditch effort to stop the car, she jerked the wheel to the right, and then yanked up on the emergency brake while speeding around the curve. Her tires screeched, the scent of rubber being burned by asphalt filling her nostrils. The world outside her windows tilted and spun until she couldn’t distinguish the sky from the trees or dark hills. A scream burned in her chest when the sound of metal crunching metal indicated she’d slammed into the guardrail. Her stomach shot up into her throat as the car tipped over, hurtling over the steep incline leading to the valley below her.

The car made impact—once, twice, three times, rolling and bouncing over and over, jostling her mercilessly. Her head bashed against the driver’s side window, causing her teeth to rattle. She must have bit her tongue, because blood filled her mouth at the same time it began to trickle down her face from a wound on her temple.

She didn’t know how long the car fell, careening to the ground below, nor could she remember closing her eyes. Yet, one moment, everything had gone dark. The next, she opened her eyes to find she’d come to a stop.

Somehow, she’d been thrown from the car, even though her seat belt had been fastened. Lifting her head, she spied the wreckage of her car a few feet away and grimaced. All the windows had shattered, leaving broken glass littering the ground around it. Two of the doors had been crunched inward, another torn off completely. No amount of work could ever hammer out the dents or the roof that had caved inward.

The most important thing was the evidence she’d stored in the backseat. If she could salvage it, the totaled car wouldn’t seem like such a loss. Rising up on her hands and knees, she began crawling toward the wreckage, surprised that felt she no pain. Maybe shock or adrenaline enabled her to function after such a horrific accident.

He had to be responsible for this—the man who’d murdered Isabella. Which made it all the more important that she get to her car and retrieve the evidence. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of not only murdering her sister, but also killing one of the only people who was in a position to seek justice.

Coming closer to the car, she spied something in the front seat. Frowning, she struggled to her feet, trudging forward with heavy steps. Bracing one hand against the battered hood, she lowered her head and peered inside.

She gasped when she came face to face with a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to her—olive skin, athletic build. Blood soaked one side of her face from the gash in her temple, as well as several shards of glass embedded in her jaw and cheek. A larger fragment jutted from her neck, causing more blood to cascade down her neck and chest. Dark brown hair hung bedraggled around her shoulders—one of which sat at an odd angle, as if it had been torn from the socket. Three of the fingers on her hand had been mangled, twisted and bent as if they’d been snapped from within.

Frowning, she leaned closer, reaching up to touch her own face, and then the woman’s.

This could not be real. Clearly, she’d passed out when the car made impact and she was dreaming. At some point, she would wake up in the hospital, and everything would be all right. She slumped against the car and sank to the ground, tears filling her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her that she was deluding herself. Lowering her head, Camila began to sob, feeling more helpless than she had on the day the news of Isabella’s death had been delivered.

Swiping at her eyes, she glanced up and screamed as the apparition of a person appeared in front of her. Once panic and shock had melted away, she realized she knew this person. She rose to her feet and stared into a pair of familiar eyes.

It can’t be, she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to still the tremors wracking her body.

The woman stood just a few inches shorter than she did, with long, dark hair hanging down her back. She beamed with a white glow, all the color having been drained from her face. An ugly black ring circled her throat, dark veins reaching out from the stain. Her blue-tainted lips parted, moving as if she tried to tell Camila something.

She reached out toward the phantom, her lower lip trembling as she forced herself to speak.

Izzy? she croaked, her voice coming out hoarse and strained.

The specter could hear. Nodding, it extended a hand to her.

Glancing back at the wreckage of her car, and then back to Isabella, Camila understood. There was nothing left for her to do.

Without hesitation, she reached out to take the offered hand.

Chapter One

W ho can tell me which event in United States history was referred to by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as ‘a date that will live in infamy’?

You could have heard a pin drop. Apparently, no one in my history class knew the answer to Ms. Neal’s question.

Well, that wasn’t completely true. I knew the answer, but had been actively not raising my hand all day, despite recalling the answer to just about every question. Twining one of my spiraled curls around one finger, I went on sketching in the margins of my notes with my other hand. In red ink, a small, cartoon version of Iron Man fought against Captain America.

Anyone? Mrs. Neal urged.

I could hear the click of her low heels against the floor as she paced back and forth in front of the blackboard, and I felt her eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

Crap.

Bellamy, you’ve been unusually quiet today. Would you care to take a stab at it?

Sighing, I set my pen aside and glanced up at the teacher over the frames of my glasses. She stared back at me with a look that clearly said, ‘I’m not letting you off the hook here.’ I cleared my throat, deciding to get it over with.

He was referring to Pearl Harbor, I replied.

Ms. Neal nodded. Very good. While we’re on the subject, why don’t you tell us what date it was, exactly?

December 7, 1941, I rattled off without hesitating.

Did one of your dad’s little friends tell you that? someone muttered from behind me.

I didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter because their little joke sent those who had heard it into a fit of snickers. A few whispers spread the joke around, causing more laughs. Rolling my eyes, I kept my gaze focused straight ahead, used to this by now.

Ms. Neal’s gaze swept the room with icy censure. Is something funny about only one of you knowing the answer to these questions, with only days left before the final exam? Because I don’t find that particularly amusing.

I’m just saying, Ms. Neal, said a guy’s voice from the back of the class. It’s not really fair. I mean, isn’t it considered cheating when you can just ask a ghost for the answers?

Nah, man, another guy answered. It’s her dad who has all the answers… he’s in good with Washington, Jefferson, Franklin…

Hey, maybe someone should ask him if he’s seen Pac and Biggie, someone else added.

More laughter.

I turned my attention back to doodling, resisting the urge to roll my eyes again. The jokes had gotten old a while ago, but, apparently, the troglodytes in my class still found them hilarious. I’d already prepared myself to have them follow me to graduation, and with only one year left, I’d grown numb to it.

Thankfully, the bell rang, ending both class and the school day. Without waiting to be dismissed, people began to stand, grabbing their books and dashing for the exit. Since the school year was ending next week, students at Wellhollow Springs High were rowdier than usual and chomping at the bit to be free.

You three, stay, Ms. Neal said, her voice holding a steely edge as she eyed the boys who had attempted to embarrass me during class.

I didn’t even bother looking back to see who they were, shoving my notebook into my bag and slinging it over one shoulder. Stepping out into the hall, I made a beeline for the nearest exit, skipping my locker in favor of leaving this place behind. I had everything I needed to study for finals over the weekend, anyway.

Squinting against the high afternoon sun, I rounded the building for the rows of bike racks situated near the front of campus. All around me, the sounds of cranking cars, laughter and conversation, and the sputter of school buses filled the air. I dodged a few people walking toward me on the sidewalk, beads of sweat already starting to well up on my forehead. You could tell summer was coming to Georgia by the heat turning the outdoors into an oven, and the humidity causing the air to feel sticky and moist. Pausing near my bike, I reached into my bag and retrieved a rubber band, taking a moment to pile my thick, kinky dark curls into a topknot. Sighing with relief, I began climbing onto the bike when the sound of my name being called caused me to hesitate.

Bellamy, wait up, a boy called, breaking into a trot to catch up to me.

Lincoln Burns—football star, arrogant man’s man, and all around meathead. His black hair, dark eyes, suntanned skin, and large, muscled build should have made him attractive. Unfortunately, a sense of self-importance translated into a mouth that was a bit too pouty, while acne undoubtedly caused by steroid use stole focus away from everything else.

Huffing, I blew a few stray curls away from my forehead and braced myself for the inevitable.

Lincoln, I said once he’d come to a stop, conveniently blocking my path.

Gripping my handlebars with his meaty fists, he leaned toward me. Have you given any thought to my offer?

Clenching my jaw, I bit back a sarcastic remark. No, because I thought I’d been pretty clear before. I appreciate you asking me to the Founder’s Day ball, but like I said, I don’t intend to go, so… maybe you should ask someone else.

He scoffed, as if what I’d said was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. "I know you weren’t planning to go, but that was before I asked you to be my date."

How typical.

Listen, I said, talking slowly to ensure he heard every word. I’m not interested in being the butt of whatever little joke you and your friends have up your sleeve.

Giving my handlebars a tug, he forced me closer, now practically straddling my front tire. Baby, it’s not like that, and you know it. There wasn’t a joke when we went out the first time. Why would you think that now? I thought we had fun.

I fought to regain control of my bike, but he wasn’t taking the hint. "You had fun, I reminded him. I got felt up at the movies, then treated to your pouting and sulking the rest of the night when I pushed you away."

He laughed, but the sound was humorless. There was a gleam in his eye I didn’t like, as if turning him down had sparked some sort of rage in him.

I apologized for that a bunch of times, he growled, his voice low. When are you going to let it go?

Tilting my head at him, I refused to be intimidated. When you back off. Now, let go. I have to get to work.

Releasing my handlebars, he remained close enough that I still couldn’t get away. You won’t avoid me forever. It’s not like anyone else in town will give you the time of day.

I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved, I snapped, rolling forward and forcing him to back up. Why don’t you go club some other girl over the head and drag her back to your cave? I’m not interested.

He was red-faced and practically huffing smoke, hands balled into fists at his side.

You might want to lay off the needle, I told him before pedaling away. I’ve heard it shrinks the ‘nads.

Increasing my pace, I left him behind, pedaling toward the road that would take me on the short ride to town. Lincoln didn’t scare me, despite his bravado and the ‘roid rage that made itself apparent whenever things didn’t go his way. He was more like an annoying gnat than anything else—always buzzing around and getting back in my face no matter how many times I swatted him away.

I would regret agreeing to go out on a date with him for the rest of my life. I’d decided to see a movie with him, trying to be open-minded. I didn’t like it when people made assumptions about me, so I’d tried my best not to peg Lincoln as a stupid jock when I really hadn’t known him. But, he’d proven pretty quickly that, in his case, the label really did speak of what was inside the package. He didn’t have an interesting bone in his body, seeming concerned with nothing beyond his own self and football.

For some reason, despite turning down his attempts to get into my pants, he seemed to think he could wear me down. So, he put himself in my way as often as possible, trying to chip away at my resistance with compliments and more invitations to go out with him. It never failed that once I refused him, he turned on me and began with the insults. I wasn’t sure if it was the steroids that made him that way, or if being a spoiled brat might be to blame.

Whatever the case, I didn’t have time to worry about Lincoln. I had exams to study for, and, at the moment, a job to get to.

With the sun beaming down over my head and turning the light sheen of sweat into a continuous trickle, I continued, putting school and Lincoln behind me for the weekend.

I slowed my bike in front of McGuire’s Books, Magazines, and Comics, turning down the narrow alleyway stretching between it and the coffeehouse next door. Once I dismounted, I wheeled the bike through the back door, and then left it leaning against a wall near the storeroom. Having heard the alarm, my dad called out to me from the front of the building.

Munchkin, is that you?

Yeah, Dad, I replied, dropping my bag off in the back office.

Making my way to the front room, I strode between rows of bookshelves organized by genre, then in alphabetical order. McGuire’s wasn’t a large bookstore, but with it being the only one in town, business was at least steady. Things had slowed quite a bit over the past few years, but we did the best we could.

I found Dad standing behind the counter near the register. Today’s copy of the Wellhollow Springs Sentinel blocked his face from view, but I could see his shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair. It was a bit frizzy, as if he hadn’t combed it this morning.

Hey, munchkin, he murmured without glancing up from the paper. How was your day?

The kids made fun of me because my dad is the town lunatic.

Fine, I said out loud. Kind of boring. All my teachers were in finals review mode, and everyone is pretty much on autopilot until next week.

His head bobbed as he nodded, laying the paper flat on the counter. Some things never change. Kids are as anxious to be out of school now as they were when I was a student.

Noticing a stack of boxes near the door, I stepped behind the counter to retrieve a box cutter. The latest magazines must have been delivered while I was at school.

Check it out, Dad said, distracting me from the box cutter.

Pointing to the paper laid on the counter, he smiled. I followed his finger and glanced down at the advertisement nestled among several others.

McGuire’s Appliance Repair and Restoration, I read aloud. No appliance is too big or small. Mention this ad and get twenty percent off your first repair.

Smiling, I read his name at the bottom of the ad—Nathaniel McGuire—along with his cell number. It looks great.

When I glanced back up at him, I found him beaming with pride, his dark brown eyes glittering with excitement. My mom always said I’d been born with his eyes, despite having inherited everything else from her. One thing I hadn’t gotten was his affinity for machines and fixing them. He was never happier than when he could pry something apart and tackle its insides with a toolbox.

I’m hoping it’ll bring in some more income, he said, facing me and leaning against the counter.

I tried to maintain a pleasant expression, hoping my doubt wouldn’t show outwardly. He was great at what he did, but few people were willing to look past his eccentricities in order to appreciate it. It was bad enough they looked at him from the corners of their eyes when they came into the store, as if afraid he was going to leap over the counter and begin foaming at the mouth.

That would be great, I replied. Maybe I’ll look for some extra summer work, too. Something to do in the hours I’d usually be at school.

Sighing, he gave me a wistful glance. I would rather you enjoy your summer, munchkin, not spend it working to pay bills. That’s why I put that ad in the paper.

Standing on tiptoe, I reached up to hug him, barely able to get my arms around his neck. My dad was a big man—both tall and brawny with just a bit of a paunch in the middle caused by his love of pasta and pastries. He enveloped me in a tight hug, the scent of his aftershave a familiar comfort.

I don’t mind, I told him. McGuire’s is important to me, because it was important to you and Mom. This place was your dream, and I’d hate to see it closed. If that means I need to get a job to help make ends meet, then it’s what I’ll do.

He patted my shoulder, and then pulled away to look down at me. I just wish you would enjoy your last year of childhood. You’ll be eighteen and in college next year.

I shrugged one shoulder. High school sucks, and work experience will look good on my college applications.

Okay, he agreed. But nothing that requires late hours.

I nodded, going back to the task of stocking the magazines. Agreed.

He wouldn’t say why he didn’t want me working late, but I already knew the reason. For my father, nighttime in Wellhollow Springs could be a nerve-racking experience.

Now that you’re here, I need to go balance the books, he said, already turning to make his way toward the back.

I’ll hold down the fort up here, I responded.

Heavy footsteps grew fainter as he retreated to his office, not bothering to answer me. It was because he trusted me to run things in his absence. Truth be told, my mother had always been the face of McGuire’s—knowing the perfect books to recommend to shoppers, possessing a knowledge of many different nonfiction genres, and well-versed in the classics. We’d both been forced to fill her shoes in a lot of ways, and while we did our best, neither of us would ever be good enough.

Pushing those depressing thoughts aside, I resumed my work, quickly emptying the boxes and neatly lining the magazines up on their appropriate racks. I had to pause a few times to help customers, but had it all finished within half an hour. After disposing of the empty boxes out back, I resumed my place at the front counter. I perched on the wooden stool matching the varnished kiosk Dad had built by hand and glanced back at the newspaper.

Flipping it to the employment section, I began perusing the listings. There wasn’t much. Wellhollow Springs was such a small town, and most of the local businesses were family owned. I circled a few waitressing and cashier positions, but didn’t really feel a pull toward any of them.

Spotting an ad requesting a summertime babysitter for two young kids, I paused. It promised good pay and daytime hours, both of which appealed to me. Picking up the receiver for McGuire’s landline, I quickly dialed the number.

A man’s voice answered on the third ring. This is Ezra Wu.

Hello, Mr. Wu, I replied, using my most pleasant voice. My name is Bellamy, and I just saw your ad in the paper for a summer babysitter. I was wondering if the position was still open.

It is, he replied, his voice sharp and clear. If you are interested in coming for an interview, I can see you tomorrow morning at ten.

I’d be glad to come.

Great, Ezra replied. Let me give you the address.

I quickly reached for a pen, yanking and tearing off a bit of receipt paper from the register. While writing down the address, I furrowed my brow. This couldn’t be right. Yet, when I read it back to Ezra, he assured me it was correct.

Baldwin House.

The mansion on the hill overlooking Wellhollow Springs, where the wealthy and mysterious Baldwin family lived. Why these people needed a babysitter was beyond me. I always assumed rich people had live-in nannies.

I’ll see you in the morning, Bellamy, Ezra said before ending the call.

Hanging up the phone, I stared down at the address and pursed my lips. The Baldwins were practically royalty, being the richest family in town. Their property development company owned, and had built, most of the town and its surrounding housing developments.

Baldwin House had been shrouded in mystery ever since the family’s eldest son, Tate, had vanished. He’d been a student at my school back then—popular, smart, athletic, handsome. No one knew why he’d gone missing, and the rumors had grown more outrageous in the two years since. Around the same time that he disappeared, his parents had gated off the property and stopped accepting visitors. Their annual Halloween masquerade party had faded into obscurity, and only family, staff, and a close circle of friends were ever allowed to step foot over the threshold.

It seemed odd to me that the Baldwins would want to hire a babysitter, given how reclusive they’d all become. Despite the fact that I was usually pretty levelheaded, I couldn’t help letting my imagination run away with me.

A lot of people said Tate had gotten sick, and many even whispered he’d been disfigured in some sort of accident. Some claimed the house was haunted, others that the entire family were a bunch of psycho ax murderers.

As long as they pay me and don’t try to murder and eat me, I don’t care what their secrets are, I muttered out loud, laughing at myself for entertaining the rumors for even a second.

I had just dropped spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water when Dad came stomping in, his heavy tread echoing against the floorboards.

Spaghetti’s almost done, I called out, bending over to check on the garlic bread baking in the oven.

Without responding, he continued back to his room, the sound of him walking eventually fading away. With a frown, I lowered the heat on my sauce and left the kitchen, peering down the hall after him. The door to his bedroom hung open, the light casting a yellowish square against the opposite wall.

He’d stayed behind after closing to finish the books and balance out the register, urging me to go home ahead of him. Because we lived in the housing area closest to town, he often chose to walk to save on gas, and today had been one of those days. I usually worried about him walking home alone at night, because I never knew what might happen.

Edging slowly down the hall, I held my breath, listening for any sound. He murmured under his breath, and it sounded as if he were rifling through a drawer in search of something. My hands began to shake, and I clenched them into fists to still them as I reached the doorway.

He sat hunched over his desk, the pencil in his hand moving rapidly over a sheet of paper. The muttering had stopped, but he didn’t lift his head… not even when I called out to him.

Dad?

He continued his task, tremors causing his shoulders to spasm and jerk as if he were being shaken from the inside.

I could hear the worry in my own voice when I tried again. Dad, are you okay?

Still no answer. Glancing at the wall behind his desk, I found a familiar sight. Several sheets of paper lined the white space, held up by thumbtacks. They were drawings of people—but these people didn’t look human.

Ghosts, he called them. They looked half-mangled—some of them sporting gaping wounds in their faces or holes through their midsections. One looked as if an animal of some kind had ripped a huge chunk of flesh out of her face, showing her teeth through the hole in a grotesque display. Also tacked on the wall were newspaper clippings—obituaries. More sheets of paper with his messy handwriting had been attached, some with names and dates, others with causes of death.

Strangled. 10/25/12. Jennifer Davis.

Drowned. 6/05/10. Name unknown.

Lead poisoning. 1/19/11. Troy Bennett.

Some of the photos had pieces of colorful yarn connecting them. I once asked him why, and he told me it was because he believed their deaths to be connected in some way.

He was at it again, which meant he believed he had seen another ghost. When he got like this, I’d found it was best to leave him alone. After a sighting, he always wanted to document it while the memory was still fresh. I wouldn’t be able to pry him from that desk if I tried.

Retreating to the kitchen, I finished cooking dinner and made two plates. Putting Dad’s in the oven to keep it warm, I sat at the table alone with my book, happy to read in silence for the time being.

After I’d eaten two helpings of spaghetti, I remained at the table reading for at least another hour because the book had gripped me so thoroughly. There were only three chapters left by the time he finally emerged from his room.

His face was haggard and drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.

Your dinner’s in the oven, I said, giving him a quick glance before going back to my book.

He retrieved his plate and sat across from me, eating in silence. After a while, I couldn’t take the quiet any longer.

Where did you spot this one? I asked, dog-earing my spot and closing the book.

Pausing with the fork halfway to his mouth, he met my gaze. Not far from the house, actually. That’s the third one in the neighborhood this month… I can’t figure out why.

Frowning, I watched him go back to his food,