Jules was the perfect one. She was Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek rolled into a perfect ten with a capital T. The blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen with the face of an angel and a body designed by Satan himself. She’d been a cheerleader, class valedictorian, president of the Girls Athletic Association—and a purported virgin throughout high school. She was the one you fantasized about fucking not only because she was beautiful, but because you knew it would be a wild ride. Back in high school, all the boys had wanted Jules. The girls had wanted to be her. If you were lucky enough to be her friend, everything you did was for Jules, even though she didn’t reciprocate in any way. Jules always said no, but every male who met her secretly clung to the desperate hope that sooner or later, she would change her mind.

Brick had known all of them since he was he was thirteen years old and broke Snipe’s front tooth in a game of stickball. They’d been best friends ever since. Baseball games. Campouts. Long days at the public pool. He’d laughed with them. Fought with them. Cried with them. He’d had more fun with them than at any other time in his life. He’d been closer to them than to his own brothers and sisters, a closeness he never found again. He’d shared the best days of his life with this group. But not all of those memories were good.

They were older now—strangers, in fact, having gone their separate ways years ago. They rarely saw each other. Rarely spoke. But there was one thing that would always bind them. An inescapable link that would connect them until they died.

He was on his second cognac when Snipe and Jules walked into the bar. At fifty-three, Jules was still a stunner. She was wearing a pale blue suit with pearls at her throat and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was still the same shade of blond. The kind that made your fingers itch to run through it. Beneath that skirt and jacket, he could see her body was still slender and athletic. She still had it and people still noticed, including him.

Snipe, on the other hand, at the age of fifty-four looked as bent and grizzled as the old man they’d once beat down for leering at Jules. He’d heard Snipe had a problem with booze. From the looks of him, the gossip wasn’t too far off the mark.

Raising his hand, Brick motioned them over to the table. It was still early, but he was pretty sure he was going to need another drink, so he caught the bartender’s eye. Phony smiles and overly cheery greetings were exchanged as his onetime friends settled into the booth, polite strangers bringing with them the redolence of the past—and the knowledge that this was no happy reunion, no matter how hard they tried to pretend.

Across from him, Jules offered a nervous smile. Her lips were still pouty and full and painted an appealing shade of red. Brick knew he’d never rated with her; he’d always been her least favorite, but in those early days, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing about her.

Returning her stare, he smiled. “How’s it going, Jules?”

“I’ve been better.” She pressed her lips together and looked at Snipe. “Pudge called you, too?”

He nodded. “Talking crazy.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said. “Pudge. Murdered. My God.”

Snipe sat in the booth next to Jules, his elbows on the table. He wore a JCPenney shirt with a pair of khakis that were too long and baggy for his frame. “Have either of you been receiving notes?” he asked.

Brick nodded. “First one came two days ago.”

Jules looked from man to man. “Me, too. Two of them. Frankly, all of this is scaring the hell out of me.”

“Especially since Pudge turned up dead,” Snipe put in.

“Maybe we ought to go to the police,” Jules suggested.

Brick glared at her. “And tell them what, exactly?”

She looked away and didn’t mention it again.

The barkeep came over to their booth and took their orders. Snipe ordered whiskey. No brand. Jules asked for the house cabernet. Brick got a refill of cognac.

When the bartender was out of earshot, Snipe said, “Maybe Pudge wasn’t talking so crazy after all.”

Brick looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snipe stared back, his eyes bloodshot and full of fear. “I saw her, too.”

Checking to make sure no one could hear them, Jules leaned forward and addressed Snipe. “What do you mean you saw her?” she whispered. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw her,” Snipe said. “I swear to God. She was at my place. Three days ago.”

Jules’s pretty blue eyes went from Snipe to Brick as if wishing he’d intervene with some logic. When he didn’t, she said, “You couldn’t have seen her, Snipe. For God’s sake.”

“I saw her,” he maintained. “Standing in my driveway like she lived there. By the time I got the shotgun, she was gone.”

“You never could hold your booze,” Brick muttered.

Snipe looked from Brick to Jules, his expression telling them he’d known they wouldn’t believe him—but he didn’t give a good damn. “I know what I saw. She was there. Left tracks, too. I saw them the next morning when it was light.”

“So it was dark,” Jules said hopefully.

“Someone might’ve been there, but it wasn’t her,” Brick cut in. “Unless you believe in ghosts.”

Snipe glared at him. “So if it wasn’t her, who’s sending the notes? Who murdered Pudge?”

“Not her,” Brick snapped.

They fell silent when the bartender returned with their drinks. Snipe reached for his and downed it in two gulps. “I saw her out at the old Hochstetler place, too.”

The three of them exchanged meaningful looks.

Jules fingered the stem of her glass nervously. “God, I wish none of that had happened.”

“We all wish that,” Brick said. “Can’t go back. Can’t change it.”

Snipe leaned forward, his expression intense. “Look, is there some way she survived? That we’re wrong about what happened? That she’s alive and she’s come back for a little payback?”

“Is it?” Jules asked.

Brick sighed. “You didn’t see her,” he said. “No one did.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Snipe leaned back in the booth. “I know what I saw. And let me tell you something: She saw me, too.”

“What are you saying?” Jules asked, looking alarmed.

Snipe tossed her a nasty look. “Connect the dots.”

“Stop scaring her,” Brick growled.

“Better scared than dead.” Glancing over his shoulder, Snipe lowered his head and spoke urgently. “I’m not the only one who saw her. I was down at Ladonna’s Diner last Saturday, and I heard Tyler McKay say he saw her, too.”

“Tyler McKay is a drunk,” Brick said.

“Maybe we’re wrong about what happened. Maybe she survived.” Jules drank some of the wine, leaving a red imprint of her lower lip. “Maybe she’s come back.”

“Come back to do what?” Brick asked.

“To get revenge on us for what we did,” Snipe said.

“For what you did,” Brick snapped.

“We were all there.” Jules looked down at her glass of wine. “We’re all guilty.”

Snipe grimaced. “I heard Pudge was gut-shot and strung up in his barn like a side of beef.”

“Do the cops have any idea who did it?” Jules asked.

“No one knows anything,” Brick said. “We need to make sure it stays that way.”

“They’ll know about the calls he made to us,” Jules pointed out.

“There’s no law against old acquaintances calling to catch up on old times.” Brick looked from Jules to Snipe, wanting to make sure they understood what he was telling them. Snipe had never been smart, and evidently the years hadn’t changed that.

Jules nodded. “Okay.”

“All right.” Snipe leaned forward. “How do we keep her from coming after us, too?”

“Keep your imagination in check,” Brick said dismissively.

The words hung in the air, and for the span of several minutes, they drank in silence. “I know it sounds crazy,” Snipe said, “and I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I do know what I saw. I think she killed Pudge. And I got a feeling she isn’t finished.”