Finally she pulled out a chair and sat. She grimaced as she made notes. Yes, most of the “confirmed sightings” were smack-dab in what she sensed was her primary time period for feeling them, 1850 to 1900.

If one believed in ghosts.

But walking LoDo was a definite place to start. She could put her plan into immediate action, take the free mall bus down to the terminus and walk. As soon as she had a list of several hideous places that should give her the most “evidence,” she copied the map twice and annotated one copy, stuck it in the outside pocket of her purse, then rose and stepped back and took a pic of it in its entirety with her phone, then in sections.

Done! She glanced at her watch. And in good time, too!

She was down and stepping out of the building before she remembered to call Mrs. Flinton and tell her she’d be taking the bus from one end of the mall to the other—nearly slower than walking, but apparitions didn’t inflict themselves on her nearly as much when on the bus.

Forcing herself to pat Enzo on the head, keeping her head up and shoulders straight, she strode away, hopefully not to her doom, but if it was, she didn’t think she’d survive anyway, and that might just be a relief.

SEVENTEEN

ZACH PULLED BACK into the drive and Clare’s car was still there, which puzzled him. Maybe the old ladies had asked her to dinner.

Her and the ghost dog, Enzo. Crazy.

He’d avoid all of them.

The interview hadn’t gone well. Mrs. Flinton had been right about the housekeeper living to a very ripe old age . . . but her memory hadn’t been great, and the young woman relative—who’d flirted with him and irritated him more since she was blond, blue-eyed, perky, and obvious—hadn’t had any leads for him, either. She stated she’d e-mail her middle-aged parents, who might be able to give him more information about people who might have worked in the household when it dissolved.

Meanwhile, thinking of Clare had gotten him thinking about money, whether Mrs. Flinton had any sort of financial records about her old home. Too bad Zach couldn’t trust Clare to look at something like that. He hated messing with financial records himself, and if Rickman Security had a financial guy, Zach thought that person would be busy with more pressing cases.

This time he made little noise pulling up the circular drive close to his side door, opening his car door, nearly sneaking in. He changed into T-shirt and jeans, settled on the couch with the new laptop that was the property of Rickman Security, and began typing up his notes.

No more than a couple of minutes later, a hard rapping came at the door of his apartment to the rest of the house. Muttering a curse, Zach stood, took his cane, and walked slowly to the door. He opened it to see Mrs. Flinton staring at him with an expression that told him in no uncertain terms that he’d disappointed her.

“Clare Cermak has decided to face her fears and is going to walk in LoDo . . . where there are quite a massive number of unhappy ghosts,” Mrs. Flinton stated. “Ghosts of the Chinese who lost their lives in the race riot of Hop Alley in 1880, ghosts of despairing and desperate women who were prostitutes in the red-light district, including three who were strangled by a serial killer in 1894.”

Zach stared at her. “You know a lot,” he muttered.

Her lips compressed into a thin line before she said, “I know the ghosts of Denver, Zach.” A heavy silence. “Since I believe in them.”

He raised his brows. “And you think I should.”

“I think you have a gift—”

“No.”

She inclined her head.

“Are you going to throw me out?” he asked, a pang zipping to his gut. He liked this place. He liked her and Mrs. Magee. He loved the food.

Her head tilted and expression softened. “Not right now. Especially not if you help Clare.”

Zach rubbed his face. “What do you want me to do?”

“Whether you believe in ghosts or not,” Mrs. Flinton said crisply, “you can see that Clare is unwell and should not be left alone to wander by herself.”

“I guess.”

Mrs. Flinton’s phone trilled in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the caller, and answered. “Clare, dear. Thank you for calling like I asked.” The warmth that had been lacking in her voice as she’d talked with him infused her tones. “You’re still continuing with your plan?” Mrs. Flinton thumbed the volume up and held it out so Zach could listen.

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Flinton,” Clare said.

Something tightened inside him—the ache of lost dreams, of a potential that would never be fulfilled.

“I still strongly advise against this, Clare,” Mrs. Flinton said with that steel she’d used on Zach.

“I’m sorry you disagree with my plan, Mrs. Flinton, but I am determined to figure this all out. I’m either seeing ghosts or going crazy.” An unamused chuckle. “Or both.”

“My dear—”

“I’m leaving the library now. The only map I found was for ghosts of LoDo, so I’ll be going there, taking the mall shuttle down to the LoDo terminal at Market.”

“Market Street is a main thoroughfare of ghosts,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“I know that, now.” Another, higher chuckle from Clare roused Zach’s cop instincts that something definitely wasn’t right.

“I’m sending Zach after you. Why don’t you find a place to wait for him?” Mrs. Flinton pointed to his outside door and made pushing motions.

Zach hesitated.

“That’s completely unnecessary, Mrs. Flinton; please, don’t,” Clare said.

“Clare needs your help. Are you going to let her, and me, down?” Mrs. Flinton demanded of Zach in a low voice.

“What did you say?” Clare asked.

Mrs. Flinton glared and pointed to the door again. Stepping high with his left leg, with minimal use of his cane, Zach crossed to the door and opened it. Mrs. Flinton followed.

The old woman had stabbed him right in one of his most tender and sore spots. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he’d sworn to serve and protect. He believed in that, and the alarm buzzing in the back of his brain told him Clare needed the protection . . . and Mrs. Flinton the service.

He marched to his car door, got in, and set his cane in the passenger seat footwell, listening to Mrs. Flinton soothe.

“The ghosts crowd around one on Market,” Mrs. Flinton said. “It’s better if you walk slowly.” She rolled her hand for him to get a move on, but, hell, he didn’t know where the damn bus terminal was, wait, Market and Sixteenth—but he didn’t know the best, the fastest way to get there, so he had to jab at the GPS unit.

“Promise me you will walk very slowly and listen to Enzo!” Mrs. Flinton said.

“Oh, all right. I promise.”

And Zach drove off, clenching his jaw and telling himself he was a damn fool. As he turned between the stone pillars of the drive he saw the shadows, and then the birds: nine. Nine for hell.

The hair rose all along his body, his neck, his arms. And, damn it, Zach had so rarely seen nine that he didn’t know what that meant. Except Clare was in trouble.

Too many damn crows in Denver.

 • • •

Mrs. Flinton was correct about the ghosts crowding. The instant Clare stepped off the bus under the Denver International Airport–like tent covering, specters pressed around her—visions?—but she felt the tension of them near.

They weren’t the kind of images she’d become accustomed to—shadowy people in old-fashioned dress. No. Not at all.

Images of tattered, ragged, sometimes decomposing bodies. People charred with burns, with fatal wounds, crushed skulls and broken limbs . . . Some looked like decomposing bodies. She put her hand to her throat and swallowed hard.