“No,” Dr. Allerton said. “That was amicable. This. This is a tragedy. Although we met only briefly, Mister Reyes made an impression. He was an intelligent, passionate man, and he genuinely cared about his students.”
Ellie’s eyes burned; she could not maintain her faux-pleasant expression. “Yes. He was. He’s always cared about … about other people.”
“Are you family?”
“A cousin.”
Dr. Allerton reached out, as if offering a side-hug, but Ellie jerked back. Kirby barked once, a warning.
“Sorry. I should have asked,” Dr. Allerton said. He looked around, searching for the mysterious dog. At least he didn’t have keen ghost-detecting powers; Kirby was at Ellie’s side, a vague shimmer that blended in with the hot air rising over the asphalt parking lot.
“It’s fine,” she said. “What’s your son’s name? Some of Cuz’s students signed a card.”
“Brett.” Dr. Allerton pursed his lips and bowed his head, the figure of commiseration. “Where is Mister Reyes buried? Brett could not be here today—summer camp is wrapping up—but he wants to visit the grave later and say goodbye.”
“It’s a secret,” Ellie said.
Dr. Allerton looked up, and his sympathetic smile tightened. Was he anxious? Angry? “Secret?” he asked.
“That’s our way,” she explained.
“Brett is very upset. Mister Reyes was his favorite teacher. Maybe an exception can be made?” He looked over her shoulder, regarding a cluster of Trevor’s extended family, probably wondering whether they’d be more helpful than Ellie.
“Do you want to insult our elders?” Ellie asked. “Because that’s how it’s done.”
“Ah,” he said. “I forgot. You’re … Native American?”
“Lipan Apache.” Ellie answered. “Has anyone … told you how my cousin died?”
Allerton nodded, a subtle movement. She wished she could look into his eyes. There was a reason poker players wore sunglasses. They protected bluffers, liars.
“He had an accident,” Allerton said, softly. “Is that right?”
“I wish I’d been there when it happened. Could have helped. Somehow.” She rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “I’m here now. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Mm-hm.” He frowned and pointed at her side. “Sorry, do you see that glimmer in the air?”
“It’s my dog. Appear, Kirby.” Ellie felt a tingle of satisfaction when Dr. Allerton stepped back, startled. Kirby looked solid, though his edges crackled now and then, as if projected by a faulty lens.
“Ghost pet,” Allerton said. “How did you manage that?”
“Old family secret.”
He chuckled. “Oh, dear. I know all about those.”
Allerton’s laughter was gentle, polite. Ellie had to step back and collect herself, because another minute of good-natured conversation with a happy Dr. Allerton might make her projectile vomit all over his expensive suit.
“I gotta go,” she said.
“Be well.”
“Oh. Abe?”
“Hm?”
“That’s a new car, isn’t it? What happened to your old one?”
“Strange question,” he said.
“My friend is in the market for a reliable used vehicle.”
“Sorry,” Dr. Allerton said, “but I’m not selling. Goodbye.”
More like: Nice try.
As Dr. Allerton made a beeline for the snack table, Ellie paced around his car. It still had a temporary license tag on the rear window, with the dealership name—Mercedes-Benz of Mary County—beneath the numeric ID. The car wasn’t just new, it was fresh off the lot. Did Dr. Allerton lose his previous car in the same accident that killed Trevor?
Ellie’s father approached her. He had a hesitantly worried expression, as if anticipating the worst but hoping for the best. “Who is that?” he asked, looking in Dr. Allerton’s direction. “It’s not …”
“It’s the doctor.”
“The doctor? Murder doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“You talked to him? What does he want?” Ellie’s father put an arm around her, as if a hug could deflect the world’s evil.
“I dunno. Maybe he enjoys our misery. It’s messed up, but so is murder.” She watched Dr. Allerton a moment. The murderer sipped his lemonade slowly, as if drinking fine wine. “There is one thing,” Ellie said. “Dad, he asked for the location of the burial grounds.”
“He what? Why?”
“His son, Brett, wants to visit the grave.” Ellie shook her head. “That’s the story, anyway.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“I don’t. When I told Dr. Allerton that nobody can see the grave, he looked downright scared. Like he needs the visit more than his kid does.”
“All the more reason to keep it secret.” Ellie’s father started walking toward Dr. Allerton. “That man needs to leave. If he stays any longer, somebody might talk.”
“Wait!” Ellie grabbed her father’s hand. “Be sneaky.”
“Of course. Give me some credit. I’ve read hundreds of spy novels. Hundreds.”
Without further ado, her father crossed the park and introduced himself to Dr. Allerton with a handshake. Although Ellie could not hear their conversation, her father must have put his spy skills to good use, because within minutes, Allerton returned to the Mercedes-Benz. With a spray of gravel, the car reversed and sped from the parking lot. Clearly, Dr. Allerton did not care about speeding tickets. Why should he? A few hundred dollars was pocket change to men like him.
“He’s going to crash that pretty new car,” Ellie said. “What do you think, Kirby?”
Kirby, still visible, rolled over and sunned his belly.
ELEVEN
ELLIE WAS PORING over Abe Allerton’s glowing Rate-a-Doc reviews when she heard the news.
“Lenore called,” Ellie’s mother said. “Chloe Alamor is passing through town. She volunteered to check Trevor’s accident site for residual traumatic energy.”
“Chloe Alamor!” Ellie whistled, impressed. “Why does that name sound really familiar? Doesn’t she have a reality TV show? Hollywood Crime Scene Psychic or something?”
“The very one.”
“Why her?”
“She has family here, I think. After your cousin’s death was ruled accidental, Lenore and I … well, we’ve been protesting. We even tried to get the news interested. I explained how uncharacteristic it was for your cousin to be speeding down a wooded road. The reporter didn’t bite, but Chloe must have heard about us through the grapevine.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic, Mom.”
Vivian smiled in her tight-lipped, make-an-effort-to-seem-cheery way. “I’m keeping an open mind,” she said. “Psychic testimony alone doesn’t hold up in court, but if Chloe points a finger at Abe Allerton, the police might look into him and use her to strengthen their case. Maybe.”
“They haven’t already? I thought you were going to send an anonymous tip.”
“I did. Just … anonymous tips aren’t compelling unless there’s good reason to pursue them.” She patted Ellie’s head. They were sitting side-by-side in the backyard lawn chairs. Lenore had taken Gregory to visit his maternal grandparents, and Ellie’s father flew home that morning. His patients—mostly dogs and cats, though he also treated birds, small mammals, and reptiles—needed him.
“I understand,” Ellie said. “Can we watch the psychic do her thing?”
“Yes. Family is welcome, and Lenore wants our support. Your aunt and uncle won’t be there. Too painful.”
“Chloe won’t film this for TV, right?”
“Right,” Vivian said. “I’m going to make supper, Ellie. Let me know if you find anything interesting.”
As soon as her mother went inside the house, Ellie called Jay. The phone only rang once before he answered. Had he been waiting for her call?
“Hi!” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Not well enough. I’ve been readin
g all Dr. Allerton’s reviews on Rate-a-Doc. They’re ridiculous. Listen to this one …” She glanced at the tablet in her lap and read, “‘After my son was diagnosed with glioblastoma, we visited five oncologists, and none could slow its growth. My friend recommended Dr. Allerton. I was skeptical, but he saved my son. There is NO trace of the tumor left! Dr. Allerton works miracles!’”
“I remember that one,” Jay said. “Every other person calls him a miracle worker. Makes you wonder if it’s true. Think he can heal with magic? Touch somebody and cure them?”
“Jay. No healer is that powerful. Even with magic.”
“Maybe he’s the first.”
“If that’s the case, why doesn’t he tell everybody? ‘Hey, I can instantly make cancer disappear.’ Wouldn’t that be amazing news? World-changing!”
“Hm. Well, it’s weird. I dunno.”
“Guess what else is weird.”
“Anglerfish?”
“Uh …” Ellie realized that she was smiling. Smiling during a phone conversation was just as awkward as winking—what was the point?—but the expression felt pleasant. “Besides that,” she continued, “I have weird news. A psychic is going to visit the murder spot tomorrow. Chloe Alamor. You know her?”
“Alamor. Like L’Amore? The name sounds familiar. Really familiar. I don’t know anything about psychics, though. Except for my aunt Bell.”
“Chloe found that missing Girl Scout troop, the one that got lost in the Appalachian Mountains. I’m looking at her biography now.” Ellie scrolled through information on her tablet browser. “Twenty-one missing-person cases cracked. Assisted on twelve murders. Highest-rated reality TV show on the Psy101 channel. If she can’t help us, I don’t know who can.”
“Ellie. Um. Not to be a wet blanket, but …”
“Go on.”
“Like I said, my aunt has the gift. It’s not that great. The stuff she senses—when she senses anything at all—is really vague. She’ll pick up lingering feelings, you know? Like sorrow or envy. Sometimes, she hears whispers, phrases that barely make sense ’cause they’re soft as a heartbeat. The only exception to that is when she has a strong personal investment in … whatever the vision’s about, you know?”
“Oh.” Ellie’s smile fell. “I doubt Chloe has much of a personal attachment to my family. We need more than subtle feelings.”
“Fingers crossed. My aunt isn’t a celebrity psychic. Chloe Alamor may save the day.”
“I hope so.”
There was a pause. Ellie thought she heard birds cheeping on the other end of the call. Jay must be outside. Either that, or he was watching a nature documentary.
“Hey,” Ellie said. “Did Ronnie see the proposal?”
“Not yet. She’s doing an internship at the university. When she comes home next week, um. Al probably has something planned.”
“Let me know how that works out.”
“Will do!” Jay said. “Can you call me after the psychic reading?”
“Sure. You’re basically my partner in a buddy-cop movie. Everything I learn, you learn, and vice versa.”
“Which one of us is the funny guy?”
Ellie considered the question. “Neither,” she said. “But I’ll laugh when Abe Allerton is locked up. The ultimate punchline.”
* * *
That night, Ellie fell asleep on her memory-foam cot and awoke in the shade of a juniper tree, her head pillowed by a cloud of white mushrooms. Nearby, a sluggish river bisected the landscape. Ellie’s mouth was so dry, she could not speak. With no other option, she walked barefoot to the water’s edge, the hems of her pajama pants becoming stiff and dark with mud. She cupped her hands and knelt to drink.
There was movement in the impossibly deep water. Trevor’s face peering at her from the depths. He reached for Ellie, his fingertips nearly brushing the boundary between water and air. Trevor’s lips moved: Help me. He was trapped below.
Yes. Ellie wanted to take her cousin’s hand and pull him into the warmth. But she couldn’t! Because that wasn’t Trevor. No. It was a monster with Trevor’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and crawled backward up the bank, only stopping when her spine pressed against the juniper trunk.
The river boiled with the monster’s rage.
Ellie.
ELLIE!
This time, Ellie actually woke up; Lenore loomed over her.
“Wha … huh?” Ellie asked. “How long have you been watching me?”
Lenore stepped away from the cot. “Get up,” she said. “It’s time to meet Chloe Alamor.”
After a breakfast of migas and orange juice, Ellie and Lenore drove to the site of Trevor’s death in grim silence, chased by the rising sun. When they turned onto the narrow, wooded road, they had to maneuver around a three-person camera crew and a souped-up black RV. Lenore parked on the shoulder and stared out the window, as if watching a movie she didn’t much enjoy. “This is where the farmer found Trevor,” she said.
“It’s so isolated,” Ellie said. The dirt road was flanked by thorny desert willow, mesquite, and calico bush. The small, drought-resistant trees and shrubs thrived in the Rio Grande Valley. They had thick, waxy leaves and pale, woody branches. Between them grew tangles of flowering wild plants, the kind that fed butterflies in the spring and early summer. Some of the vegetation was damaged, as if crushed under tires in an accident.
“I’m sorry,” Lenore said. “About that night. It was wrong to shout at you. To demand impossible things.”
“No worries,” Ellie said. “When I first heard about the tragedy, I … I wanted to bring him back, too.”
“It isn’t fair,” Lenore said. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Since Trevor died, Lenore had not worn her usual plum-colored lipstick, wingtip eyeliner, full-coverage foundation, and golden highlighter. She looked like a different person. Not unrecognizable; if Ellie saw photographs of Lenore-with-makeup and Lenore-without-makeup side-by-side, she’d recognize them as the same person (or identical siblings). However, like her perfumes, Lenore was the kind of woman who poured her personality and artistry into her makeup. Ellie wondered if the creative spark would ever return.
“We’re the only people here,” Ellie said. “Besides Chloe’s equipment van. There’s no traffic.”
“It’s a back road,” Lenore said, “ that leads nowhere. Just a few houses and farms.”
Ellie and Lenore watched the camera crew, two men and one woman, hammer red stakes into the ground, cordoning off the spot where Trevor’s car had been found. They set up an expensive-looking tripod and camera outside the ring. “Is this being filmed?” Ellie asked. “I thought …”
Lenore nodded once, curtly. “Yes, but not for a TV show. Chloe records all her work. It’s better than trusting memory.”
“Where is she, by the way?”
“Probably still in her RV.” Lenore hid her face behind her hands, like somebody playing a game of peekaboo who never intended to reappear. “This was a bad idea,” she said through her hands. “I’m not ready. I should have stayed with Gregory and let your mother handle the … the circus.”
“I’m sorry, Lenore,” Ellie said. “Maybe you should wait here till you’re feeling better? If it’s filmed, you won’t miss anything. I’ll talk to Chloe.”
“Thank you,” Lenore said, peeking over her fingers.
Ellie tried to look reassuring as she unbuckled and stepped from the car. Warm, wildflower-scented air washed over her. She waved at the camera crew and walked along the wide shoulder, stopping at the edge of the staked-off ring. “I’m Ellie Bride,” she said. “Are y’all working for Chloe Alamor?”
“That’s right,” said the youngest crew member, a thirty-something man in a checkered shirt. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “We were expecting a woman named Lenore Reyes.”
“She’s waiting in her car, where it’s cool. Lenore might come out once Chloe arrives. It’ll be soon, right?”
As if summoned, the RV sid
e door popped open, and the TV psychic entered the scene. Chloe Alamor wore a blue dress, sunglasses, and a polka-dot infinity scarf. The scarf was draped over her bare shoulders, protecting them from the sun. She had the kind of pale, freckle-dusted skin that probably burned more quickly than it tanned.
“This is the spot,” Chloe said with a deep, rich voice. It quaked with emotion. “I can feel it.”
“What do you feel?” Ellie asked. The camera was already rolling; the checkered-shirt man turned it toward Chloe, capturing the psychic’s first impressions. Chloe walked slowly, every step deliberate. Dry twigs cracked beneath her red pumps. Her chin was tilted upward, and her arms were spread. To Ellie, Chloe resembled a tightrope walker.
“A terrible energy,” Chloe said. “A screaming secret. Who are you?” Smelling of strong rosemary perfume, she stopped beside Ellie. Her large, sorrowful eyes were semi-visible through the sunglasses, although the black-tinted glass obscured their color.
“The victim’s cousin,” Ellie said.
“Be at peace, my dear,” Chloe murmured. “I’m Mistress Alamor. Where is his widow, Lenore? Could she be here?”
“Yes. Do you need her?”
“Please. Her presence will help clarify the message Trevor has left us.”
“Oh? How does that work?”
Chloe removed her sunglasses. She had vividly violet eyes; she probably wore special-effect contact lenses. Ellie was always tempted by them at Halloween, but they cost a small fortune, and she preferred to spend her allowance on comic books.
“My gift resembles other senses,” Chloe said. “When somebody visualizes the world with sight, light goes through the eyes and is processed by the brain. With the gift, I absorb and interpret impressions that powerful moments leave behind.”
“In this comparison,” Ellie ventured, “Lenore is like sixth-sense reading glasses?”
“Exactly. Because of your connection to Trevor, so are you.”
Although Ellie flinched when Chloe spoke Trevor’s name, she could not expect everyone—or even most people—to observe Lipan death rituals. Fortunately, for all the caution they took, it still normally required a serious insult to rouse a human ghost, one reason why Dr. Allerton should never learn the location of Trevor’s body. There were few more serious blasphemies than a murderer stomping around the grave of his victim.
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