She laughed, but I got the feeling she agreed with me.

“So, what’s up, chicken butt?”

“You aren’t going to like it,” she said.

“Do I ever?”

“A reporter from KOAT wants to do a story on you.”

“Like, a real one?”

“It could be KRQE. I’m so bad with letters.”

“But he’s legit?”

“Then again, what’s that other one? No, wait, that’s KOB. Only three letters. I’m pretty sure there were four.”

“Okay, but—”

“And there’s always KASA.”

“Cook,” I said, launching an intervention. “Come back to me. Is this guy a real reporter?”

“Apparently. He’s left three messages.”

“Sounds legit to me. So, he wants an interview, huh? Is it because of my reaper status?”

“No.”

“Is it because I’m a god from another dimension?”

“No.”

“Is it because I solve so many cases for APD, they want to give me an award and a year’s supply of oven cleaner?”

“No. It’s because of the video.”

I heard the “told you so” dripping from her voice. Or that could’ve been my guilty conscience projecting for dismissing the video so carelessly. “That old thing? I was, like, twenty-two.”

“I told him you weren’t available for comment.”

“Oh, hell, yeah. We’re sounding more and more important all the time, Cook. More celebrity-like. Next thing you know, we’ll get special seating at the Macaroni Grill.”

“You think?” she asked, intrigued. “I love the Macaroni Grill.”

I snorted. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, and that bakery in the creepy picture? It was owned in the thirties by a Mae Dyson. Mae L. Dyson, to be exact. Ring any bells?”

“Not even a Tinker.”

“Okay, I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks. And I’m at the scene of a violent crime.”

“Where? What happened?”

“No, no. It’s nothing. I just came to check out the scene where they found Emery’s car.”

“Oh. Okay.” She breathed a sigh of relief.

The area was starkly beautiful with gnarled trees and tall grasses. I saw the crime scene tape and headed that way, careening over bumps and through ravines. Thank goodness Misery was made for that shit. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“Oh, I know. My dad used to go hunting in that area before Albuquerque expanded as much as it did. Hey, what did you find out about Ms. Adams?”

“As squeaky as my dishes after Reyes washes them.”

“I figured. I can’t find anything. She’s never filed a police report. Never filed a grievance at work. Never filed a report of any kind while at college. Had perfect attendance and perfect grades. The word Stepford comes to mind.”

“And yet,” I said, “according to her grandfather, her dad was not the best. I don’t doubt that he loved her, but he has some serious issues. And a horrendous head for business. Cost his father a lot of money and him his marriage.”

And yet when I’d met him, he’d seemed so normal. But he was clearly a man continuously living beyond his means. Or was there something more? A bad business investment was one thing, but to do the same thing over and over for years—decades, even—would suggest a deeper problem. Though I had no idea what that might be.

“Having an irresponsible parent could explain Emery’s strong need to project a perfect image.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. She’s overcorrecting.”

“I did that once,” Cookie said. “You know that huge dent on the side of Olive Garden?”

“No,” I said, aghast.

“Yep.”

“It’s like I don’t know you at all.”

“Oh, I checked out the Harbor House,” she continued, unfazed. “Charley, she’s right. Heather is right. Nine residents have died there over the last seven years, but not all of them died on the grounds, and they all seemed to die of completely different causes. It doesn’t seem malicious, and yet the sheer numbers would suggest otherwise.”

“I agree. Keep digging. I’ll head back to town in about twenty.”

“Will do. Be careful.”

“Careful’s my middle name.”

I stepped out of Misery and onto dry pastureland. Crooked trees surrounded me, bare and hauntingly beautiful against the landscape. Many vehicles had been in the area recently. The ground was covered in tracks, so it must’ve been raining the night Emery’s car was found.