The journey continued in silence, the road straight and uneventful until they took a left turn and headed deeper into the valley. Lofty trees cast slanting shade on the road, the surface of which had become soft, crumbly gravel. Amy sensed they were close.

“How long you visitin’ us for, miss?”

“Just the one night.”

“Where’s home?”

“Portland.”

“Ahh, City of Roses. Well, you chose the right time to visit. Our town put on quite the show last night, wouldn’t you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t see it?”

Amy met the driver’s eyes in the mirror. “See what?” She wondered if what he was referring to could be connected to the townsfolk and their feverish discussion. “I overheard some people talking, but I wasn’t sure what had happened.”

“The lighthouse, miss. Late last night it started shining.” His grip on the wheel tightened as the road narrowed and turned from gravel into dirt. The coins in the jar started to rattle. “Lit up the sky like a torch from heaven. Damn bright. Kept me up half the night, the cursed thing. First time in almost thirty-five years too. Thirty-five years. Can you believe that? Whole town is talkin’ ’bout it.”

“The lighthouse? Are you sure?”

“I know what I saw,” the driver insisted.

Amy was confused. She’d seen the building up close and clearly remembered its crumbling walls, wire fence, and smashed-up lantern room, not to mention the sign on its boarded-up door warning people to keep out.

“But how would that be possible?” she asked.

“Someone with far too much time on their hands would be my guess,” he grumbled. “Some little scoundrels, no doubt.”

“You mean someone did it as a hoax?”

“You bet your last nickel. But you be careful who you talk to. You’re bound to get some interesting points of view, depending on who you ask—ghosts and spirits and hogwash like that. Don’t believe a word of it. Oh, look, here we are.”

The driver pulled off the road and brought the car to a stop, nudging its nose into an opening between two sentry-like trees. Amy leaned forward and saw a rusted gate guarding a long, dusty driveway. To the left, creeping out from a dense thicket of bushes, was a paint-chipped letter­box with the words Porter Ranch stenciled in white, and to the right was a sign fixed to the trunk of a tree and held in place by two threads of wire. That, too, was hand painted and plainly said Horseback Riding.

“This is the place,” the driver confirmed.

“Would you mind keeping the meter running?” Amy asked, unbuckling her belt. “I won’t be long.”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll be waitin’ right here for you.”