“We don’t usually do delivery, but I figured I could make an exception,” she smiled. “Especially when he tacked a ten-dollar tip onto the bill.”

I thanked her, then said, “Before you go, I’ve got a crazy question for you. I was talking to a friend of mine in Portland last night, and she swears she was here last fall. Said some service group was running a haunted house in the old furniture store. I think she’s got it mixed up with another Columbus, but now we’ve got a bet on it. You don’t remember anything like that, do you?”

“Sure do. Our high school put it on. The kids were raising money for a family whose place burned down. They couldn’t afford house insurance after losing their jobs at the sawmill. The kids even got Manny Radu to let them use the empty furniture store, which, believe me, was an accomplishment in itself. His grandkids were all for it, though, so the old man couldn’t say no.”

Manny Radu—I’d heard the name around town. Cody’s father, who must own the empty building, which would explain why Cody had been there. The rest explained what I’d found at the empty shop—everything teens need for a makeshift house o’ horrors. As someone not far past her teens, I really should have seen that. My brain was too rooted in the supernatural world. That’s what I saw, even when a simpler explanation was right in front of my nose. I had to remember that.

After the woman left, I set my coffee down and opened the bag. Two muffins-double-chocolate and blueberry bran.

I texted Adam a thank-you. I’d just started eating the chocolate muffin when he texted back Put that one down and eat the bran. It’s better foryou.

I laughed and carried the case file and my coffee and muffins outside, ignoring the cold concrete under my feet. There were weathered plastic patio chairs along the front walk and I pulled two of them over—one to sit in, one as a footrest. I stretched out, sipping my coffee, nibbling my muffin, and reading the interview reports.

I was almost done when a room door opened and a little girl of no more than seven came out. Her hair wasn’t brushed. Her face was smeared with spaghetti or pizza sauce from the night before. As she started across the parking lot, someone shouted for her to close the door. The girl picked her way across the lot to a soda machine and got a Coke. Breakfast.

Seeing her made me think of Kayla, and what the folks at the diner had said—how her grandmother had kept her from a life like that. I needed to speak to Paula Thompson today. If she wasn’t pleased with Bruyn’s investigation, I could probably win her support.