“I can’t imagine you’d add that to a dating profile.”

I sputtered. “I was referring to social media. Facebook, Twitter, and so on.”

A slight curl of his lip. “Ah.”

“Yes. I’m going to bet you don’t have a Facebook page.”

“My practice does, which Lydia maintains. We have Facebook and possibly MySpace.”

“MySpace? It’s 2012, Gabriel.”

“Perhaps not MySpace. That’s the one I recall from my college days.”

“Never had a page then, either, did you?”

“Certainly not. It’s a waste of time, and it’s dangerous. I’ve only ever been on Facebook when gathering information to influence potential sources.”

“Influence. I like that. So much nicer than blackmail. Back to the point, though. The actual purpose of Facebook is not to provide sources of potential influence, but to socialize. To talk to friends and to share things like hobbies and interests in hopes of finding new friends.”

His look said he couldn’t imagine the point. Whether he meant hobbies or friends, I don’t know. Probably both.

“People talk about their interests online. Let’s see if Macy ever mentioned dead people.” I picked up my laptop. “Later, I’ll set up a Twitter feed for the firm. Don’t worry—I’ll run it, too. Advertising tweets like: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law. Finding the Saint in Satan’s Saints. Or helpful tips like: Note to clients, quicklime is a preservative, not a corrosive.”

He gave me a look.

“We’ll work on it,” I said.

“Work on that.” He pointed at the laptop.

—

I’d gone through Macy’s online presences before now, but briefly, as a way to get to know her before our meeting. I didn’t find “embalming” in her list of Facebook interests or photos of amazing pre-funeral reconstruction work on her Pinterest account.

What I did find was more subtle. A tag on a friend’s wall post from last Halloween. The friend had been dressing up as a zombie and tagged Macy, saying she should get Macy to help with the makeup because of “all that time she spent with dead people.” Another friend asked what she meant, and the thread went on to joke about Macy hanging out at a local funeral home. Then Macy herself jumped in to snap that she hadn’t been “hanging out.” The conversation ended there.

I hadn’t actually thought Macy did embalm Ciara, as I’d seen in my dream. If I had, I wouldn’t have been joking with Gabriel about Facebook and Twitter. But now . . .

“That would mean she’s not an innocent bystander,” I said as I showed Gabriel the thread. “She didn’t meet Tristan at a party. She may have actually killed Ciara. For what? To get her family back? Tristan tells Macy that she should be living Ciara’s life, and she decides to . . . I can’t fathom that. I just can’t.”

“As legal grounds for defense, it’s so flimsy I wouldn’t even attempt it. Diminished capacity would be the only way to play it. Drugs, alcohol, mental illness.” He took my laptop. “Now, before we speculate any further, the comment mentions a funeral home on Lawrence Avenue. We’ll start there.”

—

There were three funeral parlors on Lawrence. I called the first. Someone picked up on the second ring.

“Walker Funeral Home,” a man said. “Kendrick Walker speaking. How may I assist you?”

His voice was pleasant, sounding older than I’d expect from someone named Kendrick. Once I explained that I was checking a reference on Macy Shaw, though, his tone changed, becoming younger and brighter, as if throwing off his professional voice once he realized I wasn’t a grieving relative.

“Oh, sure, Macy and I went to school together. Well, high school, and only for a couple of years before my parents moved.”

“Did she volunteer or work there?”

“In senior year. She wanted to become a mortician, so she worked here for two summers, but . . . Well, trust me, it’s not an easy career choice. Especially for a girl. Eventually the pressure got to her. She went into nursing. She kept working here for almost a year after she started college. She told people it was just for the money, but I think she was still considering.”

“May I ask you for a reference? Or should that go through someone else?”

“Probably my dad. I’d just tell you she was great. If you talk to her, tell her Kendrick said hi. It’s been a while.”

“I’ll do that. And on another note . . . This is a little awkward, but as long as I have you on the phone . . .”

“What’s up?”

“I have an uncle in palliative care, and the funeral home we always used has closed down. I know that’s the last thing on my aunt’s mind, but . . . the end is close. Is there any chance I could come over and have a chat with someone? See your establishment?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. It really is . . . close to the end.”

“I completely understand.” His tone changed, reverting to the soothing one. “We can make an appointment for tomorrow, or tonight after seven—there’s a viewing right now.”

“Seven would be great.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Gabriel fell asleep before we hit the outskirts of Cainsville. This would have been much more troubling if he’d been the one behind the wheel.

That left me with a sleeping passenger and a long stretch of road to play with. A boring, straight stretch. The scenery wasn’t much, either. Farmer’s fields on my left, the river to my right. The river would have been lovely, if I could have actually seen it—it was at the bottom of a gully. So a boring road and boring scenery, but the car made up for it, so smooth it was like riding on glass. The June sun was just beginning to dip, the car interior cool, the leather seats comfortable, the music . . .

Well, the music needed a shake-up. It was Chopin’s Funeral March, which was appropriate, given our destination, but really not a driving tune. I flipped through his library, looking for a Mendelssohn piece I’d heard earlier. I finally found it, and the information scrolled across the display. It was the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

As I heard Rose’s voice, quoting from the fairy play, I looked back at the road. There, in the distance, was a hound. Standing on the road.