It was clear from her body language and tone that Patty was done talking. She insisted on giving them a bag of muffins and brownies to take with them as they left. They stepped back out into the muggy night. The picnic had fizzled while they were inside. The food trucks were gone, and the square had mostly emptied out. Stevie could make out Carson, sitting alone at a table under the marquee, looking at his phone. A queasy feeling came over her—the burning shame of Allison’s upset.

Somehow, she had to manage this situation—the case, Carson, the feelings that were barely under the surface. The pain was so immediate for Allison and Patty. The past was not in the past for them, not really. The emotional current was alive and well, and the questions still lingered in the air.

She looked down the street, at the peaceful storefronts of Barlow Corners. This really was the perfect small town, with flower baskets hanging from the lampposts, everything tidy and quaint. She felt an internal quiver again, but this time, it wasn’t anxiety; it was something akin to excitement, edged with fear. As long as the case was unsolved, the phantom that haunted Barlow Corners remained—restless, waiting for someone to dispel it. As stupid as she felt being connected to Carson, maybe she really could be the one to bring this to a close.

Now Carson was up on his feet, and he was doing yoga by himself in the empty tent.

Stevie’s confidence vanished as soon as it had come. She was a teenager, saddled with a tech bro, trying to solve something she knew little about.

9

“SO,” NATE SAID, “WHAT DID WE LEARN FROM TONIGHT, CLASS?”

They were back at camp, sitting on the gently bobbing dock, watching the moonlight spill over the water. They had a second dinner of brownies and muffins while millions of mosquitoes descended upon them, despite the best efforts of Janelle and her many sprays.

“Well,” Stevie said, brushing one from her arm, “people don’t love it when you come to town saying you want to donate a library, and then they find out that you actually want to make a podcast about a local tragedy.”

“Very good. And what did you learn, Janelle?”

Janelle looked up from her phone. She had been texting with Vi. Stevie could tell this without seeing the texts, because Janelle had a particular expression when communicating with Vi—a focus, but also a softness. Her shoulders dropped.

“That people love to put up statues of people who owned other people,” she said. “This guy John Barlow? I just looked him up. He had eight enslaved people on his property. Eight. And he has a statue.”

Oh. Not texting with Vi then. Stevie was way off.

“So what happens now?” Nate asked. “Do you think this whole thing is still going to happen? Mr. Think Jams isn’t going to be put off by criticism or public scorn, but I don’t know what that means for the podcast or whatever he’s doing.”