Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Under my skin, the tack stirs again, irritation tangling with something too close to sympathy.
Does she chase ghosts to disprove them—or because she’s at war with them?
I dig deeper, my compulsion to unravel the mystery of Emery Corbin tightening its grip around my throat. She’s older than I thought. College and grad school in Massachusetts. No mention of Vegas. No other family.
She’s alone in the world.
I snap the laptop closed, jaw tight. Not my business.
She’s not my business.
Except she’s making herself my business by poking around.
Agitated and restless, I finish my beer and stand.
Outside, a bobbing light cuts through the fog, drawing me to the wide window overlooking the town’s cemetery. Half park, half graveyard, it rolls over the hills in a sprawl of crooked headstones, twisted trees, mausoleums, marble angels, and tarnished bronze statues. Kids mess around in the cemetery all the time. One just went missing earlier this week. You’d think they’d stay away, at least for a little while.
I edge closer, peering through the fog. Jeans, a hoodie—not the dress from earlier—but I’d stake my life that’s Emery, hell-bent on “investigating.” Bag bouncing at her side, hair catching stray beams of lamplight. Marching straight up the hill toward the Widow.
And beyond that, my family’s plot.
A cold spike of pain lances across my ribs. Air hisses through my teeth as the tattoos there—the braided iron tack, the symbols—burn and crawl under my skin like angry ants. The horse on my shoulder twists as if spooked.
The Rider senses an opening.
“Stubborn woman.” My voice is raw.
I lurch from the window, heart pounding. No time to think. I have to protect her from the story she’s so determined to dig into. I grab my jacket, fingers brushing the iron rivets in the lining, then stuff my feet into a battered pair of running shoes and slam the door behind me.
No way in hell I’m letting Emery Corbin visit the Widow alone.
Not while I’m still breathing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emery
It’s remarkable how much the Crowsbridge Cemetery resembles a gothic Pinterest board come to life. It’d be charming if I wasn’t the only idiot walking through the gates after midnight with a camera and a stubborn streak.
Isn’t it tourist season? Where is everyone?
No one said investigating was easy. I nudge the iron gate open and slip through the narrow space. The hinges give a long, unhappy groan that vibrates in my teeth. My breath puffs white, then vanishes, eaten by the cold. I click on my small, black metal flashlight. The bright beam cuts a tunnel through the gray night.
“I don’t spook. I’m a badass. I’ve got this,” I whisper, cycling through my new mantra. Let’s hope it protects me.
With my bag bumping against my hip, I follow the gravel path that snakes toward the hill. The dark buildings of closed businesses along Main Street loom behind me. A stray light shines from a window here and there, but they’re too far away to make out many details or tell if anyone’s watching me. One lonely truck rumbles through the night, then nothing. Even the rush of the river seems muted.
Earlier, I changed into more sensible jeans and a hoodie, but the night chill still prickles against my skin. The cold seeps into my knuckles and I curse that I didn’t grab a pair of gloves. At least the tread on my hiking sneakers grips the terrain with ease. I left my beloved crow brooch at the inn, which felt like leaving a friend behind. Instead of the pin for protection, I pried an old nail loose from the window in my room and tucked it in my pocket. It’s probably not even made of iron, but the brochure lady’s voice wouldn’t leave me alone. Old iron remembers. Fine. Then remember me, please, and be useful tonight.
Anxiety thrums through me. Why now? I’ve gone on dozens of “ghost hunting” expeditions. Both solo and in groups of other skeptics. Rem pods, EVP recorders, bells, boxes, lights, Ouija boards—I’ve used all sorts of paranormal equipment.
And I’ve been disappointed every time.
Part of me hoped that just once, I’d stumble upon the real deal, so I could be a believer in the supernatural too. So I could understand why my mother was willing to throw her whole life away.
No. Don’t think about that now.
Tripod down. Camera mounted. Ring light secured and shining, I pick up my flashlight in one hand, breathe in the scent of wet leaves and cold metal, then press record.
“Folklore check-in,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Meeting the Weeping Widow for a polite and respectful hello. If she’s busy weeping, I won’t interrupt.” Dry, friendly. The tone my audience likes.
The statue waits at the top of the rise, a bronze woman on a stone bench. Veil down. Hands folded. Her lap open, daring me to take a seat. The streaks down her face seem darker than simple patina. Twin shiny green lines. Like someone dragged a damp thumb over her cheeks.