Chapter 3

Bobby was right: the body was gone.

I walked through Davy Jones' Locker with him. Someone from the park had powered down all the fun house contraptions and turned on the lights, and now it was a simple—and quiet—process to make our way to the bedroom at the top of the stairs. It was empty. The woman I'd seen lying on the floor had disappeared. Bobby promised he and the other deputies would search the fun house, but I could already hear the doubt creeping into his voice. He didn't think they'd find anyone. And the rational voice inside my head agreed: bodies didn't just get up and walk away on their own. Either I'd imagined her, which seemed impossible, or someone had moved her. If someone had moved her, they wouldn't have left her where a park guest would stumble across her.

When Bobby escorted me out of the fun house, the security guy was talking to Deputy Dahlberg.

"We have people faint every year. It's not the scares; it's the stairs. Plenty of people aren't used to that much exercise."

I opened my mouth to argue, but Bobby squeezed my shoulder and murmured, "Keep walking."

Bobby went with us as far as Fox's van—an ancient brown behemoth full of "art" supplies (the scare quotes are on purpose) and an air freshener dubiously named either DRAGON MUSK or DRAGON MUST (I have no idea which one would be better). As the rest of the Last Picks loaded up in the van, he chafed my arms and looked into my face. The thing about Bobby is he's so handsome that it's a little upsetting sometimes. He's got dark hair in a razor-sharp part. His jawline is scarily perfect. And he has these eyes that are a rich, earthy bronze. It would be awesome if he could get a zit every once in a while, but of course, he doesn't. Heck, I'd settle for circles under his eyes after a long night.

"Are you all right?" Bobby asked.

"I'm fine." But I couldn't put any energy into the words. Before I could stop myself, I added, "Bobby, I didn't make it up."

"I know."

"I didn't imagine it."

"I know."

"And I know the difference between someone who's dead and someone who fainted because they climbed too many stairs."

"I know you do."

"It's a lot of stairs, Bobby. It's a safety hazard. They should at least put in one of those chair lifts for patrons who, uh, require additional assistance."

He shot his eyebrows.

"Or are tired. Or hate stairs. I mean, my God, Sir Francis Elevator invented elevators for a reason. It's the twenty-first century."

"You're veering off course."

I blew out a long breath. "I know what I saw."

Bobby nodded. "I believe you."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say to that. He was still bracing me by the arms, still looking into my face like he was trying to read something there. The wind picked up and scraped the back of my neck, and I shivered. With one last brisk chafing motion, Bobby said, "Go home and get some rest. I'll let you know what happens."

Before another of those awkward pauses could happen, I climbed into the van. Bobby watched us drive off, and when I looked back, he was still watching—smaller and smaller. The light looked like snow on his hair. And then we turned, and he was gone.

We made our way home in silence. When we got to Hemlock House, there was something confusing about seeing the house again. I mean, I knew that it wasn't really all that similar to the fun house, but the echo was still slightly disturbing. A few lights glowed in the windows, but otherwise, the house was a maze of shadows: turrets and decorative stonework and the steeply sloping roof. At night, with the moon at its back, it did look like a fun house or a crazy house or a thrill house or, let's call it what it is, a haunted house. I wondered how many generations of Hastings Rock children had been simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by the old house on the hill. I also wondered, a little less poetically, how I was ever going to sleep tonight.

Inside, Hemlock House is a wonder. By some miracle of money and effort and stubbornness, most of the original Victorian furnishings had been preserved. (In some cases, like all the taxidermy birds, not necessarily a good thing.) It had beautiful wood paneling, damask wallpaper, cavernous stone fireplaces and blazing crystal chandeliers. It had God only knew how many oil paintings of horses. It was warm, it was full of people I loved, and it was, against any reasonable expectation, mine. As I headed inside, I felt some of the strain in my body loosen for the first time since I'd seen Tony.

"Who'd like some hot chocolate?" Indira asked.

"I think I'm going to call it a night," I said.

"No," Fox said, "don't do that. Sleep is the little death."

"I thought the little death was, uh—" I actually blushed, and I couldn't help glancing at Keme of all people. "—never mind."

Keme looked at me like I was hopeless.

"You need to tell us what you saw," Fox said, "so we can find the dead woman and whoever's covering up her murder."

The best I could come up with was "You believe me?"

"Of course we believe you," Indira said. "Although I don't think we need to do anything. The sheriff and the deputies will do their jobs."

"But they're not going to find anything," Fox said. "And they don't believe Dash anyway. I mean, you heard Tripple. He already thinks Dash is always finding bodies because he wants attention."

"Wait," I said, "he does?"

"Everybody does," Fox said. "And even if the sheriff does believe Dash saw something, she can't afford to dedicate the man hours and resources to searching that park adequately—I mean, there have to be thousands of hiding places there."

"Hold on," I said. " Everybody thinks I find dead bodies because I want attention? Who's everybody?"

"Not everybody," Millie said brightly. "Not to mention the Sweethearts Festival only runs for a few more days, and then the park will be shut down, and the killer can retrieve the body from wherever they hid it, and there won't be anyone around to interfere."

Keme made a sour face and nodded.

"I don't want to find dead bodies," I said. "People understand that, right? I mean, it's not like I like it. It's certainly not something I want to do."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Indira said to Fox, "but before we stick our noses into this mess, we need to give the sheriff a chance to do her job."

"And I hate attention." I waved my arms because they weren't listening. "Attention gives me hives. I have social anxiety."

"Could you have it a little more quietly?" Fox snapped. "We're in the middle of a conversation."

"I thought strawberries gave me hives once," Millie said. "But it was just my new body spray."

Fox rolled their eyes and then said to Indira, "I'm not saying we march in and take over the official investigation. I'm saying we start our own investigation. Discreetly. On the side. Dash already has the sheriff's blessing to do some snooping, and we don't want to lose any time on this."

"Who is the we in that sentence?" I asked. "I don't want to do any investigating. I don't want to do anything. I want to live my nice quiet life. I want to have my groceries delivered. I want to have my takeout delivered. I want to have a ten-thousand-volt electrical fence installed. I mean, if I wanted attention, would I want all that?"

Fox looked at me.

Indira looked at me.

Millie beamed at me like I'd earned a gold star.

Keme said, "You are a real donkey sometimes."

"Again," I said, "this is when you decide to contribute?"

He had a surprisingly rakish grin when he chose to use it.

"Keme," Indira said, "be nice. Dashiell, stop pretending you don't want to investigate. You're a deeply compassionate young man with a gift for this kind of thing, and you have a powerful moral compass. You're not going to let a woman's murder go undiscovered—and unpunished—and there's no point in sitting around, pretending you would."

Well, what can you say to that?

I sighed, rubbed my temples, and tried to imagine that it was somebody else who was getting this headache. Then I said, "How about that hot chocolate?"