I finished with Grey and immediately pulled up information on Briarport. I found the first flight to Portland, only an hour from the coastal town, then a rental home with plenty of availability that I booked for a few weeks. I had no intentions of returning, not until I chased away whatever haunted me about this case. I needed to put my demons to rest, to move on with my life, once and for all.

2. Lenny

2

LENNY

The glass doors to the museum slammed shut behind me, closing out the brutal summer heat. I walked past the small desk that housed will-call and the service desk. No one was sitting there, but I didn’t expect them to be. It was only 7:00 a.m., and I was always one of the first to the museum. We didn’t open until nine, and I liked having the extra time for personal research.

A clash rang through the small museum, and I startled, realizing on this particular morning, I wasn’t alone.

“Shit!” someone shouted from the back right corner of the space.

I hurried through our set up of exhibits: portraits from local artists, facts about our town, and in the back corner, an exhibit showing off the one famous actor who grew up in Briarport, although I could never recall his name.

Mickey L. 

Michael L.

Unimportant. Potential murderer breaking into the museum should be my focus. 

Boxes were toppled, and a random assortment of documents were spread across the carpeted floor.

“Barren?” I called, seeing the older gentleman gathering papers from the floor.

He jumped at my voice and dropped the papers he had just picked up. “Lenore,” he said, the surprise on his face fading.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked. “Your shift doesn’t usually start for another few hours.”

He scrambled to pick up the documents, and I knelt beside him, gathering as many as I could hold.

“Francis will have my head if I don’t finish organizing these boxes today,” the older man said. His blue eyes darted around, like the museum director might materialize in the middle of the exhibit.

The older woman ran a tight ship; she was punctual, a perfectionist.

When tourists flocked to New England for summer on the coast and beautiful fall foliage, Francis became even more uptight and meticulous.

The exhibits needed to be pristine, and museum-goers needed to be kept happy. I’d seen the consequences of a sloppy exhibit only once before. Multiple employees ended up on a watch she called probation, or what I liked to call torture. Longer shifts, cleaning duties, and every last action inspected with a fine tooth comb, like we were incapable of making up for our mistakes.

I shuddered at the thought of ever ending up on her bad side. I floated along and kept my head down. The research I was conducting was far too important to risk.