“C’mon, you stubborn old man!” the cop called out again. “You were shot.”
Detective Howard offered them a sheepish smile and shrug, then walked away, clutching his arm close to his side.
After another brief deliberation, two of the cops—Detective Howard included—piled into a car with Francis in the back. The other cops ushered Riley, Mindy, and Michael to their own car and told them, again, to go home.
Michael drove.
Staring out the back window as they left the Jordanville Ranch property, Riley’s gaze focused on the top window. Pete wasn’t there this time. The inside of the house was dark, but it didn’t feel wrong anymore. It just felt like a house.
Hopefully she hadn’t just ruined business for Angela and the Southwest Ghost Investigators.
Riley hoped that even though his body—and the bodies of the others—were still physically there, that they’d find rest now. Whatever that meant. She didn’t want Pete to ever be stuck again.
Turning in her seat to face Mindy, Riley asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, swiping a strand of hair out of her face. “Somehow.”
“I’m proud of you, Min.”
“Girl, we ain’t close enough for nicknames.” But she smiled as she said it.
Riley reached into the back to squeeze her hand. “We got him.”
Mindy grinned.
Once she had reception, she sent a text to Jade. Francis is in police custody and we found Pete’s body!
This is the best, creepiest text I’ve ever received and I’ve never been so upset to miss something in my life. Never leave me behind on your crime-solving adventures ever again!
Over the next several days, Howard called them in for questioning. Thankfully, they only had to go as far as the Santa Fe police station. Detective Howard insisted he’d meet them closer, but they all opted to make the hour-long drive to help make up for the wear and tear to his body. His arm was in a sling.
Next of kin were eventually informed of their loved one’s discovery after the crime lab ran dental records. One of the decapitated heads floating in a jar belonged to a girl named Alice Kellen, finally identified. But, three weeks later, due to Riley’s obsessive searching online and her periodic phone calls to Detective Howard, she knew no one had come to claim little Alice.
Riley still had Pete’s Scooby Doo shirt tucked away. She couldn’t explain or ignore the compulsion to return it to his mother. But the woman lived in Arizona and Riley worried Detective Howard would find a creative way to have her arrested if he caught wind of the delivery, since she’d technically stolen evidence.
Riley and Michael had returned to staying most nights in their own places of residence now that the threat of Francis Hank Carras was gone—and because Michael had gotten sucked into another involved work project. Riley missed having Michael around all the time, even if it meant destroying her kitchen with ketchup-based spaghetti sauce or leaving his dirty socks all over the house or opening every drawer and cabinet looking for something and then forgetting to close them again.
Weeks later, Detective Howard called to tell Riley that Francis had officially been charged with the murder of Renee Palmer. Riley cried for twenty solid minutes. She called Walter—who got the news an hour before she did—and they cried together. She promised to come see him soon.
“I’ll take you and Scottie and your boyfriend to a fancy restaurant. We’ll get shitfaced!” he’d told her. Then hung up after he fell to pieces again.
Exactly four weeks after Francis was carted off in handcuffs, Michael called Riley just before her shift started. She stayed in her car so nosey-ass Roberto couldn’t listen. Rumors had spread through the restaurant staff about her ever since a piece appeared on the news a couple nights before where Francis’ mugshot was featured along with a brief summary of his conviction. It should have been an open and shut case, but it potentially could go to trial, as Francis was expected to plead not guilty.
Detective Howard and his team were working to find a way to charge him with being Orin’s accomplice. Riley guessed it would happen eventually, if Orin had kept as detailed a series of “case notes” on Francis as he had with the other kids.
“What’s up, Mikey?” she asked now, amazed she no longer needed to worry about being watched or photographed in the parking lot of the restaurant.
“Ugh.”
Riley laughed.
“So, I have amazing news.”
She straightened, her heart thudding. “Oh?”
“I found pigs.”
“Uhhh … what?”
“The ballerina-animal plates from our nightmares. The back of the plate says it’s part of the barnyard series, remember? Yours features horses. I found pigs.”
“No way!”
“Yep. Ballerina pigs. One is lounging on a blue fainting couch while the other files its hooves. They’re giving each other sex eyes.”
“It sounds horrific.”
“Oh, it is,” he said. “The owner is getting rid of a bunch of stuff—she’s an eighty-year-old, self-proclaimed hoarder—and is moving in with her kids soon. They told her to purge as much as she can.”
“Wow.”
“Only catch? It’s in Arizona,” he said. “So. What if we go pick up the nightmare plate and you finally take Pete’s shirt to his mother? If this isn’t a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is.”
That panic about meeting Pete’s mother hit her again. What if this didn’t bring her closure, but somehow more pain? “I … what? We can’t just go to Arizona.”
“Why not? I have a week of vacation time saved up, and all this stuff with Orin and Francis is going to hit the fan soon, right? Might as well get a trip in before everything blows up,” he said. “It’ll be a nice break before we set up your psychic slash medium website so you can become super famous and have your own TV show and I can be your house-husband.”
She flushed at the word husband. This was also the first Riley had heard of said psychic slash medium website, but she laughed. “Just want to ride my coattails, huh?”
“I have zero shame.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she didn’t say anything.
“You’ve wanted to help Pete since that first moment he made contact with you,” Michael said, his voice more serious now. “I know some part of you misses him. Misses the possibility of him popping up in your apartment to knock shit over. And I know how much you want to bring closure to his mother. She already got the news. She’s already grieving. It could help her deal with it a little better to get a piece of him back.”
He wasn’t wrong; Riley did miss Pete. “I would really like to see the godawful pig ballerinas.”
“Yes. Yes, you would.”
The giddy sense of anticipation almost made her laugh. “When do we leave?”
About the Author
Melissa has had a love of stories for as long as she can remember, but only started penning her own during her freshman year of college. She majored in Wildlife, Fish, and Conservation Biology at UCDavis. Yet, while she was neck-deep in organic chemistry and physics, she kept finding herself writing stories in the back of the classroom about fairies and trolls and magic. She finished her degree, but it never captured her heart the way writing did.
Now she owns her own dog walking business (that’s sort of wildlife related, right?) by day … and afternoon and night … and writes whenever she gets a spare moment. The Microsoft Word app is a gift from the gods!
She alternates mostly between fantasy and mystery (often with a paranormal twist). All her books have some element of “other” to them … witches, ghosts, UFOs. There’s no better way to escape the real world than getting lost in a fictional one.
She lives in Northern California with her very patient boyfriend and way too many pets.
The Forgotten Child is her debut, the first in a paranormal mystery series.
If you enjoyed The Forgotten Child, a review would be greatly appreciated.
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Acknowledgments
While the day-to-day act of writing might be a lonely experience, I’m lucky enough to have a wonderful group of supportive readers and critique partners. When I told a select number of friends that I was thinking of publishing this book, I was terrified. But I was met with such enthusiasm, it helped drown out (some of) my self-doubt. Thank you to Jennifer Laam, Garrett Lemons, and Lindsey Duga for being there for me every time I have a writing meltdown (which, let’s face it, is often). You guys always know how to pull me back to the surface.
Beta readers are my favorite people. This book wouldn’t be what it is today without feedback from others. Every little suggestion helps. I appreciate all of you who took time to get to know Riley and offer me your time.
Thank you to my first wave of beta readers who gave me the courage to try this in the first place: Krista Hall (Sorry for the nightmares!), Brittany Gray, Christiane Loeffler, and Susanna Woods.
Thank you to my new critique partners, who are all on some part of the publishing journey: Sylvia Shipp, Rose Erickson, and Sheralan Marrott.
Thank you to Dawn Klemish, Kayla Henley, Cathie Bucci, Caren White, Tessa Osbourne, Heather Nelson, Saundra Norton, Molly Sardella, Nikkie Witbrod, and Cathy McMahen for all your amazing feedback.
Thank you to Margarita Martinez for not only being a great copyeditor, but for being one of the most fangirly cheerleaders I’ve ever met. Benedict and David don’t know what they’re missing!
Thank you to Maggie Hall for the gorgeous cover (And the swag! And the map!) and Michelle Raymond for the beautiful interior design.
Thank you, Mom, for being one of my first readers, and for the great drawing of Orin’s house. I still find it terribly rude I didn’t inherent any of your skills.
Brittany … I know you low-key panicked when I offered you the job of reading the audiobook, but I’m so glad you said yes. I’m sorry for all the mens, though. I really am. But I downloaded Snapchat for you, so I think we’re even.
And, finally, thank you to Sam for simply being you. You’re more supportive than you know, you’re my favorite person on the planet, and I heart your face.
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