 
# The Pit Stop

## This Stop Could be Life or Death

### Carmen DeSousa

###

####

##### 
The Pit Stop (Bonus Edition)

American Haunts Collection

Copyright© 2012 by Carmen DeSousa

ISBN: 9780989905077

www.CarmenDeSousaBooks.com

Cover Design by Melinda De Ross

This is a fictional work. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are solely the concepts and products of the author's imagination or are used to create a fictitious story and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior permission in writing, except in the case of brief quotations, reviews, and articles.

For any other permission, please visit www.CarmenDeSousaBooks.com.

# Contents

  * American Haunts Collection
  * The Pit Stop
  * 1 – Prologue
  * 1 – 1
  * 1 – 2
  * 1 – 3
  * 1 – 4
  * 1 – 5
  * 1 – 6
  * 1 – 7
  * 1 – 8
  * 1 – 9
  * 1 – 10
  * 1 – 11
  * 1 – 12
  * The Depot
  * A Ghost Story
  * 2 – Prologue
  * 2 – 1
  * 2 – 2
  * 2 – 3
  * 2 – 4
  * 2 – 5
  * 2 – 6
  * 2 – 7
  * 2 – 8
  * 2 – 9
  * 2 – 10
  * 2 – 11
  * The Library
  * 3 – Prologue
  * 3 –1
  * 3 –2

### 1

# American Haunts Collection

###

# The Pit Stop

#### This Stop Could be Life or Death

###

## 1 – Prologue

The old wooden café appeared safe enough, but the lack of surrounding cars gave Gino Canale pause as he opened the door of his hybrid. The GPS he and Sheila had been using had directed them off the highway in search of gas. But there were no gas stations around, just one country store on the outskirts of this Northern California town.

Sheila opened her door, but he waved her off. "Stay in the car. Let me check out this place."

As usual, she did what she wanted and jumped out anyway. "I have to go. I've had to go since that last exit you ignored."

"Fine," Gino replied, walking toward the entrance, Sheila on his heels. He listened for sounds of life, but nothing but utter silence greeted him. Normally there'd be a hum of electricity, birds chirping ... something. A lopsided sign behind a dusty windowpane indicated the café was open, though. He turned to his wife. "What do you think?"

"I think I need a bathroom — now!"

Gino reached for the doorknob, but before he could turn the tarnished brass handle, the door screeched open as if the wind — or someone — had opened it. Bells tinkled above the doorframe, announcing his arrival.

"Hello?" he called, but his voice faded into the stillness of the store. The only noise came from the creaking of the wood planks below the new Crocs his wife had talked him into buying. "Is anyone here?"

A crackling sound started up behind the counter. Someone had turned on an old AM radio. The music that emanated was reminiscent of old fifties-style music his grandparents used to listen to.

"Afternoon!" a man called out in a hoarse voice as he popped up from behind the register. "You kids ain't from around here, are ya?"

"Uh, no, sir," Gino stuttered, not sure why he couldn't find his voice. "We're heading to a wedding, and we just ran low on gas and were wondering if there was a gas station nearby."

The man chuckled. "Son, you don't need gas. You've got a full tank."

Gino shook his head. "Excuse me, how would —" Sheila tugged on his arm, then flashed him the look he knew all too well; they'd stopped a hundred times on this trip. "Sir, is there a restroom my wife could use?"

"'Round back, but she doesn't have to go."

"What's that racket, Joe?" An old woman stepped through a doorway on the other side of the room.

Gino gasped and grabbed Sheila's hand, pulling her toward the door. "Let's get out of here."

"But —"

"Trust me, honey. Something isn't right."

The old man stepped around the counter. "Just a couple of lost souls, Martha." As the man moved toward them, Gino felt beads of sweat dampen his forehead, but the man just opened the door, allowing them to leave. "We'll see yens back here soon." He lowered his head and stared Gino deep in the eyes. "Don't you recognize me, son?"

Gino nudged Sheila through the doorway toward their vehicle.

"What the heck are you doing, Gino?" his wife screeched.

Gino's heart pounded in his chest. "That was my Grandpap Joe. He died twenty years ago."

###

## 1 – 1

Gino started upright. He swiped his hand across his damp forehead. Perspiration had saturated his mop of hair; he was long overdue for a haircut. He patted the right side of the bed and found his wife's arm.

She rolled over in response. "Same dream again, honey?" she mumbled into her pillow.

"Yeah." He rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. "I just don't understand. They've been dead for twenty years. Why am I dreaming about them? And they lived in Pennsylvania their entire life. All of our family does. We don't even know anyone in California."

He leaned against the doorframe and stared at his wife as if she held the answer.

She must have felt his gaze because she opened one eye, obviously not happy with him waking her up so early. But he'd needed to make sure that she was there ... that they were alive and not in some weird purgatory type of reality. He didn't even believe in the hereafter, let alone an in-between dimension.

Sheila propped herself up on her elbow and stared at him. "It's just a dream, Gino. Let it go. It doesn't mean anything."

"But don't you see ..." he walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, "it does. My grandfather was the reason I became a cop in the first place. And now, ever since I've made detective, their deaths have haunted me. It just doesn't make sense." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, babe. Go back to sleep. You're right; it doesn't mean anything."

He swept a strand of hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. Leaning back to look at her, he smiled. "Although, some of the dream was accurate. Like how we can't go on a trip without stopping every two hours." He laughed, and she smacked his arm.

"Go to work, you weirdo." She rolled over, dismissing the conversation.

After Gino filled his mega coffee mug, he hopped into his Camaro and tore off toward the station. Huh! Hybrid vehicle! Not even close. Was that what his dream was telling him ... that he needed to get rid of his gas-hogging Z28? He would, but he only drove a few miles to work, so it'd take a hundred years to make up the difference in price. No. Something about the dream was deeper; he just hadn't put the pieces together yet.

The one thing that kept tugging at his mind was that he hadn't recognized his grandfather's face at first. The sound of his grandmother's voice was what had him pulling his wife out the door to safety. But when his grandfather had stepped in front of him, asking him if he recognized him — Why was he even thinking about this? Sheila was right. It was just a dream.

He bit down on his lip and stared at the grade-school children crossing the street in front of him. The crossing guard waved a greeting. Camp Creek was too small of a town for the deaths of two people to go unsolved, especially two of the greatest people who'd ever walked the earth.

It wasn't right. Too many unanswered questions shadowed his grandparents' deaths, even though the M.E. had documented their deaths as _Death by natural causes_.

Gino inhaled a large breath as he pressed on the gas, then looked up at the sky at nothing in particular. People just did it because it made them feel better. As much as he'd love to believe that his grandparents were in Heaven, he simply didn't believe in life after death. Even if his pap wasn't in another realm, though, he still deserved answers. And Gino intended to get those answers.

###

## 1 – 2

Gino leaned back in the booth at the crowded diner, wondering why the captain had asked him to meet him alone. The restaurant was a regular haunt for officers to grab a half-priced meal and free coffee, but he hadn't been here in years. Too many memories.

Whenever the detectives mentioned The Pit Stop as their destination for lunch, he'd politely pass, citing he was going to meet Sheila for lunch outside the elementary school where she taught fifth grade. She always liked it when he'd show up right before the lunch bell, toting two subs, a bag of chips, and drinks, whisking her away from her normal bagged lunch in the teachers lounge.

The owners of the diner obviously loved the police department's patronage, as it kept riffraff away. The once-quiet neighborhood of the fifties had morphed into a crime-filled haven. It made no difference that Camp Creek was a small town. Almost made it worse, as bored teenagers, and adults, seeking thrills, made way for drug dealers and other types of criminal activity.

As Gino gazed around, he understood part of his dream. The railcar dining car was ancient. The place hadn't changed since his grandfather had brought him here. Construction workers and businessmen alike occupied red vinyl-covered stools alongside the white countertop to partake in the daily special. A greasy patty-melt burger with fries or homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy filled their plates.

Captain Jeff Jackson flopped down in the booth, inhaling deeply, a wide smile lifting his cheeks. "Don't you love this place?"

"Yeah," Gino lied lightly. Always a good idea not to offend the captain. Of course, there had to be a reason Captain Jackson invited him. The detective in him was instantly curious.

Jackson's mouth quirked up. "But you're wondering why I asked you to meet me here?"

At the sound of bells, Gino glanced toward the entrance, but seeing no one, turned his attention back to his captain. "Yeah. The thought crossed my mind."

Jackson ran the back of his hand up the stubble on his normally clean-shaven face. "I like the food and the country music. Most restaurants have new-age blaring through the speakers and serve rabbit food."

"Uh-huh," Gino agreed. Though his stomach handled those eateries better than the food at these types of places. Maybe it was because Sheila forced him to eat some combination of grilled chicken and vegetables most nights of the week. Of course, he couldn't complain. Weightlifting his entire life, and even when he was heavy into football, hadn't given him six-pack abs until she'd changed his diet. "But you didn't invite me here for the food and music, Captain. What gives?"

The waitress approached, halting his answer. Her eyes roamed over Gino longer than necessary. He swore women were attracted to his wedding ring. _Like moths to a flame_ , he'd told his wife.

The woman pulled out her pad. "What're you boys havin'?"

"Two specials with sweet tea, Sally," Jackson ordered for both of them, scooping up and handing her both of the food-crusted plastic menus.

_Probably better_ , Gino thought, since he had planned to order a chef salad, which would have probably brought into question his manhood in front of his superior.

The woman smiled and walked off, swaying her hips to the country music that filled the restaurant. Jackson's eyes remained glued to her as she made her way to the service station. Maybe Sally was the real reason Jackson liked the diner, not the food and music. Gino wanted an answer to why he was here, but figured he'd better wait until Sally returned with their drinks, so he'd have Jackson's full attention.

Gino swept the room with his eyes again, a habit he'd probably never stop; it was as ingrained as breathing was.

After a few minutes, Sally dropped off the drinks and sauntered over to a table of construction workers, working all her momma gave her, it seemed, to increase her tips.

Although Gino was certain the music was satellite fed – as there'd been no commercials – just the DJ he always heard when he zoomed past the station on his Sirius radio, the speaker above his head crackled like an old AM radio. Then he heard a sound he hadn't heard in years: someone lighting a pipe. The gurgling noise made him smile, and then the sweet pungent odor invaded his senses, taking him back about thirty years. He turned to see who was smoking in a public restaurant, but the booth behind him was empty.

"There was a double homicide yesterday," Captain Jackson's voice broke through his reflections of the past.

Gino swung around to meet Jackson's gaze. "What? Why wasn't I called?"

Jackson cocked his head south. "Not in Camp Creek. Next county over."

Gino narrowed his eyes. "Umm ... what does that have to do with me, then?"

"The lead detective, Mark Waters, called this morning. His father, Wilson Waters, worked a case with me years ago, so he knew me." Jackson lowered his head and spoke in a confidential tone, "The murders mirrored your grandparents' homicides."

###

## 1 – 3

Gino swallowed hard. "Homicides? No one has ever referred to my grandparents' deaths as homicides."

Jackson took a sip of his iced tea, then flashed a quick peek around the diner. "Well, I've always thought it was suspicious. Your grandfather meant the world to me; he was my mentor. And their deaths have troubled me for twenty years, as they did Wilson Waters at the time. Even though we worked in different departments, since Wilson had gone to school with your pap and the property sat on the county line, we'd worked it together. But there was nothing to hint of foul play — other than our gut instinct — so our superiors made us drop it."

A shiver swept through Gino. "I've always wondered. Even as a teenager it didn't make any sense. What are the similarities?" He glanced over his shoulder again, haunted by the sound of the bells and the smell of the pipe that he knew couldn't have been his imagination.

"What are you looking for, Gino?" Jackson's voice held an edge of irritation, and Gino couldn't blame him because of how strange he was behaving. He must look like a paranoid schizophrenic.

Gino turned back toward his captain, afraid to voice his question, but he had to know. "Did you see someone smoking a pipe?" Maybe the man had gone to the restroom.

Captain's brow furrowed. "Customers aren't allowed to smoke inside the restaurant."

Gino nodded. He knew that, he'd just hoped he wasn't losing his mind.

"Jo, pick up!" a woman's raspy voice rattled from behind the counter. Gino gasped, then focused his gaze on the woman who sounded just like his grandmother calling out for his pap.

"Are you all right?" Captain asked. "You look as if you saw a ghost."

"Did she just call for 'Joe' to pick up?"

Captain huffed out a breath. "Yeah. JoAnn's one of the waitresses. I think you need to lay off the coffee, Gino. You're as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."

Inhaling a deep breath, Gino sank into the booth, focusing his eyes on his captain, and did his best to look completely sane.

Jackson leaned forward. "Back to your grandparents. Have you read their file?"

"Actually, no," Gino admitted. He had planned to read it today, but wasn't sure how the captain would react to him researching a twenty-year-old case. "I've always wanted to, though."

Captain sucked air through his teeth, a habit the other cops mocked behind his back. "So, you haven't pulled it yet? Never touched it?"

Nervous at once, Gino shook his head. What was the captain insinuating?

"That's what I was afraid of. It's missing. I went to pull it this morning when I got the call —" Jackson stopped speaking, his eyes glancing up as an elderly gentleman approached their table, carrying two platters. The discolored apron he wore, which had probably been white at some point, indicated that he probably worked in the kitchen.

"Two specials, gentlemen —" The man stopped mid-sentence, staring at Gino as though he knew him. "Gino!"

Gino glared at the man, questioning how he knew his name. He hadn't been in here since he was a kid.

The old man bent down in front of him until they were at eye level. "You've grown up!" He flashed a smile, showing off a set of either nicotine or coffee-stained teeth. "Don't you recognize me, son?"

"What – did – you – say?" Gino asked each word individually, his voice demanding.

"Um ... Your pap used to bring you in here." The old man's voice faltered, obviously taken aback.

Gino stood and brushed past the old man. "I'm sorry. Excuse me." He needed to get some fresh air.

He rushed toward the exit, opened the door, then started to walk out of the restaurant, but stopped and looked up. _No bells_. His stomach plunged, and he thought he might get sick.

###

## 1 – 4

Gino paced the parking lot as his mind whirled. Was he crazy? The dreams, the radio, the pipe scent, the bells. It couldn't all be a coincidence.

He hunched over, resting his hands on his knees as his mind battled with reality. _Ghosts aren't real_ , he repeatedly muttered to himself.

A familiar voice echoed in his head, but this time it wasn't a dream or ghost chimes. An embedded memory from his childhood when he was learning to ride his bicycle. His pap had scolded him for wanting to give up after he'd run into the garbage bins sitting at the end of the neighbor's driveway and started to cry. "Nonsense, boy," his pap had rumbled in his deep voice. "Stand up, wipe off your backside, and get back on that bike. You gonna let something knock you down? Show your pap that you're a man."

Every time Gino had wanted to give up at the academy, studying for the sergeant's exams, getting Sheila — he laughed at how he'd refused to back off no matter how many times she'd insisted she didn't date cops, even though her father was a cop. They'd dated off and on in high school, but he hadn't seen her when she was away at college. When he spotted her at a neighborhood barbeque, he had to have her and wouldn't take no for an answer, insisting she go out with him at least once.

Whenever he felt like giving up – on anything – he'd remember his pap's words.

Gino inhaled a deep breath, stood to his full six-two, then walked back into the diner.

The old man approached him again. "Sorry, Gino. Didn't mean to spook ya. Your pap and I go way back ... Umm... before he passed, that is. We played football together. 'Course, we didn't have the gear yens have today." The old man tapped his head. "They just gave us a strip of leather to put over our noggins." He chuckled and turned, gesturing that Gino should walk with him. "Your pap was a good man, going into the service and all, then on to being a cop." The old man stopped, then rested his cold and clammy hand on Gino's forearm. "Your pap ever mention me?"

Gino shook his head.

"Name's Alan Jones, but everyone calls me Smitty." He started walking again, stopping in front of the booth where the captain still sat, staring up at Gino as though he'd grown an extra head. "See yens around," Smitty called over his shoulder as he scurried back toward the kitchen.

Captain notched his head up then glared at Gino, sucking his teeth again. "What's up?"

Gino sank into the booth, leaning forward. "Tell me how this crime scene mirrors my grandparents' deaths."

Jackson moved to the end of the booth, resting his back against the window. "I just got off the phone. I set up a time to go inspect the scene, but apparently there's not much to see." He propped his elbow up on the table. "What always struck me as odd with your grandparents' deaths is that they both died peacefully in their sleep on the same night." Captain turned and looked around as though someone might be eavesdropping.

_Good_ , Gino thought, _he still has some preservation skills_. He'd wondered about that when Captain had sat with his back facing the door, as opposed to the window, as he now sat.

Captain Jackson leaned over the table. "Your pap was the epitome of good health. Heck, he worked out more than you or I do, and he was only in his early fifties. According to Detective Waters, they found these folks the same way, with no signs of a struggle. Doesn't it seem strange that not just one, but two couples would die together in their sleep?"

Confused, Gino shook his head. "Maybe, but their deaths are twenty years apart. Why would you think that it's murder?"

"Because Waters does. Evidently, a man letting his dog out to do its business, saw someone dressed all in black leaving the house in the middle of the night. He assumed it was a burglary, but did the smart thing and called 911. Not ten minutes later, the police arrived, found nothing missing, but discovered two dead bodies."

###

## 1 – 5

Gino followed Captain Jackson and Detective Mark Waters into the house of the murdered couple. The detective had a commanding gaze and a strong handshake for his age. Gino guessed him to be in his late twenties.

Not that Gino was old at thirty-two, but he'd certainly spent more time on the streets than Mark Waters, and yet Detective Waters had that seasoned look. Eyes that read not just what your lips spoke, but what your entire body said.

In his years as a police officer and detective, Gino had learned that you listened to people with your eyes, not your ears. Bad guys could utter a lie without missing a beat, but their body language screamed the truth.

Detective Waters passed two closed doors, then stepped inside the last room at the end of the hallway. "Forensics has already dusted for prints, so help yourself, gentlemen." He shrugged. "Though, there's not much to see. Nothing in the room was out of place according to their daughter, who came in this morning and gave a statement. She's an RN who had just gotten off the nightshift, so she came right in."

Gino shifted his gaze from the detective to take in the room. The bedroom was immaculate ... not one crooked picture, no dust on the nightstands, even the couple's slippers were lined up perfectly by the bed, ready for them to step into the next morning.

Captain strolled toward the master bath, and Gino walked over to the bookcase adjacent the bed. Something wasn't right. He knelt down in front of the case and spotted the one thing in the room that wasn't meticulously in its place.

Eight photo albums, each with a description of its contents, stood upright on the second shelf. The retired woman must have been into scrapbooking. Sheila had attempted to make a scrapbook of their wedding album, but had given up on the tedious task. It was clear that the woman who had made these was a perfectionist. Each bound book had a label of either a year or event, and only one was moved a fraction out of place.

Gino pulled out the album with the embossed title "Thurber's Team" written on the spine.

Waters moved up behind him and peered over his shoulder. "Whacha got?"

Gino shook his head as he flipped open the book with his latex-covered hand. "I don't know, but it was the only thing in the room that was out of place."

He traced the outline of the blank first page. Based on the small amount of residue used to affix a picture, a photo was missing. Gino flipped to the next page, which held multiple photos of young men in football gear. On one of the pages, '57 was scribbled onto the frame of the black-and-white photograph. Upon flipping through the pages, he discovered every page had at least one picture missing.

Captain crossed the room and hovered over the detectives. "Whaddya find, Gino?"

"I think I found our first lead, Captain." He pointed to one of the pictures on the page. The image was faint, and there was barely an outline of a man in the background, but he'd recognize that smile anywhere. "That there's my pap."

###

## 1 – 6

Gino pushed the food around on his plate. His mind kept returning to the picture of his grandfather in the dead couple's photo album.

"Ouch!" He darted his eyes across the table, frowning at his wife. "Why did you kick me?"

Sheila smiled. "I'm sorry, was that your leg? I didn't know you were here. I thought I was eating alone."

"Funny." He peered back down at his food.

"What's going on, Gino? You haven't said a word since you walked in the house. Well, unless you count the grunt you muttered as you tromped up the steps." She rested her hand on his arm. "Talk to me. Is that dream still bothering you?"

He exhaled a deep breath and threw back his head. If it were only that simple. How could he tell his wife that he'd been hearing ghost chimes and smelling pipes that weren't there? She'd think he was insane. He was starting to wonder himself.

Gino tapped his thumb on the table, but then stopped himself. He'd been trying to break that nervous gesture. He couldn't question a suspect with a tic that'd give him away if he were trying to convince a suspect that he had evidence when he didn't. "Not exactly." He couldn't lie to Sheila; she'd see right through him. Ten years of marriage, and he swore she knew him better than he knew himself. He ran his hand across his mouth. Dang, another tic. Usually when a criminal ran his hand over his mouth, it meant he was planning to lie. A subtle way of admitting that even he didn't believe the words he was about to speak. Gino decided to start with the truth. "There was a double homicide last night."

"In Camp Creek?" Her eyes widened as she covered her mouth with her hand. Her body language was easy to read, always had been.

"No. Edenbury."

Her hand fell to her lap as though it were okay that the homicides had happened in the neighboring town instead of Camp Creek. "So, why are you involved?"

"Their deaths mirrored the deaths of my grandparents."

"But I thought —"

"Yeah, me too," he interrupted. "It just doesn't make sense. I'm having all these crazy dreams, and then suddenly Captain takes me aside to tell me about two homicides that mirror my grandparents' deaths, and that he'd always thought their deaths were suspicious —"

"He said that?" she cut in.

Gino nodded. "Yeah, but that's not the worst part. When I got to the crime scene, I found a photo album of an old high school football team from the fifties. And when I checked it out, there were several pictures missing. But even stranger, my grandfather was on the team."

As if not understanding, Sheila leaned forward. "Your grandfather's picture was at the crime scene?"

He nodded again. "Exactly — wait a second!" Gino jumped up from the table and ran upstairs. He pulled down the attic stairs and climbed up.

Walking carefully, stepping only on the beams, he made his way to the back of the attic. The house had been in his family for generations. His parents had stored all of his grandparents' items in the attic after their deaths. And the idea of throwing away their personal stuff just didn't seem right. After all, it was their house. His parents had rented it out after his grandparents' deaths, but said that the home was his whenever he got married.

A box of old photo albums sat in the corner, covered with years of dust. He knelt down beside it and sorted through the dates his grandmother had marked on the side.

There it was. 1957. He flipped through a few pages until he saw the name he was searching for. He'd just spoken with him this morning. _Smitty_.

###

## 1 – 7

He recognized the man's face immediately. But the strange thing was ... Smitty wasn't focusing on the camera. The scraggly-looking teen was staring off to the left, toward a few cheerleaders standing in a loose circle.

Gino stood and walked toward the single overhead light bulb on the roof. He held the picture up to the light. Yep! He knew one of those cheerleaders looked familiar. Even stranger, his grandmother was also not paying attention to the girls in her group or the camera. Martha's eyes were peering to the right. Gino searched the picture for his grandfather. He was standing in front of them, a large toothy grin stretching his face as he watched the game or practice game. He'd always been a happy man. Always had a joke to share. Were Smitty and Martha staring at his Grandpap Joe, or someone else? Or maybe this was all just a stupid coincidence —

"What are you doing?"

Gino gasped as Sheila's voice broke into his thoughts at the same time her head popped up through the attic opening. "Oh, my God! You almost gave me a heart attack, woman!" He whooshed out a gust of air, feeling his heart thrash double time inside his chest.

She huffed through her nose at the same time that she laughed. "As jumpy as you are at home, how in the world do you ever search buildings?" She shook her head. "Come on down before you fall through the ceiling. That's all we need."

Gino pulled the clingy plastic film back and carefully removed the old photo from the sticky page, attempting not to tear it. Once removed, he tucked the picture in his pocket, returned the album to the box, and then carefully traced his steps back toward the stairs. Sheila was right. They didn't need an extra expense of having to fix a hole in the ceiling.

What had been going on with his grandmother and Smitty? They couldn't have been having an affair. Smitty wasn't even a good-looking guy. His grandfather, on the other hand, was a catch. His grandmother had always joked around about how he'd swept her off her feet, right after he plowed into her off the football field while tackling the wide receiver. She'd said the moment he picked her up off the ground and stared into her eyes, she knew. She'd said it was love at first sight, and she'd never been able to see another man in that way again.

Gino couldn't imagine that she'd have cheated on him, especially in the 1950s. Who did that back then?

He backed down the stairs and bumped right into his wife, and jumped again. "Stop sneaking up on me," he demanded, smiling.

"Gino, what's going on?" Sheila crossed her arms in front of her, accentuating her breasts. All of a sudden, he didn't care about pictures and grandparents. It was time to forget all this crazy stuff ... until tomorrow.

"Let's go to bed early." He grinned. "It's been a long day, and I really didn't sleep much last night."

Tomorrow, he'd make the connections. He always thought better after an early night with his wife. He'd sleep deeper, so his mind could connect the dots he missed in the daylight hours.

His wife took his hand and led him toward their bedroom; evidently, she was ready to forget her day and the screaming fifth graders she taught, too.

"Sheila," he started, not certain how to ask this stupid question, but his wife had been extremely close to his grandmother when she was a child. Since she didn't have grandparents, Martha had been like her godmother. Sheila and he had been best friends all through grade school, until he saw her as the opposite gender in high school, that is. It was weird at first, but after their first kiss under the bleachers, he knew she was the woman he'd marry someday. Even his mother had been upset when they'd stopped dating when Sheila moved away for college. But it had worked out for the best. He'd dated enough women in those four years to recognize what a catch Sheila was. When he saw her at the age of twenty-two, he knew immediately that she was the woman for him. After he finally convinced her to go out with him, they married within six months.

"Yes?" she asked as she walked into their bedroom.

"Never mind." He pulled her into his arms. Thinking about their first kiss always had his mouth watering to taste her. He pulled both her arms up above her head and turned her body so she was up against the wall. Taking advantage of the position, he pressed his mouth against hers. She opened up to him, allowing his tongue to explore her. Ten years and he still loved kissing her. He moved to her neck, tickling her with his breath, making her squirm.

"You know," she whispered in his ear, breathless from just one kiss, "there's a bed three feet behind you where you can take full advantage of me."

He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. She knew him so well. Keeping hold of her hands, he pressed his lips to hers again, while moving her to the bed. He held both of her hands above her head with one hand now, while his other hand unbuttoned her sweater. "I love it when you allow me to take advantage of you, Mrs. Canale. And when you wear these sweaters with all these buttons. All you need now is a strand of pearls ..."

She giggled in response.

"You're not supposed to giggle." He laughed, capturing her lips again and taking full advantage of her body, looking forward to the moment when she couldn't take it any longer, and her hands would break free from his so she could pull him tighter against her body.

After they'd both worked out the day's stress, they each released a sigh of total contentment. A few seconds later, Sheila made her way to the master bath.

"Babe," he called out to her before she shut the door.

She turned around, so beautiful standing there half-dressed in the muted light from the bathroom. "Mm-hm?"

He shook off the thoughts of following her into the shower. "Did Gran ever mention someone named Smitty?"

"No, but she wrote about him in her diary."

###

## 1 – 8

The driver sat across the street in a new Chevy pickup, holding a pair of binoculars aimed at Gino Canale's house. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. All this should have ended with the death of Gino's grandparents twenty years ago, but it seemed the secrets would never go away.

Killing the first time had been difficult, but doing it again had been harder. If there had been any other way to handle the situation, it wouldn't have been necessary. But sometimes, people just wouldn't let the past die. They continued to try to _resolve_ problems instead of letting the past disappear.

Now the problem was Martha Canale's diary. According to Sue Thurber, Martha had documented every secret she'd ever heard inside her diary. For some reason, women back in the fifties tended to record all their personal secrets — and other's. Nowadays, narcissistic people simply documented their life on Facebook for the voyeurs of the world.

The radio crackled as if the light-rock station had suddenly changed to an out-of-area frequency. Odd. According to the salesman, the radio was a top-of-the-line digital stereo. It wasn't supposed to have static. Figures. It seemed you couldn't rely on anyone to tell the truth, especially a car salesman. It was as if they purposely tried to take advantage of the buyer by recommending faulty aftermarket items to pad their pockets.

A chill swept through the truck, and the driver raised the window in response. Shifting the vehicle into reverse, the driver started to back up, but saw a figure standing behind the truck, and slammed on the brakes. When the driver whipped around to look out the rear window, nothing was visible except inky darkness and a deserted street.

Suddenly, the crackly radio blared out music at decibels so high that the truck windows rattled in the darkness. The engine revved as the gear shifter moved into drive and the truck lurched forward, slamming the driver into the seat, causing a shrill scream to penetrate the air as the truck barreled toward a streetlamp.

The speedometer's white arm moved to the right with speed almost as fast as the truck careening toward the corner and the waiting pole that would split the truck down the middle like a hot knife through melted butter. The steering wheel refused to move, and the brake and accelerator pedals were nonexistent. At the last second, the driver cringed, preparing for the crash, but nothing happened.

Opening one eye cautiously and then the other, the driver realized that the car had never moved from the parking space across from Gino's house.

The radio had fallen silent, and the window was down as it had been only minutes earlier. Heart racing and blood rushing, the driver carefully turned the ignition. The Chevy sprang to life with a quiet purr, and the soft-rock station started up again. Melodic guitar lines from an old Santana tune streamed through the speakers at the radio's normal volume. But as the title of the song scrolled across the radio display, the driver blanched. _Evil Ways_.

###

## 1 – 9

Gino stood behind a one-way glass, watching as Detective Mark Waters interviewed Alan Jones, aka Smitty.

They didn't have anything on Smitty other than the fact that the pictures of the same football team that had Smitty's image in them that Gino had found among his pap's pictures had apparently been missing from the album at the Thurbers' house. Smitty had gone to school with the Thurbers and the Canales. Unfortunately, other than the fact that both couples went to high school together and were found in the same way, there was no proof of homicide in either case. But when Gino called Waters this morning, sharing the information he found, the detective had asked Smitty to come in and talk. He wasn't under arrest; this was just a gathering of information, hoping they could break him into divulging evidence.

Sheila was still searching through the attic for his grandmother's diary. It'd been so long since she read it that she couldn't remember why his grandmother had mentioned Smitty. But it wasn't because Martha was having an affair, she remembered. Sheila had told Gino that reading her godmother's diary was like reading a romance novel full of scandalous friends and true love that was meant to be.

Detective Waters leaned back in his chair, chewing on his pen as a nervous-looking Smitty picked at a nick on the table.

"Please state your full name for the record," Waters asked as he pressed _Start_ on an antiquated recording device. Gino snickered, wondering if the officers who had interrogated Lee Harvey Oswald had used the same type of device. Gino's department wasn't high-tech, but at least they had an updated video and audio recording system.

Smitty squirmed in his seat before answering, "Alan Smith Jones, but everyone's always called me Smitty."

"And you're the owner of The Pit Stop?"

"Y'sir. Inherited it from my granddad a few years back."

"What did you do before then?" Waters continued with questions meant to set a baseline for Smitty's responses. By asking simple questions first, the accused would let down his guard just enough that when the detective asked a pertinent question, either he'd answer honestly or stumble all over himself trying to come up with a quick lie, which would allow the detective to spot the difference.

"I've worked at The Pit Stop my entire life," Smitty answered.

"So, how long have you known Sue and Nelson Thurber, Mr. Jones?"

"Darn near my entire life also. We'd all gone to high school together."

"And when's the last time you saw them?"

Smitty scratched his head. "Hmm ... 'bout a week or so, I guess. They liked to come in for Sunday brunch at my diner every once in a while."

"Do you know why anyone would want to kill them?"

Smitty sighed. "They were good people; it's a darn shame."

Gino watched the interview in frustration, realizing Smitty hadn't answered the question and was nervous about something. But every word he spoke dripped with truth. Matter of fact, Gino didn't think Smitty'd be able to tell a lie. If they knew the correct question to ask, Gino was certain they could get to the bottom of his involvement with the two couples' deaths.

"Did you like Sue, Smitty?" Waters continued.

"Sure ..." Smitty answered, moving around in his seat like a little boy, almost looking embarrassed. "We all did."

Gino leaned forward, closer to the glass as though he'd be able to get a better view than he already had. He wanted to be in there asking the questions. This was it. Would Waters catch that subtle change in Smitty's posture?

Detective Waters leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, causing Gino to smile. He _had_ noticed, and now it was time for the you-can-tell-me-we're-friends approach. Gino watched as Smitty leaned back in his chair too, the mirror neurons in full swing.

Mark Waters lifted his cup of coffee, but he didn't take a sip. Instead, he stopped midway to his mouth. "So, did you and Sue date in high school?"

Smitty's mouth turned up just slightly at the edges, and now there was a pronounced reddening in his cheeks, but he only nodded as an answer.

Mark took a sip of his coffee, allowing a slight pause, nodding in understanding. "She was a nice-looking woman, wasn't she?"

The old man nodded again, but this time stole a peek around the room as though he were searching for an escape. He was shutting down, realizing he'd said too much, and was preparing to flee. And they had nothing to keep him.

Waters tilted his head again, displaying an I'm-your-friend demeanor. "Have you and Sue been seeing each other, Smitty?"

"No, sir." Smitty whipped his head back and forth. "Just when she comes into the restaurant is all."

"And how often does she come to _your_ restaurant?"

Smitty jerked his head up to meet the detective's eyes, then flashed a glance at the two-way mirror. "Am I under arrest, Detective?"

"No, no ..." Waters waved his hands. "I'm just trying to figure out how the Thurbers died, maybe even the Canales. You were their friend, right? So, I figured you'd wanna help."

For the first time since Gino had met Smitty, he didn't look like a fragile old man. He held Mark Waters' gaze. "I'd start with Nurse Becky, then." The old man stood up. "Is it okay if I go now? My wife is all by herself and the lunch crowd will be in soon."

Waters stood up beside him. "Becky? As in Rebecca Thurber, their daughter?"

Smitty walked out the door without answering.

###

## 1 – 10

Gino stepped through the door of the adjacent room and watched as Smitty scampered off down the corridor. He cocked his head at Waters. "The Thurbers' daughter?"

Waters shrugged, evidently as confused as he was. "We spoke with her right after their bodies were discovered. She came to the house and said everything appeared normal and she couldn't imagine who would have snuck into her parents' house and killed them. And of course, other than the neighbor stating he saw someone leaving the Thurbers' home around three a.m., there's nothing indicating a homicide." Detective Waters reached for the phone at his side and pulled it out of its holder. He glanced at the screen, then nodded. "M.E. wants me. Maybe he found something. Wanna come?"

"Sure," Gino agreed.

Mark tossed his half-full coffee cup in the trash and headed down the hall, and Gino trailed behind him.

He didn't really want to go to the M.E.'s office. Unlike some cops, the smell of death still got to him. Maybe he had a better sniffer than some officers, since he didn't smoke. But he'd gotten so familiar with the stench of death that he could smell it on someone who hadn't died yet. Sheila had introduced him to one of the older teachers at her school, and he'd known immediately that the man was dying. When he'd asked later, Sheila confirmed that the man had cancer. He died a week later. It wasn't a skill he was proud of, that was for sure. He'd rather not be able to smell some of the criminals he'd handcuffed and thrown in the back of his cruiser. But it did come in handy a few times when he was serving a warrant and the spouse of the wanted individual claimed they hadn't seen the person in months. All he had to do was step a few feet into the apartment, and he could sniff him out. Most criminals had the smell of fear, which smelled like excrement and sweat. The other officers had teased him about it after the first arrest, saying he had a future as a police dog if he couldn't pass the sergeant's exam. Luckily, he'd passed.

***

The M.E., Rick Cooper, according to the nameplate on the door, opened the cooler and pulled out one of the Thurbers as soon as Mark and Gino arrived. He unzipped the bag, revealing the feet of the victim, and Gino was almost positive he was looking at Nelson Thurber's feet. Even bloated and discolored, no woman would have that big of feet, at least he hoped not.

"You see this?" Cooper pointed to a small hole between the man's toes. "That's what some junkies do. Those who are still trying to balance a normal life with their addiction, that is. Only, I don't think this seventy-something-year-old couple was addicted to heroin. Nope. I think you gentlemen have a couple homicides on your hands. I've ordered a tox-screen, so I'll let you know what I find."

Waters nodded and turned to Gino. "I guess we need to talk with R.N. Rebecca Thurber again," he said, as if thinking aloud. He certainly wasn't asking for Gino's advice. Mark Waters seemed to be on the ball. Obviously, his father had taught him a thing or two.

On the way back to the station, Gino shifted in his seat to face Mark. "Jackson said your father worked as a detective with him on my grandparents' case, Joe and Martha Canale. Did he ever mention their case?"

Mark pulled his eyes off the road for a second and looked him in the eyes, nodding. "He didn't like it, always said there was something that didn't add up, but then the chief had told him to drop it. My dad had gone to school with your grandfather."

Gino blanched at that. "How's that possible?"

Waters laughed. "Not impossible, just unusual. My dad went into the military right after high school and made a career out of it. He didn't get married until he was forty. I remember him studying the case when I was a child. I guess I was eight years old, but I wanted to know everything my dad knew about being a detective. I wanted so badly to please him. He was such a tough guy."

"Why do you think he took the deaths so hard? Besides being high school friends, that is."

"They were close. They'd been in the service together, too. But it seemed like there was more. He just couldn't let it go. When I'd come home early from school once a few months later, I found him crying in his study." Mark turned to look at Gino again. "My dad didn't cry. As I said, he was a tough man. I walked up to him, afraid that something may have happened to my mother, but I saw the same file he'd always pore over, as though he'd missed something. When I touched him on the arm, he jumped up. It was so sudden that I thought he was going to hit me. Instead, he slammed the folder shut and walked out of the room, mumbling something that sounded like ... _all my fault_." Waters dropped his head slightly, shaking it. "I never heard him talk about the case again, and he died soon after. But when this happened, I knew something was up. I'd heard my dad say too many times how it just didn't make sense that both of them had died peacefully in their sleep."

Gino huffed out a breath. "No. It doesn't — wait ... did you request the file?"

"Which file?"

"The file on my grandparents' deaths; it's missing."

Waters pulled to a stop outside the police station. "Oh, that was my dad's personal file he'd compiled. He wouldn't have taken the station's file."

"It's missing," Gino repeated. "Could you check to see if maybe he did?"

Mark narrowed his eyes. "Why would my father take the file?" He shook his head.

"Maybe he found something that he didn't want to."

Waters opened up the door and jumped out, slamming the door behind him.

Gino followed his lead and stepped out of the Ford police edition. "Mark, I wasn't accusing your father of anything, but you said yourself that he thought it was his fault."

"He'd meant that he couldn't figure it out. If he had hurt them, he never would have tried so hard to solve their deaths."

"Exactly. But maybe he found out who did —"

"Nope." Detective Waters shook his head and stormed off.

Gino followed, but didn't say anything else. Obviously, he wasn't going to get any further with Mark Waters right now.

He needed to find his grandmother's diary.

###

## 1 – 11

"Ta-dah!" Sheila called out triumphantly as she walked into the living room, carrying a leather-bound book.

Gino smiled. "You found my grandmother's diary?"

"Yes. I thought about it all day today, and the last time I read it was in college. The girls cooed as I read them the part about Joe knocking over Gran, and then rushing her to the bleachers, checking every square inch of her body, making sure he hadn't broken any of her bones, and then blushing when he realized he was feeling up one of the cheerleaders. You can almost hear her giggling as she wrote it. You want me to read it to you?"

Gino couldn't help but laugh at his romantic wife. If his grandparents hadn't been dead twenty years, he might have been upset with her. But she was a true romantic. She'd said that Gran had always known that Gino and she would marry, and that Sheila just needed to make him work for her. No wonder she'd turned him down so many times. Women could be so manipulative.

He lifted his eyes and shook his head. "No, I don't want you to read the ramblings of a teenage girl in love. I want to know what she wrote concerning Smitty."

"Oh, right. All right then, you make dinner, and I'll read."

"Why do I have to make dinner? Can't you just flip through the pages and find that part?"

His wife shook her head and flashed him her best condescending-teacher look. "No. Your grandmother was a great writer. Since it has been more than twelve years, I don't remember the details. I actually thought she was making most of it up so I never considered the specifics. It reads like one of my romantic-suspense novels, so I may be confusing some of the details. I'll have to read from start to finish."

Gino threw up his hands. "Fine! But I'm not making dinner; I'll order pizza."

Sheila shrugged and walked off toward her favorite reading spot. "Works for me." She plopped down into the overstuffed chair, tucked her legs beneath her, and then layered her favorite afghan over her midriff. She was down for the count. He'd be lucky to see her in bed before two a.m.

When the pizza arrived, Gino pulled out two pieces of the veggie pizza she always liked, popped open a can of Coke Zero, and placed it on the coffee table in front of her.

"Thanks," she mumbled without peeling her eyes away from the tattered diary. She was always looking for a reason to read when he was home, and he'd just given her the go-ahead. Normally if he wanted her to stop reading and curl up with him on the couch, he'd find a romantic comedy on T.V. Otherwise, if he was watching the Discovery Channel or a military documentary, she'd just spend the entire night reading.

"Good?" he asked.

"Mm-hm ... I can't believe all the scandal. Evidently one of her close friends had been dating one guy, then slept with another guy, but then she'd wanted to marry the rich guy in town so she told him —"

"Focus, Sheila. Tell me when you get to Smitty. I don't really care about who was sleeping with _whom_. I'll be right here ... waiting. Just tell me when you get to Smitty's scene."

"Fine," she said on a sigh. "You know, it's people like you who have ruined great literature, Gino. All you want is the car chases and shootouts. You don't want the lead-up, which is most of the fun. Go watch a movie!"

"Yep!" Gino agreed. "I don't like to think about what I'm watching; I just wanna watch."

Hours later, Sheila shook him awake. "Gino, oh my God. I know who did it. I think. Well, I'm pretty sure I know who killed them — all of them. And yes, it all started with who was sleeping with whom, as it usually does."

###

## 1 – 12

Smitty stepped backward, his hands held up in front of him. The last customer and employee had left hours ago, but he'd been in the back room, tallying the receipts for the day after cleaning up the kitchen. He'd just opened the side door to leave when Becky motioned him back inside with a gun. "Calm down, Becky. What's this all about?"

"I knew you were going to be trouble, old man. The first time I saw you in my ward and you rambled on and on about how you knew my parents, I knew I was going to have to kill you. Who else knows?" she seethed.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't screw around with me, _Smitty_. Right after the cops had their little pow-wow with you they called me three times, asking me to come to the station. _To talk_. As many people as I've killed, you think I'd lose a second of sleep killing you?"

Smitty closed his eyes and shook his head. "I loved your parents, you know. And your mother was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen ... maybe too beautiful. She wanted more than Wilson Waters or I could have given her. Wilson offered to marry her, but she wanted the rich life, a life that only Nell Thurber could give her."

Tears welled up in Smitty's eyes. He loved his wife, and right now, he just wanted to be home with her, but he never could get Sue out of his mind. Neither could Wilson Waters, one of the reasons he'd spent most of his life in the military.

"We all knew who your father was, Becky. Every one of us ... 'Cept Nell. Poor ol' Nell thought that he'd won Sue fair and square. When in fact, the second she found out that she was pregnant by Wilson, she seduced Nell, then led him to believe that he'd gotten her pregnant, and that he needed to marry her. Wilson would have made Sue a fine husband, and you probably wouldn't have turned out to be the drug addict you are today if he had raised you. Look at where your half-brother is. A fine upstanding citizen —"

"Shut up!" she screamed.

"Can't handle the truth, hon?"

"You don't know anything about me. I've bowed down to Nell Thurber and his family my entire life. I was supposed to get everything. Until that stupid old biddy Martha Canale had to grow a conscience after finding God or some nonsense like that. I overheard her telling my mother how it wasn't right that Wilson couldn't see his daughter. Then last week — twenty years after I had to deal with the Canales — my mother admitted to me that she'd gotten pregnant by Wilson and that she needed to tell Nell to clear her conscience. Even though she knew he'd probably cut me out of his will. I'd already known, of course, so I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen. So I came back in the middle of the night. I got there too late to stop her, but not too late to see they weren't even sleeping in the same bed; I had to carry my mom upstairs before the drug killed her." Becky exhaled a long breath. "Now, who else knows?"

Smitty laughed. "Like I would tell ya. You're just gonna kill me anyway."

She nodded. "Yep! Just another robbery. I'll dump the gun, and no one will be the wiser."

He laughed again. "Not this time, Becky." He motioned to the security camera above his head. "You're on _Candid Camera_."

Becky swung around as the door opened behind her, but Detective Waters pushed her up against the wall, securing the hand with the gun while Detective Gino Canale helped untwine her fingers from the gun.

"I always wanted a sister, Becky," Detective Waters said. "I can't tell you how horrible this makes me feel. Please tell me you didn't kill our father."

"Father?" she spat. "Wilson Waters let another man raise me. He deserved to die."

Mark Waters nodded and pushed her through the doorway to the waiting patrol car.

Gino approached Smitty. "I'm sorry, Smitty. We weren't sure if she'd show up tonight, so we followed her here from the hospital. We were right outside the door the entire time, though. I was hoping you had a security camera, but we would have come in the moment she made a threat; we wouldn't have let her hurt you. But now with her break-in, her confession, and the camera — well, I thank you ... for helping us solve the murders of the Thurbers and my grandparents. Hell, maybe even the death of Wilson Waters." Gino sucked in a breath. "How sad. All over money ... and at her age. By the way, how did you know she was an addict?"

"She was my nurse a few months ago. I was in so much pain, and even though the doctors had me on oxycodone, it wasn't helping. When I got out and filled my prescription, I realized Becky was swapping patients' prescription meds for over-the-counter headache pills. After hearing about her parents dying the same way the Canales did, the pieces just started to fall together. And besides, don't laugh ..." He shook his head, wondering if Gino would think he was just a crazy old man. "Remember how your pap used to smoke a pipe?"

Gino nodded.

Smitty chuckled nervously. "Well, I've been having these crazy dreams. I'm in my diner, and a young man keeps coming in who's lost, and I'm supposed to give him directions to find his way. And I swear, in every dream, I smell that blasted pipe. You know that real sweet odor it had. Don't know what he ever liked about it."

Gino didn't gawk at him as though he were crazy; he just nodded. "I _was_ lost, Smitty. But after reading my grandmother's diary tonight, I think I've found my way. I had always remembered my grandmother's tone when she'd tell me to listen to that tiny voice inside of me. I'm finally listening." Gino stared up at the sky and just smiled. "I heard you, Gran."

###

# The Depot

#### When Life and Death Cross Tracks

###

## A Ghost Story

In 1989, I worked at a restaurant in Rockledge, Florida called Ashley's Cafe. Although fictional, my idea for _The Depot_ stemmed from the ghost who haunts the 1930s tavern.

My fascination with the restaurant came about the first night I served as the restaurant's general manager. I'd worked there for almost two years and had never heard or saw a thing, but my first night in my new position was a different story. It's been so long, I barely remember all that happened, but one thing that I'll never forget is one of those large oval trays — that can't possibly balance on its side — came sliding across the floor at me. Also, a five-gallon bucket of water spilled across the floor when no one was near it. Maybe the ghost was just reminding me who was boss.

But the most nerve-wracking occurrences throughout the years were the number of employees — including myself — who felt as though someone had pushed them down the service stairs.

My husband — who happened to be a police officer at the time — also got to hear all the stories from the other officers who'd searched the café in the middle of the night because of alarm calls. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any stories, but the detective's account in The Depot is based off several officers whom my husband knew and trusted.

Since I'd always been interested in the supernatural, I researched the death of the woman who supposedly haunts Ashley's via microfilm from the old library in Cocoa, Florida.

At the time, her death was on record as one of the most heinous murders in Florida's history. The murderer went through great lengths to conceal the woman's identity, including smashing out all her teeth, cutting off her fingers, and burning her body. According to witnesses, the woman had been dating someone from power and wealth. And to my surprise, when I looked forward past a few days, the story had all but disappeared. Weeks later, nothing! Think about that! One of the most shocking crimes in Florida's history in the thirties, and the newspaper drops the story. Yeah ... things that make you say, "Hmmm ..."

So, there you have it. While my story is fictional, there is a ghost story. Maybe the ghost of Ethel Allen will haunt that restaurant until someone uncovers the truth about her murder. For you ghost hunters who'd like to read more about Ashley's ghost at www.ashleysofrockledge.com/Home/History.

###

## 2 – Prologue

Edda should have known he'd deny her. Deny seeing her, deny being with her. Her friend had warned her, but she'd thought he was her chance to escape the life she'd been living. A chance to be someone. A chance at love.

Ever since she'd moved out of her momma's home, life had been difficult. She could barely even pay her way at the boarding house where she stayed. At nineteen, the only thing she had going for her was her looks and body, even though it'd been a challenge getting her size back down to fit the few clothes she owned.

Wesley had assured her that he'd take care of her. But seeing his face tonight, she knew it had all been lies. He screamed that everything was her fault and that he couldn't be bothered with someone of her social status. He'd continued to shout while she shielded her ears, attempting to drown out his obscenities and threats of what he planned to do to her.

She opened the door of the bar, hoping her best friend was still working and could give her a ride home. As soon as she stepped onto the polished wood floors, she noticed the mess she was making. Black mud covered her new patent leather shoes. Then she saw her new dress she'd ordered from the Sears, Roebuck, and Co. Catalog. It had taken months to save $9.98, and she'd spent it all on one silk crepe satin dress. But she had wanted to look nice when Wesley took her to meet his parents. Now the dress was in shreds.

__How had it happened?_ _

Her eyes darted around the bar, trying to remember how she'd gotten back here after her fight with Wesley.

"Becky," she called to her friend, relieved that she was still working. "Throw me a towel, will ya? I got mud all over the new floors."

Her friend ignored her, as did everyone else crowded around the bar. The patrons laughed and sang along with the piano man in the corner, but no one had turned to look at her, even when the bells over the door had announced her arrival.

"Becky," she said louder. Still, no one acknowledged her.

Instead, bodies of people rushed around her, their faces contorting and blurring as though she were in a dream or whooshing by them in an automobile. Men with mustaches and beards reshaped to smooth-skinned faces belonging to women, then back to men again. Pale-white faces turned dark, then back to white, and then every shade in between. The clothes they wore changed colors, fabrics, even styles. Dresses went from short to longer lengths and then to short again. Business suits and ties changed to dungarees and undershirts. The room lightened and darkened, over and over, as though the sun were circling the tavern within seconds. The thick-waxed floor below her dulled and then disappeared, and within seconds, a new floor had taken its place. Tables spun before her, along with the chairs, as if some invisible entity were installing them and removing them repeatedly, as though they couldn't make up their mind what style of furniture they wanted.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, noticing thick black blood dripped from her fingertips. The droplets fell, but never landed.

She searched the room, hoping someone would help her, but the entire room flashed in front of her, similar to when Becky and she'd gone to the matinee a few months ago and seen _The Thin Man_. When the movie was over, they'd sat and watched as the projector rewound, reversing the entire movie ten times faster than they'd watched it. Only, the scene in the bar seemed to be moving forward, as if the room had sped up.

When the world stopped spinning and twining, Edda raked her eyes across the room, but nothing was the same.

The bar had transformed.

It was the same, but different. A light from the corner of the room drew her attention. It resembled the screen at the show, but smaller. Colorful, bright images of moving pictures flashed on the tiny screen.

Her gaze fell on the two remaining people behind the bar.

Watching them, a fiery hatred singed her insides, causing a flaring passion to radiate through her soul as she realized what had happened to her.

_Rather, what he had done to her_.

###

## 2 – 1

Detective Mark Waters stretched his long legs beneath his favorite corner table of the dimly lit restaurant. Other than alarm calls as a patrol officer, he only came here for lunch, and his table was always open because most customers don't want to sit in the corner where they can't watch TV or view the outside patio area.

From his vantage point, though, he could see the entry, the downstairs seating area, the booths surrounding the bar, the upstairs dining area, and the hanging plants that swung gently overhead. Several minutes had ticked by since the train had passed within thirty feet of the building, and yet, the dangling green vines above the bar swayed, as though dancing to a song only they could hear.

Despite the ghost stories, he loved the old building that dated back to the late 1800s. It had history and character. The famous haunt had been a train station, a brothel, a boarding house, a saloon, and then finally the food and spirits eatery it is today.

He sat within inches of the small restroom where many of the supposed occurrences had taken place. Close enough that if a mouse crawled across the linoleum floor, he'd hear it. He'd had to enter the ancient structure countless times as a patrol officer when the alarm went off at four a.m. It'd happened so many times that the owner had given the police station a key.

A different reason brought him here tonight. Death. Something he'd never escape, since he'd decided to follow in his father's footsteps as a homicide detective. His father had been dead for almost twenty years, and he was still trying to earn his respect.

"Waters," called the pudgy, seasoned detective from behind the bar. Detective Tim Townsend had always taken it upon himself to throw back a couple of shots when he came here on a midnight call. Townsend had done the same thing on Mark's first call to the restaurant when he was his FTO. When Townsend was his field-training officer, Mark wouldn't have dared to utter a word, but now he held rank as lieutenant.

"You better put a five in the till, Townsend. And you better not have more than one."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya." Townsend pulled out a bill that Mark was certain was a one and shoved it into the slit of the drawer of the outdated cash register. "But like I was sayin' ..." Townsend squeezed his large belly through the bar entrance and walked over to where Mark sat. He rested his hand on the ladies' bathroom door, but then removed it as if it'd burnt him, and instead, leaned against the solid wood bar. "Did I tell you about the time I was searchin' The Depot and got stuck in that little hall in the ladies' bathroom?"

Mark rested his chin on his fist, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Several times."

"Really, Dude. Look." Townsend reached out, opened the ladies' bathroom door, and pointed. "I can't even fit in between those two doors. And yet, I turned and banged on every wall, and I couldn't get out. Larry was here; he heard it."

Mark sighed in response to Townsend's claim, several officers' claims actually. But he'd been coming here for years, and he'd never heard a peep or seen an apparition, as had been claimed for years by officers, customers, and naturally, the owners.

Mark was sure the proprietors loved the extra business they'd received since the TV show _American Haunts_ had featured the restaurant. According to the story on the back of the menu, the show had even brought in a medium who had, in fact, sensed several presences.

"I know, I know," Mark said. "The Depot is haunted. I've heard all the stories."

Townsend shook his head and returned to leaning against the bar. "What are we waitin' for?"

"Forensics. What else?"

The hardened detective raised his hands. "Why? Dude jumped in front of a train. End of story. Guess we'll have another lost soul wandering around the old joint." Townsend chuckled at his attempted joke, but then darted his eyes around the eerie edifice as if the dead man might appear because of his callous comment.

Mark huffed out a breath and rubbed his head. "You sound like a teenager for God's sake, not a forty-five-year-old man."

The middle-aged man shrugged as a dismissal. Townsend had never cared what people thought of him, a characteristic Mark admired in the burnt-out detective. "Wife and son moved back." He adjusted his belt around his large waistline. "Guess the punk wears off on me. Kid can't seem to call me anything but _dude_. But hey, at least we're talking."

Mark lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "Congratulations, man. That's great." Considering Townsend probably called his son punk to his face, sort of accounted for the _dude_ instead of _dad_. That wouldn't have happened in his house. Even at eight, Mark remembered his father demanding reverence. Of course, his father had doled out respect also. His father had always spoken to him as though he were much older and would frequently discuss the cases he was working, almost as though Mark were his sounding board.

The older detective puffed out his chest a fraction, then scraped a barstool across the floor to sit. "So ... how're things with you, Waters? Any new lady friends you care to share some salacious details on? Since we're just sittin' here."

Mark shook his head. Townsend was the horniest man he knew, probably the reason his wife kept leaving him. If he wasn't picking up a new woman, he was looking for juicy tidbits from the other cops at the department. Mark never shared stories. Not that he had anything interesting to reveal even if he wanted. His sex life had been practically nonexistent for the last couple of years. His job was his lover, and she kept him busy day and night. At twenty-eight, he should be thinking about a wife and kids, but his father had waited until he was forty to marry, so he had time.

"What did you say?" Mark asked the detective who had wandered behind the bar again, sniffing around the booze.

Townsend tilted his head as he held up a bottle of the cheap stuff this time, requesting permission. "I asked if you had any new lady friends."

"I mean after that."

"Nothin', man."

"You didn't mutter something under your breath?"

"You know me, Waters. If I've got somethin' to say, I'll say it."

Mark did know that. Still, he could have sworn he heard him whisper something.

The bells over the door sounded, and the forensic team — all two of them — stepped inside the bar. "You tending bar tonight, Townsend?" Roland bellowed.

"Nah ... just checking stuff."

Roland laughed. "Sure ya are ... Where's the human hamburger?"

As Mark crossed the room to greet Roland, he gestured toward the rear exit. "It's not pretty."

The head of forensics shook his head. "Never is, Waters. But hell, when you've seen death as many times as I have, you hardly even notice the smell."

"Well, there isn't a death-smell yet. Just that uncooked-meat odor that keeps me from cleaning raw chicken at home."

Roland walked out the rear door, and his new forensic partner Anna — who'd started in the last few months — followed Roland outside, casting a quick glance in Mark's direction.

As good as Anna looked, Mark averted his eyes, trying to ignore his attraction. It was merely the reddish-blond hair, he told himself. He'd always been a sucker for strawberry blondes. But the last time he'd dated a woman close to his job had not worked out well, so he ignored his desire. He was great at ignoring his wants, since he'd been doing it so long.

The door creaked open again. Surprised, Mark turned toward it. He hadn't expected anyone other than the two of them. It closed after lolling open a couple of seconds. He walked to it and pulled it closed until the latch clicked. Anna obviously hadn't realized that old buildings required extra attention, unlike new hardware that closed on its own for energy savings.

"Ready?" Townsend's booming voice rang in his ear at the same time his heavy hand clamped onto Mark's shoulder.

"Yeah." Mark turned, laughing. "You scared the —" He swallowed his words as he noticed Townsend was still behind the bar.

###

## 2 – 2

Ashlyn didn't waste any time the following morning. When her alarm sounded at six a.m., she jumped out of bed and scurried to her closet to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. It wasn't as if she even needed the alarm, since she'd never fallen asleep. How could she possibly have slept after what had happened?

She brushed her teeth in lightning speed. Hesitantly, afraid of what she might see, she examined herself in the mirror. The marks surrounding her neck were already yellow and blue. She ran back to the closet and found an old turtleneck sweater she hadn't worn in years. The weather was still cool enough that no one would question her. They'd just wonder why she was wearing something so unfashionable when she was always the height of fashion.

She'd found out a long time ago that her looks would only take her so far. If she wanted to make it in this world, she had to be someone. At twenty-two, she was close to getting her undergrad degree. 'Course, she couldn't care less to work her way to the top of the corporate ladder; she wanted to run her own company. Her sights were on meeting a successful businessman. After she finished her classes for the day, she used to head to a different coffee shop or hotel bar, always on the lookout. In the evenings, she tended bar because it was the easiest way to make the most amount of money in the least amount of hours. Also, there was always the likely chance she'd meet the man of her dreams as he was leaving work or having a meeting with other wealthy men.

Almost every dime she earned went to her apartment, her car, her appearance, whatever it took to get what she wanted. And she had thought that she had found her golden ticket. Until she had gone and screwed up. She had actually liked Devin, maybe even loved him. Foolish! She had never considered, never expected what he was capable of. She still couldn't believe it.

Choking back the tears as she thought about everything that had happened wasn't easy, but she had to ignore it and get there. She ran to her Jetta, hopped in, and sped toward the restaurant. She chanced a glimpse at the clock as she raced down the highway: 6:30. Good. She still had a little over an hour before the owners showed.

When Ashlyn arrived, she parked on the far south side of the building, away from employee parking. If anyone drove by, they'd assume she left her car there overnight. It wasn't an unusual occurrence. She always moved her car around before it got dark, so she wouldn't be walking across a pitch-black parking lot by herself at three a.m. As she neared the door, she spotted Devin's Jaguar Convertible and the police tape surrounding it. They must have assumed it was his since it was the only car left in the parking lot. The slanted headlights of the XKR-S seemed to follow her as she raced toward the entry.

Since she was usually the last one to leave, she had her own set of keys. In the beginning, the owner had returned nightly to shut down the business. But after three years of service, Steve trusted her to lock up. She'd never realized how important that was before now. Then again, if he'd been there last night, maybe it wouldn't have happened.

Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the keys in the front door. Her boss would be here by eight, so she had to hurry. She emptied the contents of her drawer into the bank bag and sprinted upstairs to the office where she was supposed to lock up her money after her shift. She struggled with that key too, her heart racing even faster than it had the previous evening. She should have already done this, but she had been so scared and wanted to leave before the police arrived.

Once inside, she grabbed the key out of the desk drawer and dragged a chair to the wall, carefully balancing as she stood so she could reach the overhead cabinet. Steve wasn't technical. If she replaced the tape, he'd never know. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to check what was on it. She'd have to grab it, replace it with the tape from the previous evening, and get out. The system they used was simple; he'd shown it to her once when they had gone on vacation and needed her to help watch the place. All he did was rotate the previous night's tape to the rear and insert the front tape in the machine. He kept thirty days' worth in the event he had to research anything. Truly, the security tapes were to watch employees. But if a robbery ever occurred, the owner would catch it on tape. And since all employees knew this practice, nothing went missing. Steve couldn't afford for bottles of liquor or New York strip steaks to grow legs and walk out the door.

Ashlyn felt horrible betraying her boss' trust, but this had nothing to do with them and everything to do with her. She wasn't sure how much was on that tape, but she knew she would be the first person the police would question in Devin's death.

###

## 2 – 3

Mark rolled to a seated position in bed, but sat there rubbing his eyes. He reached for his iPhone, focusing on the bright-white numbers.

Three hours of sleep. Today was going to be rough.

It was doubtful that Townsend had filled out the report to the captain's satisfaction, so more than likely he'd have to do it again.

He stumbled to the coffee maker, but then thought better of it. He needed to get to the station. Instead, he decided on a cold shower, which would not only wake him up, but the negative ions caused by the cold water hitting the tile would also help him think and work through the details of the man's death.

Devin Burke had turned twenty-five last month, and judging by his driver's license image, he was an attractive man. What made a twenty-five-year old, obviously wealthy man, based on what he drove, commit suicide?

Not that there were ever any answers to that question, but he still wondered. His father's death was thought to be a suicide, and it had turned out to be a murder, so he never presumed the cause of death until he completed his investigation.

Mark had barely sat down behind his desk when Captain Andrew Davis barged into the detective's division, making a beeline toward his cubicle. He'd been right; Townsend must have screwed up the paperwork.

"Waters," the captain shouted. As usual, no pleasantries. "We got an ID on your stiff."

Not sure if it was a statement or a question, Mark nodded, acknowledging that they did have an ID, though tentative until Mark found out if Townsend had reached the next of kin. "Devin Burke, according to his driver's license and the fact that his Jaguar was the only car in the parking lot," Mark offered.

Captain Davis shook his head. "I wasn't asking, Waters. We got an ID. The dead kid's father came down this morning and identified his body, and he's ticked."

"About?"

Captain threw up his hands, pacing in front of Mark's desk. "Who the hell knows? He's wealthy and connected. Wants to know why we don't have the Pennsylvania State Police searching for the murderer."

" _Murderer_ , sir?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Told the father it was cut-and-dried. Looked like a suicide." Captain Davis plopped down in the chair opposite Mark and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the desk. "Now the commissioner of the State Police is breathing down my neck; evidently he and the kid's father are good friends." Davis blew out a breath that reeked of a cheap cigar. "You ready for this, Waters? Or should I get another detective? You've only been doing this for what ... five years?"

"Seven, sir. Five on the street and two in homicide."

The captain winked. "I knew that, son. Just pullin' your chain. You're exactly like your old man. I have faith in you, but the media's gonna be all over this, looking for someone to lynch. They'll want their fall guy. So if you don't find 'em, they'll accept you instead."

Mark cringed. "Got it."

"They already love you after you solved that twenty-year-old mystery with Gino Canale. I'm sure your father was smiling down on you for avenging his death."

Mark couldn't help but sigh. _Avenging his death?_ "Somehow it didn't feel like that, sir, but thank you. I was grateful to know that my father hadn't committed suicide, as the M.E. originally suggested."

Davis stood and held out his hand. "For the record, I never thought that, Waters."

Mark accepted the captain's outstretched hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, get to work and clear this case quickly." Davis walked toward the door and opened it, but then turned back to him. "But first fix that crap Townsend turned in. We obviously hired him before we required a high school diploma. Was he half-drunk after leaving The Depot or can he not spell?" Davis let the door slam behind him.

Mark turned and eyed Townsend, who was acting as though he were engrossed in the newspaper. Although he probably was. Either the sports page or the comic strips one. Mark entered Townsend's cubicle and slammed the paper down in front of him. "Where's the report? I swear Townsend ... If I have to keep doing your work, I'm putting you in for a transfer to PEO."

Townsend jumped to his feet. "You wouldn't!"

Mark laughed. "Try me. Nothing like being called a meter maid when you're a _dude_ , huh? I'm sure your kid'll get a kick out of that."

"That's plain ornery," Townsend sulked.

"Yeah, well, life sucks and then you die." Mark walked to his desk and scooped up his keys. "Have that report sparkling and on my desk by the time I return, or I'll start filing the papers."

"Where ya going?"

"To The Depot." Mark turned to Townsend, who stood there like a pup wanting to go for a ride. "Didn't you hear? I gotta go solve an unsolvable crime."

###

## 2 – 4

Mark followed Steve Baxter upstairs into his office of The Depot. The owner of the establishment held the door open for Mark to enter. The man obviously didn't have a self-esteem issue based on the size of the tiny room. The area was about four-foot deep and at most, eight-foot long. The only things inside the office were a laminate desk, an old metal filing cabinet, and a PVC shelf that held a few stock items with a built-in cupboard above it. Obviously the owner had just pulled a small office together out of hand-me-down office equipment.

"It's up here," Steve said after grabbing a key out of the desk drawer to unlock the miniature doors housing the security tapes. It amazed Mark how lax business owners were with keys. "I installed the cameras a few years ago after cases of meat kept disappearing. I have one on the bar, one on the door, one in the kitchen, and another aimed at the storage shed out back. That's the view you'll be able to see the train tracks. All the cameras are on motion detectors, so as long as _someone_ is there, it's filming." The man laughed. "It's never caught our ghost unfortunately." Steve reached to the back of the cabinet, grabbed the cassette, and hopped off the chair he'd scooted in front of the shelving system. "I already changed out the tape before you called this morning. I've gotten in the habit of doing it before I prepare the bank deposit."

Mark listened to the man ramble as he peered out the two-foot square window. According to accounts, the woman who haunted the place had been known to stand at this window. Mark couldn't help but laugh at that one. If she were a ghost, couldn't she materialize through the walls if she wanted to see out?

He turned toward the man and accepted the tape. "I also need a list of whoever worked yesterday."

The owner cocked his head. "I'm confused. I thought you said the man jumped in front of the train?"

Mark shrugged. "My job is to check everything, sir." His job didn't entail answering _everyone's_ questions. And there were always questions. The closer their proximity to the deceased or the scene, the more they thought he owed them answers. Mark never obliged until he had his answers first.

Steve removed a bright blue pushpin holding a computer-printed calendar on a corkboard organizer. He jotted down the names on the paper and handed it to Mark. "Anything else, Detective? Otherwise, I need to get to work. I'm sure we'll be busy today. You know how curious the public is."

Mark shook his head. "No. This'll get me started, and yes, I do know." He glanced down at the list. "By the way, did you know Devin Burke?"

"No. Not really."

Mark tilted his head.

The short man, who couldn't weigh more than a hundred thirty pounds soaking wet, leaned back against the paper-covered desk. "Well, you know, you see people, but that doesn't mean you know them. Never noticed him until a few months ago, and then I started seeing him daily, right before I left." Steve stood and opened the door for Mark, reminding him subtly that he needed to leave. He locked the door behind them, and then continued, "I stick mostly to the dayshift. Lunch is our busiest time, and between my night manager and the bartender, they pretty much take care of things. Devin started showing up around happy hour. The only reason I recognized him was because he sat in the same spot and was always talking to Ashlyn, my night bartender."

"Were they dating?"

The man laughed. "Well, I don't follow my employees' personal lives, but yeah, there was something there, I'd guess."

Mark nodded, appreciative to get his first lead. He extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Baxter. I'll replace the tape."

The man waved him off. "Don't worry about it. I have some unopened ones."

"One last question if you don't mind. Do you happen to have the bartender's phone number?" Obviously, she would be the first person he needed to question.

"Sure, I have Ashlyn's number right here." The man removed his phone from his pocket, clicked through a couple of keys, then read out the number.

Mark wrote the digits beside her name from yesterday's schedule. How convenient. Ashlyn worked last night.

###

## 2 – 5

Ashlyn listened to the voicemail message from Detective Mark Waters for the tenth time before walking into her statistics class. As she eased herself into her chair, she flipped her phone to silent mode. The professor immediately started teaching, but his words drifted through the air without penetrating her thoughts. Maybe some of it would seep into her brain because all she could do was replay the detective's message in her head over and over, attempting to decipher if he suspected she was responsible for Devin's death.

She turned toward the rectangular window that offered a spectacular view of the college's common area, wishing she could appreciate the beauty of the blooming Yoshino and Kwanzan cherry trees with their pure-white and bright-pink blossoms. Pennsylvania in the springtime was like a tiny miracle every year. She always longed for the dark and dreary days of winter to cease, replaced by the vibrant colors of spring. She'd researched all the names of the trees she loved and added them to her design notepad of how she'd decorate her estate one day. She would make sure that her property had trees that were green year-round, interspersed with shrubs, flowers, and trees that bloomed at different intervals throughout the year, so her view would always be cheerful.

Now, her dreams of the perfect business, house, and life felt as though they would wither and die.

Inserting one of her earbuds, she decided to listen to the detective's message one more time before deciding what to do.

__Ms. Allan, this is Detective Mark Waters with Edenbury Police Department. I'm investigating the death of Devin Burke and would like to ask you a few questions. Please call me to set up a time that you can come into the station._ _

He left his office number and cell phone number, stating that she could reach him day or night at one of those numbers.

Tugging her turtleneck sweater around her chin self-consciously, she swiped away a tear. It hadn't been her fault; she'd been protecting herself. She didn't even understand exactly how it had happened. One minute Devin was hurting her, and she had defended herself with the only weapon she had, and the next he was dead.

She twisted a strand of her hair, resisting the urge to chew on it as she'd done as a child. Her mother would always slap her hand from her face, telling her to be a lady. Just as she'd done when she'd tried to replace the hair with her fingernail. Her mother had reiterated that if she wanted to be anything in life, she needed to use what the Good Lord had given her. All of it. Her intelligence coupled with her looks and body would take her wherever she wanted to go, her mother would tell her.

Ashlyn released a sigh. The only place she might be going now is prison.

_No_ , she reprimanded herself internally. The detective simply wanted to ask her questions. There was nothing proving that she'd had any part in Devin's death. _Nothing but the tape, that is_ , she reminded herself. She needed to see what was on the tape. But between school and work, she wouldn't be able to watch it until late tonight.

In order not to look guilty, she'd decided not to stay home from school or work today. To go on with her life as if she hadn't heard anything had happened to her ex-boyfriend, since Devin had made it clear on her voicemail a few weeks ago that he no longer wanted to see her. The only reason he'd even come into the restaurant last night was because of what she'd told him on the phone. She'd started with, "F _ine! I don't ever want to see you either."_ She'd learned a long time ago never to fall on her knees and beg for anything. Men viewed that as weakness. If she acted as if she didn't care, she'd have a better chance of winning him back. But then she'd said the words that had really ticked him off. She'd told him, " _And no, I won't be having an abortion_."

###

## 2 – 6

Leaning back in his office chair, Mark clicked _play_ on the antiquated system to watch the security feed. Who used tape anymore? Most businesses had gone to digital. Instead of watching the entire day, Mark fast-forwarded to about an hour before closing time, assuming whatever had happened that made Devin Burke commit suicide, happened before the bar closed, or directly afterward.

Six people sat around the bar, two couples, and two single men, no one resembling Burke's description, even before he'd become bird food.

A woman stepped out of the ladies' room, and Mark inclined forward. She was breathtaking. Long light hair restrained by a small clip fell around her shoulders. Since the image was black and white, he couldn't be sure if she had blond or strawberry-blond hair, but based on the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, his bet was on strawberry blond. The woman stepped behind the bar as she dabbed at her eyes and then threw the tissue in the garbage.

_Ashlyn Allan?_ he wondered.

She looked like an Ashlyn. But why did the first woman who'd caught his attention outside of work have to be one he had to interrogate? Of course, it wasn't her fault that the guy she'd been most likely dating had jumped in front of a train. At least he hoped not.

Mark rested his chin on his clasped hands as he watched the bartender tally the tabs for the customers. In between the patrons finishing their drinks and paying their bills, she hand washed glasses in the sink, wiped down liquor bottles, and put juices and cut fruit in a small fridge under the counter.

After she'd escorted the last customer to the door, she threw her hands over her face, and her body wracked from what appeared to be her sobbing. Mark tilted his head in confusion. She'd seemed so together only seconds earlier. Clearly she had been putting on a show in front of her customers.

She dried her tears with a tissue that she pulled out of her apron, then lifted her phone to her ear. Within seconds, she started pacing the area behind the bar, stopping only when she opened the cash register. She shoved all the money inside a bank bag, then resumed her pacing. Mark could see that she was having an argument. She threw her free hand in the air as if disgusted with the person on the other end of the line. A second later, she glared down at the phone as if she'd lost the connection.

After she stuffed the phone in her apron, she snatched her purse from under the counter and disappeared up the service steps that led to the upstairs portion of the restaurant, the area where Mark had been in the office.

Mark waited a few minutes, noticing how ghostly-looking the bar was without people. The plants swayed lightly as they had done the previous night when Mark had been investigating the murder.

He stopped the tape.

If the train had already passed, the man had already jumped, and he'd be dead. Mark rewound the tape, concentrating on the scenes from different camera angles. The kitchen and front door feeds were blank, so no sensors had been tripped. He watched the shed area overlooking the train tracks. The tape was moving, so the train's approach must have tripped it because nothing moved or caught his eye. Just a barren field behind the building with a shed and a few buckets and bags of trash. He waited a few seconds, and then, there it was. The train. Nothing else appeared in the scene.

His eyes darted to the left-hand side of the screen after the train had passed. The plants swayed as he'd noticed before. After a few minutes, the bartender came down the stairs, her head lowered as though she was still upset. She made her way toward the front entrance, unlocked the door, turned off the lights, and then left the building.

Nothing changed in the four-square scene on his screen. He pressed _fast-forward_ , but still nothing changed. And then the screen went blank where nothing had been recorded. He fast-forwarded until the end of the tape, but nothing else appeared, which was impossible.

There should have been something else on the tape even if Devin never stepped inside the bar before or after it closed. He should have seen himself, Townsend, and the forensic team. But they weren't there.

The manager had given him the wrong one. This was not last night's tape.

###

## 2 – 7

Deciding she'd ignore the detective's message, Ashlyn went directly to work after school, stopping long enough to grab a double-shot latte from Starbucks so she wouldn't fall asleep halfway through her shift. She'd call him in the middle of happy hour, when the bar was buzzin'. That way it'd be too loud to hear, and she'd have to call him later. Preferably, after she pulled herself together.

When she got to work, she went straight to the ladies' room. As she suspected, she had black circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. She opened her makeup bag and dabbed a few dots of concealer under her eyes, touched up her face with some powder, and brushed a hint of blush over her cheeks to make her face appear cheerful and healthy, even if she wasn't. Lastly, she dabbed on some lip-gloss.

She appraised her perfectly flat belly, which would be round with life in a few months. How could she do this on her own? All her dreams. She might as well flush them down the toilet. Would Devin's parents be interested in the child of the woman they didn't even know existed? No. She couldn't tell them. Right after they blamed her for their son's death, they'd probably try to take her child. Her mother wouldn't help. In fact, she'd chastise her for being irresponsible.

It wasn't as if they hadn't used protection; they had. Every time. It wasn't her fault the condom broke. Even though Devin had claimed it was her fault because she should have been on the pill. The fact was she wasn't on the pill because she didn't sleep around. She'd waited until she found the man whom she'd thought could make her dreams come true. All of her dreams of life — and love. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Never again.

She placed her hand over her tummy. _Never again_ , she recited to her unborn child. _I will have you, and I'll do it on my own._ She didn't need a man to make her dreams come true, as Momma had always pounded into her brain. " _I'll_ make my dreams come true, dammit!" she said aloud, but then blanched when the door opened.

Ashlyn sucked in a breath and took a long look at her face in the mirror. _I'll graduate before the baby is born. I'll start looking for a job now before I start showing, and I'll make it happen_ , she said to herself this time.

She pushed open the door and stepped out, ready to work.

The daytime bartender glanced at her, but didn't smile. Instead, a look of sadness washed over her face. "I'm so sorry," Corrine said, walking toward her. "I could cover your shift if you need me."

Ashlyn hung her head. "No. I'm fine. I have to work."

Corrine bit her bottom lip. "Do you know why he did it?"

"No. And honestly, Corrine, I don't feel like talking about this. Could you keep this on the down-low? You're the only one who knows I was dating Devin. I'd rather not have the media harassing me."

The tall brunette dragged Ashlyn to the side and whispered in her ear. "Well, they'll still probably harass you. Different agencies were here all day. When Steve kicked them out, they returned, but as customers. They'd sit and not say anything, then they would subtly start asking questions, usually right after a big tip. At least that part was nice."

Ashlyn huffed out a breath. That was all she needed.

"Really, if you want me to work, I will."

"No." She inhaled another deep breath. "I'd just be home moping."

"Okay, hon. Lemme know. I'll cash out then." Corrine stepped behind the bar and closed out her register.

Ashlyn spent the next few minutes putting on a happy face, answering all her regulars' comments: _Can you believe it? Did you know him? Wow, what would make a good-looking boy like that kill himself_?

_Yeah_ , she wondered. _Why would he_? Had she hit him harder than she thought? She shook off the feelings and made herself busy cutting fruit for the evening, twirling cocktail napkins, and checking her back-ups of juices and sour mixes.

"Hey, Ash," Steve called to her from the end of the bar as she was half buried beneath the counter.

She pulled herself upright and walked toward her boss. "Yeah?"

He nudged her around the bar. "Did the detective call you?"

She gulped. "Um ... yeah, but I was too busy with school. I'll call him when I'm not busy."

"Okay. Do you know why —"

"No!" she said too loudly. "Why would I have any idea?"

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. "Ash, I know you were seeing him."

"Oh, God." She dropped her head, wondering if he'd told the police.

"The detective who came by earlier asked for your number," he continued.

She squeezed her eyes shut, silently praying that he hadn't said anything to the police. "Did you tell him Devin and I were dating?"

"I said I suspected. Are you okay?"

She waved him off. "Fine. I have to work." She walked behind the bar, attempting to push everything to the recesses of her mind. Of course, if she couldn't do it in statistics, how would she do it in a job where she practically moved around like a robot? She turned around, as if in a daze, and noticed Steve hadn't left. She narrowed her eyes at him. The last thing she needed was her boss to think she couldn't handle her position.

"Okay," Steve said. "I'm heading home, then. Call me if you need me to cover your shift."

She definitely couldn't afford to lose any shifts with a baby on the way. _A baby_. She shook the thoughts out of her head. _Just concentrate on work_.

Corrine was right; the restaurant buzzed with business. And for a little while, she was able to push Devin out of her thoughts. Until a group of barely-legal college kids sitting in one of the booths in the bar area started hammering her for details, that is. She politely ignored their queries, and eventually, they stopped asking.

As she turned away from the students, she noticed a gentleman had taken residence at the table in the corner. Rarely did anyone sit there because it was dark. There were no windows, and supporting columns blocked the TV screens, so customers couldn't watch whatever sport was in season. In fact, the only people who usually sat there were employees.

"Hello." She forced a smile as she approached him.

The man smiled in response as he closed his menu, and Ashlyn couldn't help but notice her smile morphed into an authentic smile. He was cuter than cute and dressed impeccably.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Just water —" He paused. "On second thought, do you know how to make a Lynchburg Lemonade?"

Another smile lifted her cheeks. "Of course. Would you like something to eat too? I noticed you were looking at the menu?"

"Can I eat here?" he asked.

"Sure. Most single men —" She peeked down at his hand. "I mean, most single diners eat at the bar."

"I better eat then. I haven't eaten anything all day. I'll take the Depot burger, but no fries. Can you substitute a salad or vegetable?"

She laughed. "Yep. Let me guess, vinaigrette dressing?"

He nodded, and she glided off, shaking her hips a little more than necessary. And then she mentally wanted to slap herself. Hadn't she told herself that she didn't need to look for a man? Especially after what had happened to her last night. But this guy appeared perfect. His clothes screamed money or possibly just good taste. Even his stance demanded attention. And he was so cute. Shorter hair than she was accustomed, but the dark brown hair with a hint of curl set off his deep green eyes. Greener eyes than she'd ever imagined possible. His shoulders were wide, but he wasn't bulky. She appreciated a man who kept his body in tiptop shape. And skipping the fries, but keeping the hamburger said that he didn't deny himself what he wanted; he simply made choices and had self-discipline.

Ashlyn keyed his order into the computer and grabbed a salad out of the cooler, along with a ramekin of vinaigrette on the side. She delivered the salad to his table, then reached behind the bar for her basket of rolled silverware and condiments. She set the items on the table. "I'll be right back with your drink."

Normal servers would get a customer's drink order first. But when she was out of the bar area, taking food orders, it was easier to get it all at once. Otherwise, she'd be stuck behind the bar. After making the Jack Daniel's style lemonade and setting it in front of the handsome stranger, she remembered she needed to call the detective. She'd call his office number. That way, maybe he'd be gone for the day. She took out her phone and searched for the number she'd saved so she would know if he called again.

The call went directly to voicemail. She stooped down behind the bar as though she were reaching for something and cupped her hand over the phone to mask her words. "Detective Waters, this is Ashlyn Allan. I had school, and now I'm at work, so I'll call you tomorrow." She clicked _end_ before she could say anything stupid. Her best bet was to act as if she had nothing to hide.

She straightened her body, smoothed her apron, and shot a glance around the bar. The good-looking man at her table was watching her. Feeling paranoid for no reason, she smiled and hurried to see if she could help anyone else.

###

## 2 – 8

Mark watched as Ashlyn flitted around the bar, doing everything she could to avoid eye contact with him, it seemed. Had she known he was the man she'd called? She couldn't have. When she'd returned her eyes to him, though, her eyes had darted away as if flustered.

He'd caught her comment and glance at his left hand when he'd asked about food. He didn't know how he felt about a woman flirting with a man the night after her boyfriend committed suicide. Then again, she flirted for a living. Her job counted on her being good at what she did, but it also required that she be friendly and flirty.

Unfortunately for him, as he'd suspected earlier, Ashlyn was an absolute knockout. He'd been correct about the hair too. Just a hint of strawberry tint in those long blond curls, that for some reason he had an overwhelming desire to run his fingers through.

Forcing his mind to the current situation, as he always did, his thoughts returned to his _jumper_. Why would a twenty-five-year-old man, who he'd now verified had no money issues, a job waiting as Daddy's CEO next month, and a hot girlfriend to boot, jump in front of a train? Ashlyn wasn't a big enough girl to have pushed him. Burke was six-two and one-ninety according to the coroner. Ashlyn couldn't be more than five-six and a hundred twenty pounds fully dressed. He shook his head as he imagined her body without being fully dressed.

Ashlyn stepped to the table with a plate in her hand. "I went ahead and gave you a baked potato with your burger. It was all lonely by itself." She set his dinner in front of him. "Can I get you anything else?"

_Lonely indeed_ , he thought, still attempting to remove Ashlyn's naked image, which was now keeping _him_ company. "A-1 and one more of these, please." He pointed to his drink.

She nodded and strolled behind the bar, returning a few seconds later with the bottle of steak sauce and another spiked lemonade. "Enjoy. Holler if you need anything else."

He smiled as he watched her walk away. A nice view. As he ate, he observed everything she did. She stayed busy, but the few times she had downtime, he saw her fall into a trance, and even watched her wipe away a tear. So she wasn't heartless; she was merely trying to work through the pain. He'd known that feeling far too many times. He recalled the video he'd watched earlier, how she'd been smiling and waving, and then her body had wracked with pain. He'd wanted to reach through the screen and hold her. Of course, he'd also wanted to know who was responsible for giving him the wrong tape. And since he didn't think they were simply going to hand over the correct one, he decided the better path would be to do a little investigating.

Normally he wouldn't drink, but hey, this was off-the-clock investigating. The captain wanted answers, but it didn't mean the city would front overtime pay for those answers. Nope! They'd expect him to find those answers during his 8-4 shift.

After he'd finished his meal, Ashlyn cleared his plate. But since he was still sipping on the same drink, she didn't offer a refill. Mark sat and watched as the restaurant filled and emptied several times. Ashlyn came by and made small talk a few times, brought him another drink, but then carried on with her duties.

Around eleven, there were only a few people sitting around the bar and a couple of servers finishing their tables. The beautiful strawberry-blonde returned to his table, and this time, sat down across from him. "So why haven't I seen you here before? Are you new to the area?"

"No. I usually come by at lunch. I know the owner, Steve," he said, hoping she'd be a little more at ease that he wasn't some stalker, even though in a way, he was.

"Oh. Cool! Steve's awesome. I've worked for him for three years. It's great work while I finish my undergrad."

He nodded. Even though he'd known most of that. He'd already done a background check. She'd never been in trouble, not even a speeding ticket, even driving a turbocharged Jetta.

"What's your major?" he asked.

She smiled, and he enjoyed the slight flush in her cheeks. "Business. I figure it's the most versatile. Whether I want to open my own business, run somebody else's, or even teach, it's a great degree."

"I agree."

"What do you do?" she asked.

Mark inspected the Gucci watch on her wrist, the diamond tennis bracelet on the other, her Lucky You jeans, and the eight-hundred-dollar biker boots she tended bar in, and smiled. Either she came from money, or she made sure she looked like it. She'd have no interest in a police detective. Although he did well with his other ventures, he couldn't keep her in the style she was accustomed to. But for some reason, he'd wanted to believe that he could, so he decided to tell a half-lie, especially since he didn't want her to know he was at The Depot to observe her, hoping he'd get some insight on what happened last night.

"I have several ventures," he said, which was true.

She stood up, dismissing him, making her way to the bar. She swapped coasters, replaced a few drinks, closed out another patron's tab, and then found her way back to him.

She dropped down in the chair again. "Okay ... another question, since you obviously didn't want to answer the last one. Why are you still here?" she asked point-blank. "You've never been here at night that I've seen, and suddenly, you've spent your entire evening at this tiny table. You can't even see the TV."

He smiled, wondering who the detective was. She was smart. He lifted his iPhone as an answer. "Fruit Ninja."

She narrowed her eyes. "You've been playing games all night? And here I thought maybe you were interested in me, but I wasn't sure if I needed to call my big brother to escort me to my car."

"Do you have a big brother that comes and does that?" Slipping into detective mode, he wondered. A boyfriend had her bawling the night before, and then maybe big brother shows up the next night. That could work.

"No." She shrugged. "I don't have any siblings."

"Oh." He exhaled a breath of relief at that, but it also meant he was back to square one. "Well, I assure you, you don't have to worry about me. I'm just chillin' ... for the first time in a long time actually."

"You want another drink, then?"

"Might as well. I already have to call a taxi."

"Oh, I could —"

"Ash!" called out a glassy-eyed man at the end of the bar. The big guy had his arm and half his body draped over a tiny woman next to him. "Close me out, will ya?"

Mark hoped the woman was driving.

Ashlyn waved in the man's direction, fixed Mark his drink and set it before him, and then skipped over to the mismatched couple.

Now Mark and Ashlyn were the last two people in the bar. It appeared all the kitchen staff had left as well. She ambled back to his table and slid down across from him again.

"Do you close by yourself every night?" he asked. "That seems awfully dangerous."

She reached into her apron and pulled out a bottle of OC spray. "I used to keep it behind the bar; now I've decided to keep it on me. I know it's not a failsafe, but I figure it'll do the trick."

"It definitely will." He leaned over the small round table that kept them two feet apart. He'd downed a few too many drinks, but man, they went down smoothly. But now he didn't like what he was thinking. "So now what?"

"Well," Ashlyn said, "the old saying in the restaurant business is: If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean. The bar rarely stays empty long. But if it does, I always have something that needs cleaning in this old place."

Mark laughed. She wanted to clean, and he wanted to spin her across the wood floors. "You guys play music?"

She nodded. "Sure. What kind?"

"Something slow."

While she moved to the bar and messed with the remote control for the TV, switching the sports channel to the music channel, he moved to the farthest stool at the end of the bar.

When she turned, she gasped, throwing her hand over her mouth. "Oh!" She dropped her hand and shook her head as if trying to shake off what had scared her. But her eyes glazed over.

Something inside Mark churned, and he immediately felt something for this woman. "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?"

"No." She shook her head again, exhaling a whoosh of air. "It's just ... you looked like ..."

"A ghost?" he asked, trying to lighten the situation. "I heard you have ghosts?" He let out a half-laugh, and she nodded.

"Yeah." She inhaled another breath as though she was trying to get her bearings.

"Wanna dance?" he asked quickly, before she turned away from him and started cleaning the bar as she'd mentioned.

"I couldn't possibly. What if —"

He stepped around the side of the bar, took her hand, and pulled her out to the center of the floor. " _What if_ ," he repeated. "It's not as though you're dancing on the bar. I told you ... tonight's the first time I've relaxed in a long time, even though I should be working." He twirled her out once and pulled her back. "But you're so darn beautiful."

She huffed out a breath as if she didn't believe him. "What type of work should you be doing instead of playing games on your iPhone and dancing with a stranger?"

He sighed. "I interview people."

She scrunched her eyebrows together. "What does that mean?"

"I find out if people are telling the truth."

She stopped moving and tried to pull back. "Don't pull away yet, Ashlyn."

Her eyes filled. "You're scaring me. I don't even know your name. And you're asking me to dance, and acting all strange. Who are you?"

"I swear I won't hurt you. Keep your hand on the pepper spray if you like." He smiled and drew her closer. With her boots, she was the perfect height that he could tilt his head and kiss those shiny pink lips that intensified the hint of strawberry in her hair, but then she'd really freak out. And then she would freak out again when she figured out who he was. "Just dance with me for a few more minutes. Tell me about your ghosts," he whispered in her ear. He inhaled the spicy scent of her perfume. It suited her. No flowery smell; it was fiery like her. The song changed, and she retracted again, as if to end the dance. "One more, please," he requested with a slow smile.

She laughed nervously, seeming to relax in his arms. "We do have ghosts. In fact, Edda was my great-grandmother."

"Edda?"

"You haven't heard the stories?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I have?"

"If you live around here, most people have. At the time, the death of Edda Barrett was the most gruesome murder on record in this area. A man discovered her when he saw buzzards flying around her remains. She had nothing on but a shredded dress, her fingertips had been practically cut off, half of her jaw had been knocked out, and if that wasn't enough, the murderer lit her on fire and dumped her in the river. Evidently she'd been seeing —" Ashlyn clasped her hands over her mouth, and then pulled away, darting to the bathroom. "Oh, my God!" she screamed as she entered the tiny room, the door slamming behind her.

###

## 2 – 9

Ashlyn leaned over the toilet and expelled what remained of her lunch while the man knocked on the door.

"Ashlyn, are you okay?"

She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped her lips and then moved to the sink and washed out her mouth the best she could. Well, at least she wouldn't be tempted to kiss the stranger, as she'd been when he was holding her.

Gawking at her image in the mirror, she almost expected to see her great-grandmother's dead face glowering at her. She had heard all the stories, but she'd never seen Edda's ghost. But the feeling that washed over her, the same feeling she'd had yesterday when Devin had attacked her, unnerved her. The déjà vu feeling made sense. Her great-grandmother had been brutally murdered by her boyfriend who was reportedly angry because she'd had his baby without him knowing while he was away at school. According to Ashlyn's grandmother, who'd heard the story from her grandmother, Edda was supposed to drive to the boy's parents and meet them for the first time. Edda had called her mother with exciting news, saying she was getting married and that she'd have a grand wedding. She hadn't even told her parents who the boy was because he had wanted to make sure he told his parents privately.

The stranger knocked on the door again. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Just nauseated. Give me a second, please."

"Okay," he said from behind the door.

She stopped hyperventilating and focused her thoughts on the man outside the door. He seemed like a nice enough guy. If he'd wanted to rape her, he surely could have by now.

Ashlyn stared into the mirror again. Her situation was almost exactly the same as what her great-grandmother had experienced. Devin had been mad enough that he might have killed her. As it was, he'd tried to choke her to death, but she'd fought back. Not that it had stopped him. Even after she'd hit him over the head with a liquor bottle, he'd not released her.

She'd always seen in movies where the bottle would break. She probably hadn't smacked him hard enough. But then —

A knock interrupted her contemplations. "There's a group of people out here," the man called.

"Okay. Tell them I'll be right there."

She washed out her mouth again, used some tissue to dab the smeared mascara from under her eyes, and left the restroom, walking directly to the stranger. "What's your name?" she demanded.

He looked like a puppy who'd been slapped on the nose. "You have customers."

She turned and waved. "Hey, guys. I'll be right there."

"No problem," Jeff, the tallest member of the group shouted, jumping onto a stool at the opposite end of the bar. The nurses came in several times a week. They worked three twelve-hour shifts a week, so when they worked the twelve-to-twelve shifts, they swung by before last call.

Ashlyn turned to him, her hands on her hips. "Who are you?"

He released a long breath. "Promise you won't be furious? That you'll give me a chance to explain, understand that I'm trying to help."

She narrowed her eyes. "How can I promise that?"

"Take care of your customers and then come talk to me, okay?"

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on. "Okay ... _Mark_ ..." she ventured, watching as his face relaxed. Who else could he be? It still ticked her off that he was trying to get information from her underhandedly. But technically, he hadn't asked her anything about Devin's death, so maybe he was just observing her, making certain she wasn't guilty. But what if she was? What if her hitting Devin on the head had knocked something loose in his brain, causing him to race out the door?

"Last call, guys," she informed her regulars as she approached.

Their laughing and carrying on stopped as their faces fell. Jeff leaned his long body over the bar. "It's only 12:15. We got forty-five minutes, sweetheart."

"Not tonight, Jeff. Sorry. I have an emergency."

Jeff flashed a look over her head. "Everything okay? That's not the normal guy. Although, he looks friendlier. That other guy who was here every night always had a scowl on his face."

"I'm fine, but really, I gotta close down the place."

The rest of the group whined and moaned, but they'd just head down the road to Aggie's Tavern.

Ashlyn followed the group of nurses to the door, turned off the _open_ sign, and then locked the door behind them. When she turned, Mark — at least she assumed his name was Mark — was right behind her.

"I guess our dance is over." He released a nervous laugh. "And yes, I'm Mark. But honestly, I meant no harm."

"Do I need an attorney?"

"I don't know, do you? I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here because I saw the tape."

She narrowed her eyes in confusion.

"Not last night's tape, the previous night. I saw how upset you were."

"I didn't kill him —"

"Shh ..." He stepped forward. "I'm not on duty, and I'm not interviewing you."

She gulped, wondering why she felt such an attraction to this man whom she didn't even know. Instinctively, she licked her lips as he leaned forward, but then remembering, she jerked her head to the side. "No! I need to brush my teeth."

He stopped his forward motion and smiled. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that. I guess I need to call a taxi anyway."

"I'll drive you home," she offered. "I mean ... you're a cop, right?"

"Detective."

She tilted her head. "You don't look like a detective."

"Thank God!" He laughed.

"Give me a second. I have to put away my money." She gathered her stuff from behind the bar, threw the money from her drawer in a bank bag, and ran upstairs. It'd never creeped her out to go upstairs alone before. But realizing that what had happened to her great-grandmother could have happened to her, she felt an unnerving chill sweep through her body as she made her way up the dark stairwell to the office. The Depot had been the last place Edda had been seen alive. Some customers had claimed to feel as if they were being choked. She wondered if the man who'd killed Edda had choked her as Devin had tried to kill her last night. Maybe the feelings Edda had were now felt by others who were sensitive. She was flesh and blood to Edda, though, and she'd never felt anything.

Ashlyn locked up her money and ran downstairs to where Mark stood by the door. She'd never dated a detective before. She'd always set her sights on businessmen. Some women wanted a doctor or a lawyer, but she'd done her homework. Unless they were specialists or owned a firm, they weren't wealthy, and they worked too many hours. Whereas a businessman, real-estate developer, or construction company owner owned their business, could make their own hours, and there was no ceiling to what she could help turn the business into. But now that she regarded the handsome man leaning against the door, she couldn't see any of that. She just saw _him_ and how even though he didn't know her but a few hours, he'd wanted to comfort her when she'd been scared. Somehow, that presented a better future than money could ever buy. Her mother had been wrong; she'd been wrong.

###

## 2 – 10

Ashlyn knew she was probably crazy, but for some reason, she trusted Mark. Instead of driving him home, she drove toward her apartment. When she passed the street he'd told her to turn down, she saw him lean forward out of her peripherals, but he didn't ask. She felt his gaze as it seared her, as he had done when he'd held her in his arms, before she'd rushed to the ladies' room.

She cast him a quick glance. "I have to brush my teeth."

He laughed. "I have an extra toothbrush. You could've asked."

"Yeah, but there's something I need to show you." She needed to show him the tape. She was sure the tape would prove her innocence. After all, she'd struck Devin in self-defense.

Mark didn't comment, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. Probably not. He was a man, after all.

She hit the far-right remote on the visor and the gate opened to her complex. After winding along the tree-lined road and around the first set of townhomes, she hung a right onto her private driveway. She pushed the other remote, and the garage opened.

"Nice place," Mark commented. "You're not dealing, are you?"

Knowing he was joking, she laughed. "I save every penny I make." He nodded in appreciation, apparently not used to a woman saying that.

Ashlyn ascended the stairs leading to her townhouse. The entire bottom floor was a garage with the living area on the second floor and the bedrooms on the third floor.

"Safe place," were Mark's only words as they climbed the steps.

"It is. The stairs can be a bear when I'm bringing in groceries, but at least I don't have to worry about someone crawling in my bedroom window." No ... she'd known her attacker. Even though they'd been broken up for weeks. The only reason she'd called him was because she'd discovered she was pregnant.

"Exactly. Never good to have your bedroom on a ground floor."

She unlocked the main door and escorted Mark to the living room, then opened up the balcony doors. "Make yourself at home. If you want another drink, I have wine in the fridge." She dashed up the stairs before he could comment. She should feel nervous having a complete stranger in her house, but oddly, she felt more at ease with him than any other man she'd brought here, including Devin. She decided to rinse off the grime of the day and brush her teeth in the shower so she'd be quick. It took her less than three minutes, and she was in her room, slipping into something more comfortable, her plush Victoria's Secret sweatshirt and sweatpants. Comfortably dressed, she sauntered down the stairs. Now, she needed to work up the nerve to show him the tape. But first he needed to hear her side of the story.

Mark held a glass of wine in his hand, and another glass sat on the coffee table. Setting his glass down, he stood as she entered the room and closed the distance between them. Wasting no time, he pulled her into his arms, and Ashlyn couldn't help but feel completely at ease with his advance. She wanted it, longed for it even. Desire surged through her body, tingling all the way to her fingertips. She wanted him. But there was still something they should be doing instead, the reason she'd brought him here. But — _it could wait_ , she thought as his eyes gobbled her up. Not in a lustful way, but a passion, a mutual fire that burned between them, as if they were supposed to meet.

He moved his hand under her chin, nudging it slightly. His other hand found the clip in her hair. He removed it, dropping it on the table. As he combed his fingers through her hair, he pulled her tighter against his broad chest. Her heart thrashed so wildly in anticipation of his kiss that she was sure he'd hear it. He covered her mouth with his, smoothly parting her lips. His tongue expertly explored with gentle precision, as if finding its way and unlocking the entry to her soul. She tasted the chardonnay on his tongue and wanted more — of him. The wine could wait.

Her legs felt weak, and she was certain if his arms weren't around her, she'd melt through the floor. She inched her fingers up his chest, wrapping her hands around his neck, wondering where this man had been the last few years. She'd never felt so much passion in a kiss.

Mark led her to the sofa, never breaking the kiss. He supported her body against the backrest as he continued to kiss her, running his fingers down the side of her face, her neck, and across her collarbone.

He finally broke the kiss, but only to move to her ear. "You are beautiful, Ashlyn. And so sexy." He moved lower, his mouth nibbling its way down the side of her neck, tugging on her collar so he could kiss her fully.

She threw her head back at the feel of his warm lips on her skin. "Oh, that feels so good." And it did. No one had ever kissed her with such passion, such fervor.

He bolted upright. "Oh dear Lord, Ashlyn."

She sat straight, pulling the top of her sweatshirt higher around her neck. She'd forgotten.

"What on earth happened?" Mark reached toward her, and she tried to move away, but she was trapped between him and the arm of the sofa. "He did this to you, didn't he?"

She gulped, and tears poured down her face as she nodded her answer.

Mark lifted his hand again, as if asking permission. "May I?"

Unable to speak because of the tears strangling her voice, she nodded again.

He lifted her chin to reveal the marks she'd tried to cover. Shaking his head, he ran his hand across his forehead. "Please tell me what happened. I'm not on duty, and I want to help you."

"I'm scared."

###

## 2 – 11

Mark lifted Ashlyn's hands. "I know. If you did anything, stop right now, and we'll find an attorney. But if you had nothing to do with his death, talk to me."

She shook her head, but he wasn't sure what that meant.

Why did she have to be the first woman he'd felt something for in three years? "He hurt you?"

She nodded again.

"Why?"

She shook her head as her face puckered, not wanting to tell him, it seemed. "I'm pregnant."

"Oh."

She nodded again. "Yep. That was his response until I told him I wouldn't get rid of the baby." She gasped for air. "He came in last night, right before closing. After everyone left, he grabbed me and shook me, demanding that he couldn't ruin his life because of me ..."

Mark squeezed her hands, encouraging her. She obviously wasn't guilty, or she wouldn't be talking.

"He screamed at me," she continued. "He told me he'd pay me a hundred thousand dollars if I had an abortion. I knew then that money meant nothing to me. I wouldn't kill my unborn child for money. So when I still refused, he started choking me."

She dropped her head to her chest.

Mark nudged up her chin. "What happened?"

"I grabbed the only thing I could. A bottle of liquor. I hit him with it. But it didn't break, and he kept coming. He knocked me against the bar and continued to choke me, and then he was gone." Ashlyn shook her head. "I don't know if I blacked out, but when I felt his grip release, I struggled to my feet and saw him running out the rear exit. Maybe he assumed I was dead ..." Tears streamed down her face again. "I ran after him and I ... I saw him run in front of the train, but I closed my eyes, knowing what would happen. Then not knowing what to do, I panicked. I grabbed my stuff and got out of there as fast as I could."

Mark gazed into her eyes, realizing she'd told him the entire truth.

"Could my hitting him have caused that — caused him to run like that?" she choked out.

"You had every right to defend yourself, Ashlyn. But you said he kept coming, so obviously you didn't hit him hard enough." Mark pressed his hand against her cheek. "Where's the tape? It'll obviously clear you."

She sucked in a deep breath and whooshed it out. Standing up on obviously wobbly legs, she trudged over to her purse. "I have an old VCR player upstairs."

Mark stood. "Let's go."

He followed Ashlyn to her bedroom, admiring that she'd decorated it in different shades of cream and mauve. An antique-looking bed with an eyelet coverlet was the focal point of her master bedroom. His mother would love it; she was such a romantic at heart.

Ashlyn handed him the tape, pointing to the VCR player on her dresser. "I know it's weird to have a VCR player since the Blu-ray discs are so much better, but I always loved fairy tales. I still watch my old childhood animated Disney movies on VCR tapes. _Beauty and the Beast_ and _The Little Mermaid_ are my favorites."

Mark smiled and pointed to himself. " _Aladdin_ and _Lion King_."

He walked over to the dresser and put the tape in the slot. He fast-forwarded the tape until he saw the scene. He turned to her sitting on the bed. "You shouldn't watch this."

She nodded, burying her head into one of the lace-covered throw pillows.

Mark hit _play_ and then stood in front of the small TV, blocking her view in the event she got the urge to look. It was one thing being attacked. It was another to watch it. He'd seen women break into violent tears after viewing their attacks that had been caught on security cameras. One woman had actually been raped in an elevator in between floors. _Sickos_ , he thought.

He continued to watch the video, seeing the events play out exactly as she'd described. But then he recoiled at an image she hadn't described, a gasp escaping his throat.

The bed squeaked as Ashlyn must have jumped up, appearing at his side at the same time the recording showed Devin Burke darting out of the building, her following him a few seconds later. Mark stood there with his hand over his mouth, not believing what he'd seen.

"What was it?" Ashlyn shrieked. "What did you see?"

He turned to her, feeling the blood rush through his body as his heart pounded out a vicious rhythm. "You weren't to blame, Ashlyn." He ran his hands through his hair, willing his heart to slow so he could speak, wondering if he should tell her. The image he saw was clear; he hadn't imagined it. Now he understood what had made Devin run in fear.

Ashlyn's eyes grew round as she stared at him, waiting for an answer. "What did you see, Mark?"

There was no way to describe what he saw, but he knew _whom_ he saw. "Your great-grandmother."

The story is never over, as there's always another adventure to share.

If you enjoyed _The Pit Stop_ and _The Depot_ , please consider posting a review wherever you buy books. It means so much to me to hear what readers loved about my books. Thank you!

Continue to the next section for a sneak peek at the follow-up novel, which picks up six months later in _The Library (Where Life Checks Out)_. Or visit my website, www.CarmenDeSousaBooks.com/The_Library, and buy the novel now. Remember...for those who haven't read _The Depot_ , _The Library_ includes that part of the story. _The Library_ itself is a 50k-word novel. Enjoy!

###

# The Library

#### Where Life Checks Out

###

## 3 – Prologue

Wade Buchanan inserted his key into the deadbolt of his front door the same time he did every night. Only this time, the door glided open as though some unseen force had invited him inside. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Usually he'd hear the sound of the TV, a kitchen timer alerting that dinner was ready, or the constant boom from the stereo upstairs. But this evening, tomblike silence greeted him.

His wife had threatened to leave; he just hadn't believed her. After all, she'd been grumbling that same nonsense for twenty-two years. A romantic getaway for two would straighten her out.

Their only child was going off to grad school in a few weeks. So for the first time in their marriage, they'd be childless. His life had changed the night she told him she was pregnant two weeks away from high school graduation, but it hadn't stopped him from working his butt off to accomplish his dreams. Yeah, he had to work two jobs, go to night school, and function without sleep, but they'd made it. They had a beautiful house in Edenbury, Pennsylvania, two stylish vehicles in the driveway, and their daughter was heading off to Harvard.

As soon as he finalized the contract he'd been working on for the last year, Wade could take Vanessa on as many getaways as she wanted. He'd cashed the first check on his way home. Just the first installment was more than they'd made their first ten years of marriage. That'd get her eyes twinkling again.

Burnt meatloaf singed his nostrils as he ventured into the kitchen in search of his wife. She'd killed their dinner again. His wife would get so busy typing that she'd forget everything around her.

He turned off the oven, but left the charcoaled mess inside. Last thing he needed was the new smoke detector he'd installed to go off, once again alerting the neighbors how often his wife nearly burnt down their house.

Wade emptied his pockets of his money clip, keys, and receipts onto the credenza by the stairway, as his wife had always requested, then started upstairs. "Vanessa honey," he called as he trudged up the wooden steps, knowing she wouldn't hear him, but he tried anyway. He gripped the banister, pulling himself forward. He was too tired to climb stairs before eating. But since she always wore her headphones when she worked, she wouldn't hear if he screamed at the top of his range.

Tugging at his tie, he pushed open their bedroom door. Maybe they could have a quick romp before dinner, get a taste of what it'll be like to be empty nesters.

Not believing his eyes, he launched headfirst toward his wife. "No!" he screamed.

Out of his peripherals, he saw a long black rod, but it was too late to react. The little bit of light in the room extinguished the moment the object made contact with his skull, leaving him in a pit of blackness, a nightmare he'd never escape. 

###

## 3 –1

Detective Mark Waters smacked the phone onto his desk after he hit _send_. He'd added a heart and smiley face, but he knew Ashlyn saw through him. He wasn't happy that she'd gone to stay with her mother. Especially since she and her mother didn't even get along.

But what could he say? He wasn't her husband. He wasn't even her unborn child's father. He wanted to be, though. He'd asked Ashlyn to marry him last week, and although she'd accepted his ring, she'd run off to her mother as soon as she'd gotten the time off work approved.

He understood she felt guilty that she was pregnant ... blamed herself for the father's death. But he'd told her a hundred times she was innocent, and that he didn't care that she was carrying another man's child. Plain and simple, he loved her. He didn't care about anything else. But for some reason, he couldn't seem to convince Ashlyn.

Mark took a pull off the stuff the station called coffee, nearly gagging. He'd skipped picking up his normal brew in his urgency to pick up Ashlyn and take her to the train station. The last thing he wanted was her second-guessing how he felt about her, even though he was wondering if she returned his sentiment.

"Waters!" Captain Andrew Davis shouted before he even entered the detectives division. Davis had such a booming voice he could have called from his office on the other side of the police station and Mark would have heard him.

Knowing how Davis demanded respect, Mark stood to greet him. "Yeah, Cap'n?"

"You got a stiff."

Mark narrowed his eyes in confusion, wondering why Davis was delivering the report, not dispatch. But instead of questioning his superior, he waited for him to finish.

Captain ran his hand over his chin. "We're going together. My wife called me. Said she found the body as she was opening for the day."

"I'm sorry," Mark said, knowing Mrs. Davis was probably freaking out about now. The older woman had always held a special place in his heart because of all the years he'd spent in the library when he was a child.

Mark grabbed his radio and keys off his desk, then knocked on the partition surrounding Tim Townsend's cubicle. His partner seemed oblivious that the captain was even in the office, but then again, Townsend was oblivious of most things. Well, except women. If a beautiful woman had walked in, he'd have been on his feet in seconds.

"Let's go, Townsend," Mark demanded, awakening his partner from his comatose-like state that he'd been in for the last week. Even when he was here, he was rarely present.

Townsend dropped his newspaper, looking around as if he hadn't realized he was at work. Based on his crumpled shirt and loose tie, and the fact that his wife had kicked him out again, he'd probably slept here. "What's up?"

Mark cocked his head toward the captain, who'd remained by the door. His silence made it clear that he had no interest in talking with Townsend. Davis had warned Mark that Townsend was almost through. Townsend used to be a good detective. Saw things no one else saw. Could pull a confession out of a witness or a guilty party. But he'd screwed up his personal life so badly he was barely fit to be a meter maid, as Mark always threatened.

"We got a dead guy at the library," Mark said, then added in a lower voice, "Mrs. Davis found him."

"Ohh ..." Townsend mused in a breath that came out as a whistle. So he had a fraction of his wits left anyway. He obviously understood that the captain would expect him to handle this case swiftly and professionally.

Mrs. Davis loved her job as head librarian, and she loved the library. She wouldn't tolerate anything tarnishing its reputation after she'd worked so diligently to get the landmark listed as a historical monument so the city wouldn't bulldoze it.

Mark followed Captain Davis to the parking area with Townsend trailing behind him. The sound of the middle-aged detective munching on popcorn irritated him. And Mark knew, just as sure as he was walking, that Townsend would want to ride with him so he could spend the time tapping away on his iPhone, which would further grate on him.

Though the man was in his late forties, he spent most of the workday on his phone. Mark had a smart phone too, but he rarely played on it. Too many important things to do. Townsend was addicted to surfing online dating sites — rather, hook-up sites. And when he wasn't on those, he'd play _Angry Birds_. Mark wouldn't mind so much if he'd just turn off the volume. But he had to remind Townsend that the non-stop squawking was nerve-racking.

"You drivin'?" Townsend mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn as they approached their unmarked patrol cars. It wasn't Mark's vehicle, of course, but each detective had their own car, which they treated as though it were theirs. And unlike Townsend's vehicle that smelled like day-old coffee and fried food, Mark kept his cruiser free of fast-food bags, and it always smelled fresh.

"Not if you're eating," Mark barked over his shoulder. "It'd take months for that smell to disappear."

"Sheesh, Waters," Townsend grumbled. "Why so cranky this morning?" He snickered. "Had it out with the woman?"

Mark ignored Townsend, but realized he _was_ allowing his personal life to affect his attitude at work. Only twenty-nine and he sounded like an old man even to himself. Of course, having an eight-month-pregnant girlfriend who didn't know what she wanted was enough to drive any man insane.

Ashlyn was wonderful, though. One of the smartest women he'd ever dated. Even pregnant, she'd finished her bachelor's degree and was interning at a publishing house. Her initial thought was that she'd wanted to run a business, but then a friend offered her a summer internship, and she fell in love with the idea of publishing. When the company offered her a full-time position, even while pregnant, she'd decided immediately to start her new career.

His thoughts traveled to their time together this morning. He'd driven her to the train station as she'd requested, but he hadn't wanted to let her go.

He'd heard her mother's snide remarks when they'd visited her during a 4th of July cookout. Without him being there, she'd be free to spew her rubbish. Ashlyn's mother had insisted that she could do so much better than attaching herself to "a cop," as she'd so rudely insinuated.

It didn't matter that Mark had been running his own online business for years. He'd set up the website for his widowed mother as something to do in her spare time. But the couponing website had become so popular that he'd ended up having to manage it. His mother hunted down all the promotions, and he took care of everything else behind the scenes.

Ashlyn's mother had the ridiculous idea that Ashlyn needed to marry a doctor or lawyer. The scorned woman couldn't imagine that Ashlyn didn't need a man to take care of her, even though she had one who wanted to with everything he had. If only Mark could make her mother see. Though he knew Ashlyn didn't care about her mother's opinion of him, he knew it'd be one less stress on her. He supposed the only way to convince her mother would be to wave his bank statement in front of her face.

Despite the fact that Ashlyn's previous boyfriends had been ultra-wealthy, she insisted that Mark was everything she wanted in a man. As well as Mark did financially, he knew he couldn't compete with their ultra-wealth.

At least Ashlyn had always told him how much she loved that he kept in shape but didn't have the physique of a bodybuilder, just tall and lean. And she'd always commented on his green eyes and insisted on running her hands through his dark hair, which he'd let grow out a little for her benefit. He still kept it short enough that the cowlicks didn't get out of control, though. She loved his curls; he, of course, hated them, as most guys did.

And they enjoyed doing everything together, so what else did she want? Why would a woman say you were everything she'd ever wanted, but then run to her mother days later? A mother she didn't even get along with. Granted, she'd accepted his ring, but she refused to discuss a wedding date, insisting she needed to take care of a few loose ends in her past first.

Forcing his attention back to his job, Mark parallel parked behind the captain's police-issued Crown Vic. His eyes darted to the nineteenth-century structure you'd expect to see on the French countryside, not a Pennsylvania city founded on coal mining. He had an affinity for old buildings, but not as much as he used to after his last experience inside an old train station turned restaurant, something he and Ashlyn had promised never to speak of again.

He exited the cruiser and glanced up at the edifice with its high slanted roof and dormer gables straight out of the Renaissance era. No gaudy colors, just soft gray limestone and medina stone. The old building emanated stateliness. The decorative trim over every door and window beckoned passersby to come in and discover its mysteries.

Pushing through the black-iron gate, Mark smiled as he remembered coming here when he was a young boy. Every Saturday morning, Mrs. Davis would gather the students around a massive marble fireplace for story time. But before she'd start reading, she'd pass the book around to the students. Each child had to inhale the pages, thereby infusing the scent and memory as one into their subconscious.

Mark recalled the scent as having the same rustic aroma of an oak tree after it had fallen in the woods, reminding him of the couple of times he'd sat next to his father while he'd hunted. When the breeze had blown just right, a sweet, pungent smell of the rotting wood wafted into the tree stand.

As a boy, he'd thought the old books were slowly rotting away too, and now the two memories would forever share space in his heart and soul. He also distinctively remembered a delicate hint of jasmine. Then again, he'd sat so close to Mrs. Davis, anxious to receive every word, that it could have been her.

He'd recognized the scent since his mother had planted jasmine in their backyard. The rambling vine had spread across the patio and up the fence, filling his summer days with a memorable scent that would forever remind him of his mother and father sipping tea on the back porch before dinner.

Mark ran his hands down the smooth worn wood that framed the door as he entered the library, reveling in the intricate craftsmanship and design.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold, though, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen then shot a questioning look over his shoulder at Davis, holding his phone up as a request before answering the call. "Ashlyn's traveling, and I'm a little worried. Do you mind?"

Davis waved him off. "Nah. Go ahead. The old man's dead. He ain't going anywhere."

Mark cocked his head at Davis' apathetic comment, but said, "Thanks" and clicked _answer_ , strolling toward the walkway adjacent the library. "Hey, babe! Your mom picked you up already?"

"Not yet," she said, her voice attempting to compete with the racket in the background.

Mark plugged his right ear so he could hear. "She on her way?"

"Yeah," she said. "She texted me a couple seconds ago, saying she'd be here in a few minutes."

He grumbled a half-hearted, "Great," his blood boiling at her mother's lack of concern for anyone other than herself. What woman leaves her eight-month-pregnant daughter waiting at a train station? He knew he should have talked her out of going.

"Mark," she broke him out of his thoughts. "Hang on. Let me get to a quieter place." He heard her labored breaths, and then the noise seemed to lessen as if someone had turned off the volume with a twist of a knob. "I'm fine," she finally said, and he could hear the echo. She must have gone in the washroom. "You really need to stop worrying about me. Okay?"

"That's not going to happen anytime soon, Ash. It's what I do."

She laughed. "I know. Your mother warned me, said you've been worried about her since you were ten."

"Well, I was the man of the house. It's what was expected."

"I'm fine. I just need to clear my head," she said, touching on the subject she obviously knew really worried him.

They'd been dating for six months, and everything seemed to be going well. Just the last month had been rough. He'd stop by her house and find her crying. When he asked, her answer was always, "nothing." He'd done some research and chalked it up to hormones until she'd suggested spending the last month of her pregnancy with her mother. Her announcement had floored him. She and her mother fought like cats and dogs. Nothing Ashlyn ever did was good enough for her mother.

"I understand ..." he answered her, doing his best not to sound whiny. He hated guys who whined. Though really, he didn't understand, since everything seemed to go sour after he'd proposed. He thought it was what she wanted. They'd spoken of marriage several times in the last few months. It shouldn't have blindsided her, but apparently, she wanted to take care of issues created by her ex before she committed to a date. Whereas Mark thought it'd be good to be married before the baby was born. "I just wish you were —"

"Hey, babe," Ashlyn cut in, "Mom just texted me that she's pulling in, so I should go. I'll call you tonight before I go to bed, okay?"

He gulped down his despair, wanting to give her all the space she needed, but also wanting to understand what more she wanted. "Sure. Love you. Oh, and, Ash ... make sure she's not texting while driving."

"Okay, worrywart." She laughed. "And I love you too, so stop worrying," she replied, and then the line went quiet.

Mark closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, attempting to calm himself before going inside to do his job. The sweet scent of jasmine hit him, and he inhaled again, turning to look for the source. He hadn't seen the familiar vine around the entrance, and he didn't suspect that he could smell Mrs. Davis from outside unless she'd suddenly started dousing herself in all sorts of jasmine products.

"Are you the detective?" A soft voice at his six startled him. Rarely was someone able to sneak up behind him.

Mark whipped around to see a stunning redhead at the end of the stone walkway. She was leaning against the wall as if she'd been standing there all morning, just waiting until he finished his phone call.

He thought back to his conversation, wondering if he should be embarrassed about anything he'd said. "Um ... yeah. Mark Waters." He always gave his entire name, which usually prompted the other person to do the same. "And you are ..." He left his words dangling, hoping she'd fill in the blank.

"Jay. I volunteer here."

He should have guessed she was a librarian by the button-to-the-top white blouse and black skirt, her scarlet hair clipped high on top of her head. The only thing that was missing was the glasses. But based on her age — he guessed her to be about twenty-two — she probably didn't need them yet.

Not knowing where the man had died, he gestured to the front door. "Did you know the deceased?"

She nodded, then released a soft groan. "He was the sweetest old man. We started playing chess about six months ago, but sometimes I'd just listen as he talked about his family. Why would they kill him?"

"That was going to be my next question." He took a step toward her, thinking she was a good person to start his investigation with, but in response, she stepped away. He stopped his forward momentum and instead mirrored her pose, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said 'they' ... Who're 'they'?"

Jay shrugged. "Whoever did this."

"What was the man's name?"

"His friends called him Buck."

"Friends?" Mark uncrossed his arms and sat on the edge of the brick wall, hoping she'd loosen up a bit. Normally when he crossed his arms in reaction to a witness's pose, then uncrossed them, they'd follow suit. Jay remained where she was, however, her arms folded over her chest to protect her from anyone getting too close. If she were sitting, she'd have her legs crossed too, he suspected. "Did Buck belong to a book club?"

She bit down on her lip, her head lowering in her distress. "No. Buck was homeless. We have many homeless people who loiter around the library, especially as the temperature starts to drop. They stay as late as possible, then usually find a place to sleep for the night, and then are here waiting for us to unlock the doors in the morning."

"Did you find him?" he asked, even though Davis had said his wife found the man.

"No. Mrs. Davis found him."

"Do you remember anyone ever arguing with him?" He rephrased the question she'd answered before he'd asked her. Maybe she didn't think someone would have wanted to kill the man, but maybe she'd seen something she'd forgotten.

She shrugged. "Not really. Only the normal stuff. Homeless people tend to ramble on to no one in particular, so most people don't pay them any mind. As long as they're not tarnishing their area. Then there are others like Buck. Buck was a good man; he didn't belong here."

Mark nodded, noticing the woman had a soft spot for the homeless community, evidently from the time spent with them. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, offering it to her. "Here's my number. Call me —"

The young woman refused the card, shaking her head. "I know how to find you. I don't have any pockets, so I'd just lose it."

He couldn't help but smile at her remark, and though she struggled, her lips edged up for an instant, then fell again. Her amber-colored eyes filled with sorrow. Sad. She was beautiful. And too young to experience this kind of hurt, but he saw it all the time.

Her skin was a creamy ivory color with a flush of pink across her cheeks that counteracted the grief in her eyes. The young woman had a Gaelic look to her as Ashlyn did, except that she was shorter, more soft-spoken. And instead of Ashlyn's strawberry-blond hair, Jay had fiery red hair, a deep crimson shade that looked as if it might burst into flames at any moment.

Not that he was interested. He loved Ashlyn. But he still recognized a beautiful woman when he saw one. And even if Ashlyn ended their relationship tomorrow, he wouldn't date a younger woman.

At twenty-three, Ashlyn was only six years younger than he was, but it was the furthest he was going. If Ashlyn were even a couple years older, she probably wouldn't be thinking so much about setting a wedding date. They were a perfect couple. They enjoyed each other's company, liked the same things, had similar goals and dreams. Or maybe Mark just thought they wanted the same things in life.

He turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, instead of the one who was hours away. "Can I get your phone number, then, in case I have a question?"

"I live in a dorm and I don't have a phone." She pushed herself away from the wall and walked toward the entrance. "As I said, I know how to find you."

"Okay." Mark knew better than to press a potential witness in public. Unless she was a suspect — and he had evidence to prove she was a suspect — all he could do was hope that she'd cooperate. Behind closed doors, on the other hand, he'd get them to break, find out what they were hiding. Even if they weren't guilty, witnesses tended to get scared, especially when it came to a murder investigation.

He watched for a couple of seconds as the young woman walked toward the entrance, and then turning away, lifted his phone to text Ashlyn. He just wanted to make sure she wasn't sitting in the train station. Train stations were some of the scariest places for a single young woman to be alone. But being so far along in her pregnancy, she hadn't wanted to take even the short flight to her mother's house. At least it was better than a bus.

Ashlyn texted him back immediately: _In the car with Mom. Love you, worrywart._ 🙂 <3

He sent back a smiley face and heart in response and made his way to the front door again.

"'Bout time," Captain called, gesturing to the back doors. "Forensics is on the way. Everything good with Ash?"

"Yeah, she's spending a few weeks with her mother before the baby comes," Mark said as nonchalantly as he could muster, but Davis and Townsend raised their eyebrows in unison. A shadow of a smile crossed Townsend's face, but Davis at least had the decency to look concerned.

It wasn't as though Townsend and Mark hung out. The middle-aged man just liked to hear stories, and men in relationships didn't talk about their women the way single men did. When a man loves a woman, he doesn't share sweet or juicy details. The last thing a man wants is for another man to think about his woman in that way. Not that men wouldn't anyway. He couldn't imagine there was a man alive who would look at Ashlyn and not instantly fantasize about her.

With her long legs, perfectly proportioned curves, and flowing strawberry-blond hair, she was a walking pin-up girl. The kind of woman magazines hired to advertise crotch rockets and muscle cars. Not pregnant of course, but he hadn't seen any fewer heads turn after she started showing. If anything, he swore she got more attention.

Mark shot a glance around the library for Jay, but she must have gone straight to work. Oh well, she didn't sound as if she was ready to talk even if she did know something. He'd give her a couple of days and then show up unannounced. Mark followed the group out the rear doors to the patio area.

Although bits of mortar were yellowish and crumbling, the vine-covered brick wall surrounding the area stood tall and sturdy. And he found the source of the jasmine. For a moment, he'd wondered if it had been Jay's perfume.

Only one exit existed on the far-right side of the courtyard. The shiny black-iron gate appeared to have recently received a fresh coat of spray paint and looked solid, so they must have left it unlocked.

He quickened his pace to catch up with Mrs. Davis. When he placed his hand on her forearm, she jumped. But the moment she made eye contact with him, she looked as though she wanted to collapse in his arms. Her eyes were bloodshot, but a gentle smile creased the corners of her lips and eyes.

"Markey," she said through a sigh, giving him a sideways hug. "I don't see enough of you, young man."

He smiled at the woman and her sweet nickname for him. Few people called a six-four cop "Markey" and got away with it, but she always would. He'd never understood why a woman like Margaret Davis had married Captain Davis. She was so mild mannered, and Davis had all the gentleness of a bull. Though, not around her. When Davis was with his wife, he was a different man, as though her kindness slew the wild beast.

"I know, Mrs. Davis. I just can't seem to fit story time into my schedule. I miss it though." He inhaled deeply, thankful the cool September morning had preserved the dead guy enough that he hadn't begun to smell yet.

Her smile grew. "I told you that you'd never forget. It's calming, isn't it?"

"It is," Mark agreed. "The scent takes me back. I can almost hear you reading _James and the Giant Peach_. I think I was seven at the time, but I can still recall the voices you used for each insect."

Obviously remembering why he was here, Mrs. Davis leaned against him as they approached the homeless man.

Mark focused his eyes on the closed gate again, then scanned the rest of the patio. "Is the gate locked?"

"Yes. We usually open it in the morning and then lock it before we leave. That's what I was coming out to do when I saw him."

"But it was locked when you got here?"

Covering her mouth, she nodded her answer.

"And according to your husband, there's a security system attached to all the doors and windows, but not the patio gate, right?"

"Yes," she choked out.

"Is it possible someone locked two people out here, they fought, and then one slipped by you this morning?"

Mrs. Davis quickly moved her head back and forth. "I checked, Markey. I locked up last night, and I opened this morning. I may seem old, since you were a child when I read to you, but I'm only fifty-three, young man." She tapped her temple. "And my mind is as sharp as it was when I was twenty-three. No one was on the patio either time."

Mark inspected the walls again. Ten feet, he'd guess. Some people could scale them, but ... Mark scrutinized the man on the ground. He appeared to be in his seventies. Long tattered overcoat, shabby work boots. His hands were tanned dark with years of dirt embedded under his fingernails. But there were no scratches on his hands from the vine, no dust from the crumbling brick.

He couldn't envision this seventy-year-old homeless guy climbing the wall. Why would he? The patio held nothing special, no salvation from the elements, no fire pit to keep warm.

The brick-lined courtyard just had a few picnic tables and shrubbery. Marble chess pieces sat on a painted chessboard atop one of the concrete tables. That must have been where Jay and the old man had played chess.

How could someone have murdered the man inside the enclosure and then disappeared? More than likely, Mrs. Davis had been mistaken about locking someone out here, but Mark would never challenge her assertion.

###

## 3 –2

Jay went to the patio as she did every night after everyone else left, but she wouldn't be playing chess with Buck anymore. The thought choked her up more than all the other secrets she'd carried. Instead of leaving though, she huddled in a corner of the courtyard and waited. Not sure what she'd hear or what she could do, but somehow, she needed to end all the secrets forever.

Her only friend other than Buck had told her that Detective Mark Waters was the key. If he could find out what happened, he could fix everything, she was sure. She just wasn't certain how to go about telling him what she'd found.

The familiar creak of the gate opening made her smile. The maintenance men hadn't thought to fix the eerie squeal when they'd given the iron a new coat of paint. If anything, it stuck even more, sending a shrill through the area.

Since the weather was still nice in September, the homeless community liked coming here. They enjoyed the minimal privacy of being able to talk amongst each other without business owners shooing them away for loitering.

Buck had always kept everyone in line, made sure they were all gone before the sun came up. And then, when the nights turned colder, his band of misfits, as he called them, would head out to an abandoned mill Buck had found for them.

Buck didn't belong here, but he'd made the degenerates of society — the people no one else wanted — his family. She was happy to sit back and watch the mismatched group interact, and she'd always get one game of chess out of the old man before he fell asleep.

Murmurs echoed within the bricked-in area, but Jay remained hidden in her spot. She knew what they were discussing, knew they wanted justice, but also knew they wouldn't get it. Only one person had any knowledge of who killed Buck, but unfortunately, that person was dead.

I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek. If you'd like to read _The Library (Where Life Checks Out)_ , you can find links on my website. Please note: _The Depot_ is also included in the special edition of _The Library (Where Life Checks Out)_ so readers who haven't read this set won't miss anything, but _The Library_ is a full novel, not a short story.

If you enjoyed this two-book set in the American Haunts collection, please consider posting a review wherever you buy books. The review doesn't have to be fancy...just a few words to let readers know if they might like to read this set too! It means so much to me when readers share what they enjoyed about my books.

Thank you!

Carmen

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