If Gabriel is attached to anyone, it’s Rose. Yet when his mother left him, he didn’t tell her. When Rose found out, he ran until she stopped looking for him. That’s hard to understand, but there was something in Gabriel’s psyche, perhaps arising from his family’s con-artist past, that said you don’t take anything from those you care about. You took only from marks, and marks were always strangers. If Rose had learned that Seanna had abandoned him, she’d have looked after him, and he couldn’t accept that. Or maybe he just couldn’t believe she’d actually want to.

Gabriel stayed at my place for an hour, prowling the apartment, checking the windows, and engaging in stare-downs with the cat. Then he declared Rose wasn’t returning anytime soon and stumped off to speak to my landlord, Grace, about the security system before heading back to Chicago.

The next morning, I had the seven-to-three diner shift. My fellow weekday server, Susie, has a second job and we work around her schedule. Which means I have a mix of day and evening shifts that my body hasn’t quite adjusted to yet.

I don’t love my job. Oh hell, let’s be honest—I barely like it. But as impressive as a master’s degree from Yale might sound, it doesn’t qualify you for shit, especially when you have no work experience and you majored in Victorian literature.

If there was one thing I did like about my job, it was the people. The owner—an ex-con named Larry—was a dream boss. The regulars were mostly seniors—I swear half the town collects social security—and they’d embraced me like a runaway come home. Even finding out who my birth parents were hadn’t changed that.

This was my first shift back after Edgar Chandler’s arrest. Everyone had heard what happened and they were all so pleased, so very pleased. Which seems a little odd, but in Cainsville “a little odd” was the norm.

“Such an exciting adventure,” Ida Clark said when I brought her lunch. Ida and her husband, Walter, are probably in their seventies. It was their car I’d borrowed.

“A terribly exciting adventure, don’t you think?” she said to Walter, who nodded and said yes, terribly exciting.

“Liv was shot at,” said a voice from across the diner. “She watched a man die and had to hide in the basement while being stalked by a killer. I don’t think ‘exciting’ is the word you’re looking for.”

That was Patrick. The diner’s resident novelist. Also the only person under forty who’d dare speak to the town elders that way.

Ida glared at him. “It is exciting. She proved her parents are innocent.”

“For two out of eight murders,” I said.

“Still, that’s grounds for an appeal. But what exactly happened to that poor young couple? The newspapers weren’t very forthcoming. Did—”

“Good God, leave her alone,” Patrick said. “You’re monopolizing the only server and some of us require coffee.”

He raised his empty mug, and I seized the excuse to hurry off.

As I filled Patrick’s mug, he murmured, “Don’t tell them anything. I’m sure it’s a messy business, and we don’t want to tax their old hearts.”

There was no way Ida could have overheard, but she aimed a deadly scowl his way. He only smiled and lifted his mug in salute.

After the lunch rush passed, I brought fresh hot water for the Clarks. Several others had joined them, most notably Veronica, one of the elders I knew best, though I can’t say I knew any of them well, despite hours of chitchat. Mostly, they just wanted to talk about me, and if I swung the conversation their way, they’d deflect. “We’re old and boring, dear,” they’d say. “Tell us about yourself.”

With Veronica, it was more of a two-way conversation, but only because she’d talk about the town and its traditions. An amateur historian. And, like all the elders, a professional busybody, though I say that in the nicest way. They don’t pry—they’re just endlessly curious.

Veronica had brought in a sheaf of papers. I only caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman’s photo. When I filled their teacups, she said, “You’re in the city quite often, aren’t you, Olivia?”

“Oh, we shouldn’t bother her with this,” Ida said.

“With what?” I asked.

“Posting notices for Ciara Conway,” Veronica said. “I’m sure the police are doing all they can, but every little bit extra helps.”

“Olivia hasn’t been around since Friday,” Ida reminded her. “With everything that was happening, I doubt she’s even heard one of our young women has gone missing.”

There were very few “young women” in Cainsville, and I’d met none named Ciara. When I said as much, Ida explained: “Her mother grew up here.” Meaning Ciara had likely come to visit her maternal grandparents, which in the eyes of the elders made her a local. That was Cainsville. Gabriel had never lived here, either, and they considered him one of their own.

“When did she disappear?” I asked.

“Saturday.”

I glanced at the papers. “So you’re … posting flyers? That’s certainly how it used to be done, but these days—”

“There are other methods,” Ida said. “We know. But the old ways are still useful.”

Veronica pushed the stack toward me. She said something else, but I was too busy staring at the photo on the flyer.

Ciara Conway was the dead woman I’d seen in the car.

“Liv?” Walter said.

“S-sorry.” I wrenched my gaze from the photo. “Sure, I’ll take some to the city. I’ll be there tomorrow, doing work for Gabriel. Just leave me a stack.”

I retreated as fast as I could. I took another table’s order, but after I’d finished, I stared at the words on my pad as if I’d written them in a foreign language.

“Olivia?” Ida said. “Are you all right, dear?”

I nodded. As I headed for the kitchen, Larry watched me, his wide face drawn with concern.

“Liv’s been investigating the deaths of young people,” Patrick said to the elders. “You don’t go shoving pictures of missing girls in her face.”

I said no, I was fine, but Larry took the order pad from my hand and told me to go home and take it easy. The lunch rush was over. He’d handle the rest of my shift.

Any other time, I’d have protested. But I kept seeing that smiling girl on the photo as an eyeless corpse.

“I’ll walk you home,” Patrick said. “You look a little woozy.”

“We were just heading that way,” Ida began. “We can—”

“Got it.” Patrick smiled at Ida. “Rest your old bones.”

BLACK SHUCK

If looks could kill, the one Ida aimed Patrick’s way would have drawn and quartered him. Which was far worse than the usual ones that only wished him a swift and relatively painless death.

Olivia’s long strides consumed the sidewalk, leaving him jogging to catch up. He wondered what was really bothering her. While he was certain her basement ordeal had been traumatic, resilience was in her blood. She should be over it by now.

When Olivia noticed he’d fallen behind, she slowed her pace. Together they passed through the tiny park and on to the walkway that led to her Rowan Street apartment.

“How’s Gabriel?” he said.

He hadn’t meant to ask. He would prefer not to, or if he did, he would like it to be a show of fake concern. He’d lived a very long time without taking any interest in his epil. Gabriel was different. Or perhaps Patrick was simply getting old. Soft.

“I heard he was injured in that business at the Evans house,” he continued.

“Shot in the leg.” The briefest pause. “He won’t use his cane. He’s going to make it worse.”

Patrick had to bite back a laugh at the way she said it. First she acknowledged he’d been shot, almost casually. Then she complained about the cane. Worried about Gabriel and loath to admit it.

After a few more steps, she asked, “What do you know about dogs? Symbolically, I mean. Folklore, occultism, whatever. From your writing research.”

“Any specific type of canine?”