I keep scrolling, but it’s more of the same. Tweets as advertising, meant to drum up interest for a podcast that didn’t yet exist. Unless there are recordings somewhere—her cell phone or laptop, maybe. At the very least, there would be notes, interviews, an electronic trail.

I frown, my gaze skimming the Tweets. “But Bobby Holmes wasn’t killed. He crashed his car into the water and drowned.”

“Mama was convinced he was in witness protection, remember? She was like, ‘Wherever that boy is, it ain’t some shithole town in Montana. Bobby’s smart, and he knows how to negotiate. He’s probably living large on the beaches of Mexico by now.’”

Chet grins at the memory, but I don’t want to go there. Our mother was always spouting off some stupid conspiracy theory, the more ridiculous, the better. For her, Bobby Holmes was a hero, a street-smart whiz kid who knew how to work the system. It didn’t matter a lick that he was a criminal, as long as he never got caught—unlike her husband, whose own incarceration was such a disappointment.

“My point is, nobody’s calling his death a crime, not even the police. Bobby landed in the lake by accident.”

Chet tilts his head, frowning. “Still. Now that we know he was at the bottom of Pitts Cove all this time, it doesn’t feel like the cops looked very hard. Wouldn’t he have busted through a guardrail or left skid marks or something?”

“There are always skid marks on that curve.”

“True. But when they happen at the same time that a person goes missing, seems like you’d have to try real hard not to put two and two together.”

Chet’s right, and he and Sienna have landed on a point all those ghost hunter shows missed: that nobody tried very hard to find Bobby Holmes. Without him blaring heavy metal music out the windows of his Camaro or squealing his tires in the church parking lots, the town settled back into its slower, quieter ways. For everybody but his sister Jamie, Bobby’s disappearance wasn’t so much a mystery as it was a relief. They were perfectly fine with forgetting he ever existed.

And then up came that rusted-out Camaro, dredging up another fifteen minutes of fame—this time for his bones. The assumptions people made were not kind. Bobby was wasted when he skidded out of that curve. High and drunk and too far gone to swim his way out. A victim of his own bad karma. That’s the thing about people like Bobby—it’s easier to write them off when you already thought of them as disposable.

Only, Sienna didn’t write him off. While Bobby’s death had faded to a memory for everyone else, she was digging up new details.

I point to the column of Tweets. “New details, plural. What do you think she means?”