They had reached the space where the woods peeled back and the point jutted out in front of them, in all its terrible glory. Stevie’s head began to swim as she approached it. She backed up several paces and got on her hands and knees, picking through the undergrowth and tree roots with her good hand.

“You think you can find a bullet?” he asked.

“Maybe . . .”

David got down on the ground as well, examining the earth. Stevie paused in her efforts for a moment to turn and have a look at him combing the dirt with his fingers. He was a good one. A weird one. A difficult one. But he always came through.

“Someone at the camp may have a metal detector,” he said. “I could go back and ask.”

Stevie returned to her examination of the forest floor. She felt the ground, digging in with her fingers.

“You sounded mad when I found you guys last night,” David said.

“I think I was.”

“We both have problems. Serious ones.”

Stevie suddenly flattened herself on the ground on her back. She stretched out, looking at the blue sky above.

“Did you find one?” David asked.

“Nope.”

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“Tired?”

“Yep. But there are a few things I have to do today.”

“Like tell the police someone shot at you? Don’t worry, I already know the answer to that one. I say these things for my own amusement.”

“I need to have a Think Jam,” she replied. “And I need Janelle to make a craft. Ask me why.”

“Are you a hundred percent sure you didn’t crack your head?”

“Thank you for asking,” she said, looking over at him and smiling. “I’ll tell you why—because it’s what Frances Glessner Lee would do. It’s time to show Barlow Corners a nutshell.”

27

IN MANY OF THE MURDER MYSTERIES STEVIE LOVED, THE DETECTIVE would gather the suspects in a room, then explain who didn’t do it before getting to who did. She never really understood why suspects would want to go to something like that, except maybe because these books took place in the past, and there wasn’t that much to do then. Today, she got it. People would come because everyone wants to know the answer—especially in a place like a small town, where everyone knows everyone, and murder had cast a shadow for decades.

A murder reveal is worth skipping Netflix for.

In this case, it barely took any effort. All Stevie had to do was go on Nextdoor and put up a post in the Barlow Corners community page. It read: FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED IN 1978. TONIGHT, 8:30 p.m. She listed the address of Carson’s barn. For good measure, she had Carson go to town and let it be known in the right places that something was going down. The machinery of Barlow Corners did the rest. At eight thirty that night, the unreal orange walls of the Bounce House seemed to thrum as a small crowd of Barlow Corners residents came in and took their places on the sea of beanbags. It was a good turnout, more than she needed. The key people had come: Paul Penhale, Susan Marks, Patty Horne, Shawn Greenvale, and Sergeant Graves. (The latter had gotten the courtesy of a phone call.)