He had to go see her soon. Dread seeped into him. He didn’t tell himself it would be easy, get easier, as he had when younger.

“So, Zachary?” Mrs. Flinton asked. Her gaze had turned quizzical as if she understood he’d zoned out.

He took a stab at an answer. “I’d like to stay.” To his surprise, that was the truth.

Her face cleared. He’d answered correctly. She mentioned a price that would get him a sleazy flop for eight hours.

“Daily?” he asked.

She slipped down into the cage of her walker and looked shocked. “Of course not, Zach! Monthly.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do that.” Thinking of the ads he’d seen, he countered with a standard Denver rent, managing not to wince, though his salary if he stayed on with Rickman would cover it.

Mrs. Flinton crossed her arms. “That is far too costly, Zach.”

“I can afford it.”

“And I can afford to let you rent the apartment for what I feel is right for us both.” She sniffed.

So he spent the next five minutes negotiating his rent upward, until they reached an agreement and she left his new place clunking down the hall with her walker. Then he closed the door behind her, slid onto the leather couch—nice and wide and long—and let his instinct rule to marshal his thoughts before he went on another round of interviews for Mrs. Flinton’s case.

He’d have to visit his mother, soon. A fleeting thought that he might be able to take Clare slithered through his mind before he winced and recalled that they were done. Too damn bad because he could see Clare with his mom; they’d like each other, and bringing Clare along sure would ease the whole thing for him.

He rubbed his chest, hurting inside.

 • • •

During the trip, Clare kept the windows up, the air-conditioning on. Enzo cheerfully remarked on the beauty of the country. He hadn’t gotten out much when he was with Great-Aunt Sandra; people had come to her.

“Didn’t she have any quests like this?”

The dog hesitated. Not so much. You should read her journals.

Clare wanted to bang her head against the wheel; of course she couldn’t while driving down a two-lane highway at seventy-five miles an hour. “I’ll get to them,” she muttered. One she was reading was entertaining but had little helpful information.

Of course you will read them.

An idea occurred to her. “You might be able to tell me what journals I should start with.”

The air in the car simply changed.

I might, said a hollow mind-voice from Enzo.

No, she was not looking over to the Other. “Never mind.” She’d just passed the sign for Virginia Dale, the abandoned café and post office. Down the hill she saw a widening of the road and a brown marker. Checking the mirror—no one was behind her—she slowed. Yes, the sign said POINT OF INTEREST. That had to be it.

Across the cattle gate the road was dirt and washboarded. She took it slow, her palms dampening despite the cool air coming from the Other-cum-dog. The directions, printed out and copied to her phone, had said the drive would take two hours and forty-five minutes. It lied. She was there in two hours. She swallowed, not really appreciating the mountain view, the wide meadow, the rocky outcroppings. She came to a fork and a yellow gate and stopped. Yes, this was the place, onward. The road became a narrow passage. She could see this road as the main stage line, pretty much a one-car deal. Maybe she’d better get an SUV. She didn’t like SUVs.

She turned a corner and could see the station. Shock!

There was a house, a ranch, buildings, whatever just below the station, on the other side of a barbed-wire fence.

Heart thumping, she crept along the road, hoping no one saw her, would come greet her . . . anything. Why in tarnation had she worn a floral shirt? She should have stuck to natural beige or brown, should have bought a beige or brown shirt. At least she had a straw cowboy hat.

At another open barrier, she read the sign. Of course it said not to disturb or take anything, gave the penalty. It specifically mentioned no digging. She swallowed.

And right there, in the middle of the open space by the large wooden sign, stood the ghost of Jack Slade. Yes, if anyone found her digging she could get in deep trouble. She’d say she was looking for the GPS cache? Putting one down? Maybe that would be all right.

But her mouth had dried.

There’s Jack! Enzo yipped with the enthusiasm of a ghost dog, not Other spirit.

“I see him.” His standing by the sign that lied about him just seemed too sad. Yet such things would be part of her life.

And she was accepting the change in her life, and doing it darn better than Zach. She pulled up before another log house that research had told her was built in 1909, and wished her car were beige, too, instead of black. Even a white car would be dirty with dust by now and less noticeable.

Zach wouldn’t be letting the proximity of people shake him. He’d act as if what he was doing were all right and proper.

She was so not Zach Slade.

As she got out of the car, the heat struck her. Anyone with sense would be inside.

Enzo shot through the car and behind the building, nosing one of the outhouses.

Welcome to Virginia Dale. Jack Slade beamed. Isn’t it beautiful?

It was, except for the ranch that looked scruffy, the ranch that hogged the stream that had had Slade building the station in the first place.

Did you really name it after your wife? Clare tried out a little mental telepathy to the phantom.

Yes, my beautiful and strong and fiery Virginia. She waits for me beyond the curtain, you know.

Clare didn’t know, and didn’t know whether he knew or sensed it or just hoped. She didn’t ask.

He turned and stared at the plank building undergoing restoration. Our life here was exciting and challenging. He shook his head. I did much better when given a tough job than when things ran smoothly. That was when I began to drink more, from the boredom and the pain.

“Uh-huh.” Now he wanted to be chatty; just great. With gritted teeth she walked down to the sign. “Just where is the bottle, and how far down is it?”

THIRTY-ONE

NOT FAR, ABOUT two feet. He hovered over an area behind the sign.

She was absolutely in the open with nowhere to hide. The closest place would be a group of rocks, but they were behind another barbed-wire fence. She circled a clump of prickly pear cactus and looked at the spot the ghost indicated. At least it was under grass and not one of the hard-packed dirt trails.

I have been loosening the soil day and night, the ghost said.

“You know the passing hours?” Clare asked.

I am aware of the waning of the moon. It will be just after the new moon and very dark at Cold Springs the day after tomorrow.

“When I’ll have to put the ears back on Jules Beni? Is he a ghost, too?” Her voice had risen and she shut her mouth. She’d read somewhere that high voices carry farther, are easier to hear. She’d be making that trip alone except for ghosts, too, and it was wise to do it at night, she guessed.

If you don’t follow through on this quest, it will be bad for you, Enzo said, with big, sad eyes.

All evidence said she’d go mad. Her lips felt numb. “What will I have to do?”

Jack Slade answered, The scene when I walked up to Beni’s body against the corral post and cut off his ears—my worst, deliberate act made in cool blood—repeats again and again throughout the day of my crime. You will see it, feel it, as I do, experience it with me. But this time when I see the holes where his ears were, we will put the ears back.