Chapter One

Chip Tolony stood in front of the Durant House—the ancient carcass of a fallen devil rising like a behemoth in the cloud-stuffed night.

He adopted the hush of a man reciting legend, every word shaped for ghost stories told by firelight. “The locals swear that if you listen carefully on an especially quiet night, faint whispers like fog off a clear lake will breathe from the decrepit walls. ‘The voices of her victims,’ they say. And if you’re brave enough to step through the double doors leading into Madame Guinevere Durant’s ruined mansion, you might catch the terrified eyes of a lost soul staring back from a cracked reflection.”

Never one to shy away from dramatic effect, Chip schooled his features into a solemn expression for the camera, allowing the night to draw out the tension he had constructed.

Flickering streetlights shed a sodium-yellow glow in his periphery, silhouetting the surrounding historic buildings in the Garden District—an area that had avoided the brunt of Hurricane Katrina.

A humid breeze slashed across the dilapidated mansion, carrying a hint of fading jazz and magnolia. Loose roof tiles flapped to the off-beat rhythm. Boards rattled over broken windows, barely held to the frames by bent, rusted nails.

He flashed the smile he’d perfected over a dozen haunted house intros—just the right mix of charm and creep. “Join us as we explore the most haunted location in New Orleans in our search for those lost, tortured souls still trapped inside the Durant House.” He counted to three in his head, waiting for the red light on the camera to darken. “Was that any better?”

Jake Roper lowered the camera. His sandy-blond hair spilled from his construction-orange beanie. He wore ripped, stained jeans and a graphic t-shirt over the narrow shoulders he raised. “The wind helped build tension.”

Chip wasn’t sure why he’d bothered asking Jake. Of the five members in the Haunted Realms Crew, the only person who ever voiced a real opinion stood at an angle from him. “Rosa?”

A flurry of wind slapped Rosalinda Cho’s baggy jeans. She pulled her brown leather bomber jacket tight around her chest. “What?”

Rosa acted as the skeptic of their paranormal investigative team. She took her role of making the show appeal to nonbelievers seriously. Her natural incredulity helped with authenticity. If someone told Rosa the sky was blue, they had better have told her on a clear summer day in the middle of an afternoon without a hint of cloud cover.

“What did you think of that take? Any better than the six others? Be honest. The Phantasmagoria Challenge isn’t for amateurs. We have to get this right to win.”

Jake pointed at Chip. “A hundred thousand big ones.”

Chip didn’t need reminding of what was on the line, but he nodded in agreement. “And the potential for a TV deal. This will change our lives.”

Rosa studied the ramshackle mansion. “Mr. Tolony, the world hasn’t seen a paranormal investigator like you since Ed Warren.”

A small flame flared to life from a purple gas station lighter. The flame stepped with the breeze, throwing a dim and always-moving light over Ethan Amaral’s light-brown face. He wore the same jeans he always wore and a hoodie that stank of street-grade marijuana. When he spoke, his words had a sticky quality to them. “You have me on edge already, Boss.”

A flicker of irritation sparked behind Chip’s eyes. He swallowed hard, arresting his red-tinted emotion. He was proud of his ability to control his anger, a skill he had honed during his marriage to Adelaide.

“We’ve talked about the lighter a hundred times. Keep it in your pocket during the investigation. Or better yet, leave it in the van. Why invite temptation?”

“It’s a lighter, man. And it keeps me level.”

“It’s a hazard.”

Ethan surrendered to Chip’s authority, flicking out the flame and pocketing the lighter.

The last member of their group scurried toward Chip, her yellow sweater bright against her medium-dark skin. Lillian Morris served as their historian, spending hours poring over documents as she studied each haunted location they investigated. “I thought you did great.” Lillian didn’t have the social adeptness to lie.

Chip was relieved. “Thank you.”

“The historical details were accurate. And as Jake pointed out, the wind appeared as if we scheduled its arrival. I vote to move forward. Into the house.”

Goose bumps formed on Chip’s skin as a tight, fluttery feeling tingled deep in his stomach.

At a young age, he had encountered the supernatural. Though he hadn’t encountered anything so dramatic as a ghost, the experience had defined his entire life.

Directly after his grandfather’s funeral, he’d sat on the worktable in his grandfather’s dusty workshop, his small feet dangling off the edge and his mind drifting into warm memories.

Beyond any doubt, Chip knew his dead grandfather had stood beside him that winter day. He had felt the old man’s undeniable presence. Smelled the sweet nicotine and the sour sweat and dry sawdust.

That was his supernatural experience.

Chip knew he couldn’t film something like that, something so abstract. He couldn’t put warmth in January—the soft, unseen kind that changed him—on a television screen and expect to entertain an audience seeking a cheap thrill.

People wanted to cover their eyes, peering through slightly spaced fingers to see traces of the paranormal. They wanted to feel fear as Chip and his crew waded through a home with a violent history, thinking—maybe even half hoping—a monster would jump from the shadows.

Over the past two days, Chip and his crew had explored the terrain of the Durant House, creating the perfect script to enhance the tension as they recorded their investigative tour.

During that time, Lillian had steeped herself in the dark history of the home. She reviewed the information with Chip as they loitered before the double-entry front doors.

“Twenty-three victims in two years. Twenty-four, if you count the young woman who survived. The final girl. Madame Durant hunted, lured, and ceremonially flayed girls aged fourteen to eighteen inside those walls.” She nodded at the mansion. “The spirits of the victims linger still, so rumor has it, as does the spirit of Madame Durant.”

Chip rubbed his palms together, warming to his task.

Lillian touched his arm. “You ready? Remember, it’s not only about winning the deal and the money. This is about showing Adelaide what you’re actually worth.”

At the mention of his estranged wife, Chip clenched his jaw. He would love nothing more than to prove her wrong by winning the money and flaunting the cash in front of his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s unbelieving face. “Let’s do this.”

Without another second of hesitation, he stepped forward and pushed the heavy front doors wide open.

Darkness greeted him, as did the repugnant stench of Mother Nature’s toll. Chip wondered if animals had taken residence inside the mansion or if mold and mildew filled the walls—maybe both. Either way, the stench singed his nose hairs.

Jake waded into the void first, following the cube light attached to his camera as he recorded everything. Lillian remained on the unsteady, weather-beaten porch, scrolling through her blue-lit phone in search of any last-second details to add to the narrative. Ethan tinkered with the electromagnetic field meter, a device to capture paranormal readings. Rosa veered into the foyer, studying the entry walls, whose shredded wallpaper had been redecorated with graffiti.

Loose wiring dangled from the sagging ceiling like spilled intestines. Planks lay haphazardly all over the floor, creating crude bridges over rivers of shattered glass and fallen debris. Maybe they wouldn’t die by poltergeist, but that didn’t mean they would survive the rusty tetanus traps strewn throughout the mansion.

Catching up to Jake, Chip positioned himself in front of the camera, his back to a gold-framed mirror caked in grime. His pockmarked reflection leered back at him. He shivered, turning to his camera operator. “You ready?”

Jake silently counted down from five with fingers that appeared spectral behind the cube light on the camera. “And action.”

Chip shifted his demeanor and facial expression from calm to jittery, his voice washed with excitement as his eyes darted around the ruined home. If he portrayed fear, the audience would reciprocate. “We’re inside the infamous Durant House.”

As if on cue, a disembodied voice drifted like smoke through the cavernous halls—high-pitched and reedy, humming a piercing off-key tune.

Chip swiveled to pinpoint the source of the sound, but it existed as an invisible mist. “Did you hear that?” Authentic fear shifted the tectonics of his voice.

Rosa shined her light down the corridors. “Just the wind.”

Chip took a deep and calming breath. He wanted to believe Rosa, but he struggled to convince himself the wind was the source of that reedy humming.

To prevent his mind from spiraling, he focused by sticking to their practiced script. “Madame Guinevere Durant was a wealthy and captivating socialite, as attractive as she was violent. Once every full moon, a local youth would vanish without a trace. No one knew why or to where until one night, during a vicious storm, a victim escaped from Madame Durant’s house of horrors.”

A heavy thump crashed like thunder from a floor above. The ceiling rattled. Dust rained down.

Startled, Chip shot his attention upward. Even Rosa, with fortitude forged from stone, gasped.

Lillian jumped from the porch into the house and slunk nearer to Ethan, tickling her fingers into his hand. “What was that?”

Thirty seconds passed.

Ninety.

The dust settled onto the time-warped floor.

Chip reclaimed his composure, easing the moment with a bubbly laugh. “Well, it seems we’re in for an interesting night. Now where was I? Ah! The nameless girl who escaped was no older than sixteen. She shared her horror story with the local authorities. They brought an army of citizens to this very house, expecting to draw a fight with the devil and his horde of demons. Instead, they found hell.”

With the table set, the audience on the edge of their seats, Chip plunged into the heart of the mansion. Though he knew the layout after two days of studying and prepping, he purposely wandered from room to room, pausing whenever an errant creak or gust of cold air presented itself.

At one point, he raised a hand, gesturing for everyone to stop. He shivered hard enough for the camera to pick it up. “It’s too cold here. Ethan, bring your EMF over.”

Ethan’s headphones hugged around his neck, and his attention was glued to the EMF meter. “We have something here with us.”

Rosa rolled her eyes.

As Chip creeped nearer to Ethan, he kept his gaze on Jake’s camera lens. “Let me describe what we’re feeling. The air is cold and heavy, with an underlying stench of decay.” He held up his hands and closed his eyes. “I can’t recall the paranormal ever being so present.”

Rosa cleared her throat, capturing the attention of Jake and his camera. She threaded doubt into Chip’s observations with the skill of a prosecutor. “The house was built over a hundred years ago and left to rot after Madame Durant’s disappearance. There’s no insulation. No HVAC. The elements have punched holes through the walls.”

Chip crossed his arms. “So you’re saying everything we feel is just bad plumbing and weather damage?”

Ignoring the question, Rosa aimed her flashlight at a baseball-sized puncture wound with a full view of the overgrown side garden. “Jake, zoom in right here. Abandonment, neglect, and vagrants have played a pivotal role in the demise of this place. Not spirits.” She moved her beam back to where Chip and Ethan stood. “The windows are shattered and boarded. It’s cold because the home has no resistance against the weather.”

Her discrediting defused any further argument, but he had to try. “We shall see.”

Chip navigated the rotted stairwell ascending to the second floor. As he stepped onto the landing, a sudden knocking rapped from the bowels of the hallway. He froze, his spine stiffening as he turned to the camera. “Did you hear that?”

Rosa chuckled. “Oh, the horror! If you listen closely, you can hear skittering in the walls. The stench of decay has also increased.”

“You’re in agreement, then?” Chip eyed his resident skeptic.

“Only if you agree rodents and other animals have found a home in this abandoned pile of rotting brick. Our presence has frightened them, displaced them, and they’re scurrying around. The stench likely belongs to some dead vermin.”

Chip smirked off camera. Rosa never failed to impress him. She fit her role perfectly, planting seeds of doubt for the viewer. The more they second-guessed, the more tension Chip could build, and the bigger scare he could deliver during the climax.

They continued room to room, taking their time to investigate every corner of the mansion. As they explored, Chip educated the audience about the Durant House.

During a quiet moment, another flurry of whispering converged on the crew.

Ethan went for his pocket, where he had stowed his lighter. In his other hand, he held the EMF reader. “The meter can’t handle all this activity. The readings are going haywire.”

Chip dared Rosa to explain that to the audience.

She stepped up to the task. “We’re experiencing a breezy night. The wind, caught between the multitude of gaps and holes along the mansion, has entered the home like a host of whispers.”

That was less convincing than her other efforts. She hadn’t even attempted to address the EMF readings. Chip wondered if Rosa found herself unsteady from their experience in the Durant House.

As they burrowed themselves deeper into the home, the scratching and whispering and spots of cold continued to harass them. Then, underlying the hurricane of discomfort, a soft lullaby exhaled into existence—the sharp but quiet plucking of a metal comb.

A contained spark of fire flamed from Ethan’s lighter.

Anger laced into Chip’s fingers as he balled them into fists. “Ethan, kill the flame.”

“You hear that, right? Twinkle, twinkle—”

“I hear it.” Chip glanced at Rosa. “Do you hear it?”

She answered with a curt nod.

Jake lowered the camera a shade and looked around, his gaze settling across the room on an empty wall. “Is it coming from over there?”

The crew had created a calculated and strategic route to complete their investigation, one culminating in the sitting room where they now stood. Lillian had uncovered the hidden rooms where Madame Durant conducted her gruesome crimes. Everyone agreed it would film better if they “stumbled” upon the secret latch that opened the hidden door.

No one had planted a song for them to follow, though.

Despite everyone’s unease at the development, Lillian stuck to the script, stealing Chip’s lines. “Madame Durant stole inspiration from H.H. Holmes, constructing hidden rooms within the mansion where her murderous activities took place.”

“But why do we hear music?” Ethan thumbed his lighter to life again.

“Enough with the lighter!” Chip’s temper stretched and flared to life.

The flame burned for a defiant moment before Ethan extinguished it and slid the lighter back into his pocket.

Chip raked his fingers through his hair and blew a raspberry against the acrid air. He had to collect himself and channel his energy toward the viewership. Even working off script, the show had to go on.

He extended both of his hands outward, palms facing the ceiling. “I’m going to attempt to contact any spirits in this room.” Chip closed his eyes and went through a series of deep-breathing techniques. After a minute, his voice spilled into the creaking mansion, rising above the lullaby. “Spirits, are you with me?”

A crash of disembodied human whispers responded to his call.

“Whoa!” Jake flinched, throwing the camera into a shaking fit before resettling. “What was that?”

Chip turned to Rosa. “Did you hear that?”

Her face had hardened into cold, white marble with ornate depictions of shock carved over her features. She refused to speak.

Chip turned his attention back to their invisible hosts. “Spirits, are you in this room with us?”

Another whirlwind of whispers. Unintelligible but unmistakable.

“Spirits, what are you saying?”

A second passed, but nothing happened.

As if manipulated by an unseen force, Chip crossed the room and pressed his palm against the wall, seemingly at random. The intact paneling depressed at his touch. A grinding noise muted the lullaby for a few seconds, and a door appeared in the wall as a panel swept outward, revealing a decrepit stairwell leading into darkness.

A bewildered chuckle bubbled and quickly fizzled away from Chip’s throat. “I think the spirits are leading us down there.”

Having no explanation for the sudden lullaby, Rosa remained frozen. She eyed the chasmic darkness below. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Chip squeezed her shoulder. “Didn’t the wind just…blow the door open? What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like Madame Durant will appear and carve off our faces to wear under the moon.”

Rosa shook her head.

“There you have it, folks.” Chip turned to the camera. “The biggest skeptic of them all now fears the dark. What could possibly shake Rosalinda into hesitancy? What’s down those stairs? Come with us to find out.”

The crew hadn’t previewed the hidden room yet, opting to provide the viewers with authentic reactions during the climax of their investigation.

Chip stepped onto the creaky stairwell and descended the frail steps to the hallway. A door waited at the bottom, cracked open a few inches. A shimmering light spilled through the gap—flickering, unsteady. Candlelight.

He glanced back at Jake. “We didn’t bring lights down here, right?”

Jake shook his head. “Nope.”

Chip turned to face the camera, voice pitched for the mic. “No electricity in the Durant House, but something’s glowing down here. Let’s take a look.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside…and froze.

The walls beyond were covered in mirrors, floor to ceiling, his reflection fracturing into a dozen uncertain copies. A lullaby played somewhere deep in the room—soft, slow, and wrong.

Arranged into a semicircle upon the four hundred square feet of cement floor were dozens of burning candles, each one melting black wax and jammed inside a crimson-red candlestick. The candles burned before a framed standing mirror. Beyond the semicircle of mirrors and fire, more mirrors covered every wall and the entirety of the ceiling.

A chair bolted to the cement sat in the center of the semicircle, dark stains extended from the base. Dangling directly over the backrest, a battery-powered mobile for infants slowly twirled and played a lullaby.

“Holy shit.” Jake stood a step behind Chip, the red eye of his camera recording the development. “Who lit the fucking candles?”

Rosa entered the room last and spun when the door creaked partway shut behind her. She let out a shaky breath before facing the room again, shining her light toward the mirrored wall. The beam’s reflection bounced back at her, and she gave a nervous chuckle, the brittle sound briefly drowning the looping lullaby. “Phillip Devereaux. He likely set this up to creep us out.”

Murmuring to herself, Lillian spun in a slow circle. She looked up, her flashlight ricocheting off a ceiling mirror and beaming back over her like a spotlight. “I don’t think so.”

Chip eyed her. “Why not?”

“Reports claim the mirrors were destroyed.” Lillian’s gaze darted around the room, almost as if it wasn’t brave enough to settle. “This hidden room was supposed to be gutted.”

Rosa covered her mouth with a quivering hand. “We’re seeing the same mirrors that Madame Durant and her victims looked into?”

Lillian nodded.

The lullaby wound on, as delicate as a spider’s web.

Chip stood in the center of the underground room, half surrounded by standing mirrors coated in dust. An infinite number of Chips reflected from the dozens of mirrors, bouncing into each other.

A mild sense of vertigo rushed over him. “Who lit the candles?” He glanced at Rosa. “If not Phillip Devereaux, who turned on the mobile?” He wanted to sprint back up the stairs and flee from the mansion, but he killed that overwhelming desire.

He couldn’t run with a hundred thousand dollars on the line.

Though Rosa didn’t respond, Chip had to say something. Otherwise, he might go insane. “Here was where Madame Durant flayed her victims to wear their faces as masks. Where she ate their hearts and drank their blood in pursuit of immortality. She watched herself murder each girl, basking in their contortions and screams from unending angles and reflections.” He improvised the last bit, seeing himself in those unending displays.

“All these mirrors are making me nauseous, like motion sick.” One hand went to Lillian stomach while another hovered near her mouth. “I might need to step—”

Eyes wide, she spun and bolted toward the stairs, shoving the door open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. It slammed shut behind her with a thunderous clap.

Ethan lunged after her, grabbing the knob. He twisted. Yanked. Nothing.

“Seriously?” He threw his shoulder into it. “It’s locked!”

Chip’s stomach dropped. Something had changed. The room seemed charged—held in place. Different. Wrong.

“Wait.” Rosa sniffed the air, her brows knitting. “Do you smell that?”

Jake’s head jerked up from the camera viewfinder. His face blanched. “Gas.”

They all froze as dozens of candles flickered around them—cheerful, mocking little flames.

“No windows.” Rosa turned in a circle. “No ventilation.”

The air thickened.

They stared at each other for a moment…then moved.

Chip launched into motion, slapping at the candles with his hands. Hot wax blistered his palms. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Rosa tore off her jacket, smothering clusters of flames. Jake swung the base of his tripod, knocking candles into the concrete. He stomped them out one by one.

Ethan hammered at the door. “Still locked!” he shouted, ramming it with his shoulder.

The smoke grew from the extinguished flames. Gas clouded the air like invisible fog. Chip’s eyes burned. His head spun.

They were close—so close—to extinguishing the last of the flames.

Only a handful remained.

Ethan staggered back from the door, took a breath, and hurled himself into it.

Crack.

The frame splintered. The door burst open.

Air rushed in.

Chip spun toward the others, waving them toward the exit. “Run, I’ll get these.”

He turned—

The oxygen in the room depleted. To Chip, it seemed as if the basement inhaled, pulling all the air into its brittle lungs.

A flash of blinding light scarred his retinas before an explosion engulfed the room. The force of the blast lifted Chip and threw him against the glass wall. The mirrors shattered, and glass shrapnel flew at him, cut into him.

He blinked, his vision blurry but intact. A piercing shriek rang in his ears, slicing a muffled silence from the world around him.

Flames devoured everything. The grinding light blazed and exposed Jake, Rosa, and Ethan arranged in a tableau of horror. They were nothing but eviscerated meat, their bodies shredded by the shattered glass. Fire chewed into them as they lay still, the masticating flames blazing through fabric and skin.

The fire didn’t devour Chip, though. Not yet.

A coldness settled over him. With growing pain and horror, he surveyed his body and found a chunk of broken mirror the size of his hand lodged halfway into his chest. Several smaller slivers pierced his arms and stomach. Blood filled his lap as it ran down his skin.

Sharp edges sliced his palm as he gripped one of the chunks of glass to pull it free. For a moment, his body played tug-of-war with him, and he thought he might lose. On the last of his strength, the glass popped free with a spray of blood.

Chip closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to sleep. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired.

He coughed blood. A shape, like the first star blinking into existence after a fading storm, appeared in the distance at the end of the hallway, atop the stairs, framed in the open door. Chip wondered if Lillian stood there from her perch and watched him die. Or had Madame Durant decided to show herself in those final moments?

With trembling, bloodstained hands, Chip reached forward, as if he could reach fifteen yards across and fifteen feet up.

When he called for help, nothing but a liquid gasp wheezed off his lips.

His fresh blood warmed his cold body—a strange sensation. A wet wheeze trickled out at the irony.

Not many people laughed their way to the grave.

But Chip Tolony did just that.

Chapter Two

Nerves knotted Special Agent Claire Legacy’s stomach as she pushed her half-finished hot sauce-drenched scrambled eggs from one edge of the plate to the other.

Margarette Legacy, Claire’s grandmother from her father’s side, leaned back in her chair. The ancient wood creaked against her healthy frame. “I heard that actress is from the Washington area.”

“Really narrows it down, Gran. And they prefer to be called actors now.”

Gran rolled her eyes. “The pretty one with the boobs.”

Claire rolled her eyes right back. “Doesn’t help. Believe it or not, a lot of actors have boobs.”

“You know who I mean.”

Claire knew. She, Gran, and Bea had watched Anyone But You a few nights back. “Sydney Sweeney. Why do you want to know where she’s from?”

“Well, I know them Hollywood types out on the West Coast like to move their food from one side of the plate to the other. Make it look like they’ve done eaten something when, in reality, they ain’t done nothing more than play with their food like a child.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Don’t eat, you’ll be skinny enough to lose your shadow.”

Claire replaced her fork with a slice of toast. She nibbled on the burned corner. “Nervous is all.”

Without thinking, she pulled a strand of hair loose from her bun and tucked it between her lips.

“Claire Elizabeth Legacy,” Gran waggled a finger at her, “you’re not three. Quit that nasty habit.”

Embarrassed to her toes, Claire dropped the offending strand. She’d battled the impulse since childhood—always worse when she was anxious.

Gran softened. “What are you nervous about. Starting?”

Since arriving in New Orleans three weeks ago, Claire had spent her time in the FBI field office, trudging through HR paperwork and fast-forwarding through online training videos. She would begin actual field work in earnest that morning.

“A little. New team, you know.”

“My darling, you survived a car accident and getting captured by a prolific serial killer. You ended up nabbing that monster. Against all odds, mind you.” Gran’s face hardened, and a spark like a fire on a dark winter night emanated from her soul. “Or has the concussion made you forget what you’re capable of?”

During the drive from Seattle to New Orleans to transfer field offices, Claire had not only thwarted and arrested a serial-killing sheriff in a snowstorm on a mountain road, but she had thoroughly kicked his ass.

She reflexively touched the stitched gash across her forehead. Her bruises had faded and her ankle had healed, but the four-inch width of the wound had taken longer to close up. “I’m not worried about my capability to do my job.”

“What has you so wound up, then?”

“Remember every year on the first day of school?”

Gran chuckled, her eyes clouding with memory. “Stomach so sour with excitement, you spent the morning draining yourself of the nerves.”

“Well, nothing has changed.”

Gran chomped into a generously buttered slice of toast burned nearly black, crunching it between her dentures like gravel.

At Claire’s feet, Gran’s eight-year-old Bluetick Coonhound sat at full attention, begging for scraps and knowing the sucker in the family who would oblige. Claire plucked a greasy strip of bacon from her plate and held it near her legs, allowing Gizmo to snatch it from her hands.

“Now, what you done that for?” Gran massaged warmth into her arthritic fingers. “You trying to enable that odious behavior?”

Heavy footfalls stamped into the kitchen as Claire’s sister burst into the eating nook. Panic painted Bea’s round face an ashen sheen. She wore a bright-yellow headband to keep her short brown hair from falling in her plump face. Circular glasses rested on her button nose. She was clearly holding tears at bay.

As if twenty years younger, Gran leaped from her chair. “Bea, what’s happened?” Concern laced her every word.

Bea was born with Mosaicism, a type of Down syndrome. Gran, a natural protector, sometimes coddled Bea, while Claire viewed her sister as a capable, bright, humorous woman who lived a rather normal life.

“Roscoe’s missing!”

Dropping her toast onto the eggs, Claire focused on staying calm. “Who?”

Bea wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “You know the blue duck I was crocheting for the toy drive?”

Claire relaxed and blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t find it.”

Having learned the root of the issue, Gran returned to her seat. “Have you retraced your steps? Where did you last have it?”

“My room. I was watching a K-drama and figuring out how to make the beak.”

Claire stood, towering over her big sister by a full ten inches. “Well, you’re in luck this morning.”

“I am?”

“You are.” She bowed as regally as she could. “Turns out, I’m an FBI agent trained in the practice of detecting lost people and ducks.”

Gran couldn’t go a minute without making her opinion known. “Seems like if you’re so trained and talented, you could locate your lost appetite and eat some of your breakfast.”

Claire made a yammering gesture with both hands as she peeled through the kitchen and into the living room, avoiding the spot where her father had bled to death all those years ago.

Shaking her head, she shed the cataclysmic memory. The event had happened in another life, but the house constantly reminded her of the tragedy.

For a moment, hatred seeped into her bones, and she directed that loathing toward her mother. But hate was a dangerous and destructive emotion to host. Where love warmed and comforted, hate burned and destroyed.

Claire refocused her attention on her sister, allowing that love to return as she headed to her room. She forced herself forward with the search for the lost, unfinished crocheted duck.

A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf covered one wall in Bea’s room, stuffed tight with old and new mystery novels. Bea enjoyed pastel colors, and her bedding reflected her taste. Handmade hats and scarves hung from hooks, and uneven blankets—the canvases Bea crocheted—lay across her unmade bed. A collection of homemade animals explored every surface of the room.

Multicolored yarn lay tangled in a slumped basket. Claire kneeled and pinched a strand of brown hair, brought it to Bea’s nightstand, and held it to the lamp light.

She twisted it between her fingers and smiled. “Gotcha.”

After her discovery, Claire led Bea back into the nook, where Gran had remained, reading a smutty romance novel. The chair creaked as Bea took a seat at the nook table, leaning forward so her elbows staked into her thighs. Gran bookmarked her chapter and frowned.

Inhaling to gather her thoughts, Claire stepped forward. “After a grueling investigation, I have learned the truth of the missing duck.” She held up the strand of hair. “As with most mysteries, the simplest explanation is often the truest.” She scrunched her face, knowing she’d screwed up the definition of Occam’s razor.

Oh, well.

She pushed forward. “Let us consider the mysterious disappearance of Roscoe, a beloved member of this tight-knit family.” Claire paused to see if anyone had cued in to her pun. Neither Bea nor Gran gave so much as a smirk in response.

Note to self, don’t go to open mic night at the comedy club.

“Now, you made mention of working on Roscoe last night.”

“While watching a K-drama.”

“Excellent taste.”

“I thought you had work today?” Gran asked.

“Do not slow the hands of justice.” Claire focused on her sister. “You were perfecting the beak.”

“I was.”

“Admirable dedication. Yet someone failed to show you and your work the proper respect. When you woke this morning, Roscoe had vanished. Now, as a lifeless toy, the duck couldn’t walk away. So you reported a kidnapping.” Claire paused for effect. “And upon closer inspection, you were correct. Roscoe was kidnapped.”

Gran massaged her temples.

Claire held up the single strand of hair. “Behold! The first clue. Not Bea’s. Not mine.” She looked at Gran. “Certainly not yours. Your hair hasn’t been this shade of brown since 1972.”

“Brown hair, gray hair…I’m not too old to put this arthritic foot up your bony ass.”

A smile tickled the edges of Claire’s lips. “I believe you. Anyway, ladies, with full certainty, I can assure you that the thief of our beloved blue duck is none other than…Gizmo.” Claire gestured to the hound.

Upon hearing his name, Gizmo padded into the nook, his tail wagging.

“And I rewarded you with my bacon earlier. It was Gizmo, driven not by malice but instinct. The hound is guilty of theft. But he’s not beyond redemption. Or forgiveness.”

Gran shook her head. “Oh, quack, quack, quack! That’s all I hear from you. We want evidence. Where’s the duck?”

Claire held up a finger, slipped into Gran’s room, and marched to Gizmo’s bed, where a blue, half-finished clump of yarn almost in the shape of a duck rested. She snatched the animal and returned to the nook, presenting the evidence to the two-person jury.

“I rest my case, your honor.”

Bea applauded Claire’s detective effort. Even Gran offered a few slow claps. A sparkle touched her face that made her look ten years younger.

After taking a bow, Claire shuffled to her chair, plopping onto the seat. Unconsciously, she forked eggs into her mouth.

“And there she is.” Gran sipped from her coffee mug.

“A little investigating worked up my appetite, I guess.”

Bea gave Claire a big squeeze. “I’m so happy you’re home again.”

Claire squeezed her back. “Me too.” And she meant it.

She never thought she would return to New Orleans to live with her family. But then again, she hadn’t had a choice.

A conspiratorial part of Claire wondered if her mother had pulled strings to bring her back home. If so, why? Her mother had always manipulated Claire’s life. But then again, wondering why Corinne Barclay, a federal judge, did anything was about as fruitful as wondering why rain was wet. It just was. She just did.

Bea’s sweet voice drew Claire back to the moment. “Are you scared about your first day of work?”

Claire lifted her chin. “Nope.”

“Can I visit you at work one of these days?”

“I don’t see why not, but it’s not as fun as the movies make it look. There’s a lot more desk work involved. Not so many shoot-outs.”

Bea’s eyes grew wide. “So you don’t think you’ll have to kill anyone?”

Gran slapped her palms against her thighs. “Well, that’s enough of that conversation. We shouldn’t breathe such negativity into existence.”

Bea shrugged. “Gran, I’m not a baby. I know bad things can happen.”

“Doesn’t mean we should go about darkening the mood with hypothetical questions of lethality. I don’t know about you, Ms. Bea, but I prefer my sunshine without a cover of clouds.”

Claire’s phone chirped. She checked the notification to find a text message from her supervisory special agent.

Get in here ASAP. 4 bodies.

“Well, crap. There’s already an emergency at work, and I have to leave.” She snatched the last strip of bacon from her plate, grabbed her bag, and raced to the front door. Gizmo whimpered at her feet, begging for more. “No way. You’ve lost the privilege.”

As she walked out the door, Gizmo trotted after her, then ran ahead and raised his leg. He relieved himself on the tires of Claire’s new Jeep Wrangler.

“You’re turning into quite the repeat offender.”