11

The chair Evan Fischer sat on creaked beneath his weight, the wicker frame protesting. Kit eyed him from her reclined position on the love seat opposite him on her parents’ screened-in porch. Her entire body ached, and she didn’t have the energy to tell Evan to go away. She could ask her mom to do it, but Mom was too nice. It’d hurt her conscience to evict the man who’d rescued her daughter from the accident yesterday. But she wished she could tell him to leave for the simple reason she really wanted him to stay—and that was weird. There had to be some sort of psychological term for what she was feeling. That warm sense of security, however false, when a hero walked into the room. He’d rescued her. He’d sat with her at the hospital. He—

“Earth to Kitty-cat.”

Well, that jolted the heroism right out of the man. “What?”

“I was saying, the cops found your tire.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no evidence of a crime being committed, though, any more than it was an accidental oversight by whoever last put the tires on.”

“My dad? But that was two months ago.” Kit shook her head. “Dad knows what he’s doing. And there’s no way I could have driven for two months with an unsecured tire.”

Evan nodded. “Right, so we’re back to believing it was tampered with.”

That was unnerving. Kit tried to adjust her position on the love seat without jiggling her head and arousing the throbbing pain from the concussion. It had subsided to a bearable level for the moment. “I don’t have enemies.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, maybe some of the people who are annoyed that the old poorhouse was converted into a food pantry. I think the reality of poverty offends man’s ego.” Kit offered her wry and unfiltered opinion.

“Maybe. Or it has to do with your relationship with Madison. Her disappearance.”

“What, they’re jealous I’m friends with her? That doesn’t sound stalkerish at all.” Kit sank back into her pillow and closed her eyes.

“Does the pantry have cameras? We can watch the footage of the parking lot and maybe see if anyone there tampered with your tire.”

“At the pantry?” Kit cracked open an eye. “Who says it was tampered with at the pantry? And no, they don’t have cameras. That costs money.”

“I’m guessing it was at the pantry since you’d driven there safely, and it was after you left that you had the accident.”

Kit opened both eyes. “The only people at the pantry were Corey and me. Gwen was there for a bit, but she soon left in the truck, not to mention she probably wouldn’t know how to loosen a lug nut. Doesn’t that take a special tool?”

“Not unless your car has a key for them so your tires can’t be stolen. Otherwise you’d just need a lug wrench and some brute strength, assuming the lug nuts aren’t rusted or stuck. The hubcap would need to be removed too.”

“There were some other guys there who helped Gwen unload the milk.” Kit tried to recall their faces. Two of them were from church, and one was Madison’s friend. “I can’t see any of them doing it.”

“I didn’t say it was someone from the pantry, but anyone who knows you, who knows where to find you. It could have been someone who followed you there.”

Evan’s words were more disconcerting than Kit wanted to let on. She brushed them off with a lackadaisical wave of her hand. “I’m sure it was a coincidence and a fluke.”

Evan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “In my book, there’s no such thing as coincidences. I want to find what links this stuff together, and maybe it will help us find Madison.”

Kit felt the warmth flood her once again as she saw Evan through her hero glasses. Which was irritating because he wasn’t exactly a nice guy, so she didn’t want to like him. He chased ghosts for a living—literally—and he spoke in clipped sentences as if rattling off a list of facts.

But Madison . . .

Kit ran her tongue along the stitch on the inside of her lip. It was nice Evan cared that Madison had vanished. There weren’t many people in this world who spent energy on people they didn’t have to. Then again, what was in it for him?

“Why do you care so much about finding Madison?” Kit asked.

He appeared genuinely taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

“It’s the show, isn’t it? They want an angle on Madison’s disappearance. To make a story out of it?”

“Wow. Okay.” Evan scowled and pulled back in his chair. “That’s pretty harsh. And you think I’m rude?”

Guilt flooded her that he’d seen through her opinion of him. That warring type of guilt that said she was being too cold and that her protective barriers were going up. She liked her softer side, the side that wanted a hero. The side that believed they existed—and that they stayed. She just didn’t believe heroes had longevity. At some point, a person ran out of monopoly with their hero, and then they were abandoned. Unable to pay the emotional, mental, or physical return on their investment? Buh-bye. This was what happened when a girl’s birth mother left her behind at the hospital when she was a vulnerable baby. Even if the mother had followed the adoption laws and her story warranted grace because she was a young, pregnant teenager.

It was a hard truth that Kit knew from experience, and only those who’d been adopted or fostered could fully understand it. She reminded herself of this before, and she would remind herself of it again and again until she had protected herself enough not to be surprised when it happened.

Love, loyalty, and heroism came with expiration dates. It was only a matter of time.

The sliding door into the screened porch opened. Kit and Evan had fallen silent, and Kit had traveled deep into herself, visiting those places inside that she argued over. The end of loyalty came with betrayal or rejection. It was a terrible price to pay. And then there was Mom . . .

Kit looked up to see her mom step onto the porch bearing a tray with glasses of apple cider and a plate of apple-cider doughnuts from a local orchard. Mom had always been there. So had Dad. From the moment they’d taken her, just three weeks old, from the arms of her foster family. They had never abandoned her. That was the awful part. Knowing her parents adored her, cherished her, would probably die for her, but at the same time believing there was still something that could make them leave. Something stronger than love. Something that could melt it away and leave in its place just her. Alone. Alone in the big woods.

“Here we are!” Mom announced, oblivious to Kit’s tumultuous thoughts.

Evan offered Kit’s mom a smile that would have warmed the sun. So he could be charming when he wanted to be? Or maybe it was just that Mom had found the source of the man’s soft spot. Sugar and apples.

“You deserve the entire plate.” Mom set the tray on the glass top of the wicker-framed coffee table between Evan and Kit. “But,” she added, grinning at Kit, “don’t underestimate my daughter’s penchant for doughnuts.”

“Mom.” Twenty-eight years old and Mom could still embarrass her in front of boys she didn’t even like. That was parental talent.

Evan reached for a soft, fresh-baked doughnut. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. His eyes brightened. “Mrs. Boyd, you are an amazing baker.”

“Please, call me Kris. Actually, I can’t take credit—I bought them at the apple orchard this morning. I wanted to spoil you.”

“You’re doing a fine job of it, but I hardly deserve it.”

Mom leaned over and brushed a strand of brown hair from Kit’s face. She studied her eyes, looking at Kit’s pupils. “You’re lucky it was just a concussion. God was watching over you.”

Kit nodded.

“Amen,” Evan agreed.

Both women swung their gazes toward him, a smile spreading across her mom’s face, and perplexity making Kit stare in disbelief.

“You’re a praying man?” Mom beamed.

Evan dipped his head. “Yes, ma’am.” The quick glance he shot Kit seemed to dare her to fight him on it.

“God bless you. Here.” Mom picked up a doughnut and gave it to him. “Have another one.”

After she’d exited the porch, Evan and Kit sat in silence. Evan because he was scarfing down his second doughnut, and Kit because he was such a conundrum, she wasn’t sure what to think. Or maybe the accident had done more to her brain than originally thought.

“You confuse me,” Kit stated. Might as well get it out in the open. Dancing around it would only make things more tense.

Evan took a drink of apple cider and set the glass back on the tray. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You pray?”

“Yeah, and I hunt ghosts. Figure that one out.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

Kit ignored the doughnuts and the cider. “I’m trying to, but my head hurts too much.”

His eyes twinkled back at her. “Then don’t try. Just deal with it.” His wry tone made Kit give a little snort in response.

“Is that going to be your epitaph when you die?” she asked. “‘Just deal with it’?”

He grinned, and it transformed his irritable face into something more good-looking than Kit preferred. “Hey, it’ll stop a person from hanging out at my grave.”

“You don’t want visitors?”

“I don’t care one way or the other. I’ll be dead, right?” Evan pulled a booklet from his backpack on the floor and thumbed through it. “So I thought we should start here,” he said as though they’d been interrupted from a prior conversation.

“Start here for what?” Kit gently massaged the sore muscles on the back of her neck.

“Coincidences, remember? I don’t believe in them?”

Kit nodded. It wasn’t right to be propped up with pillows, cozy and comfy when Madison was still out there—who knew where? Suffering who knew what?

Evan’s thumb held the booklet open, and Kit could see the title on the cover: Phantom Seekers of Barlowe Theater. “That was written way back in the eighties,” Kit reminded him.

Evan lifted his azure blue eyes with a look that implied her observation had little relevance. “Ghosts don’t pay attention to copyright dates,” he quipped.

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

Evan shrugged. “I believe in research.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

He flipped the booklet open again. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not totally without feelings, and my gut tells me we need to be as vigilant looking into the theater as looking into your accident—and the vandalism at the food pantry. After skimming through this book, I wanted to ask you what you know about the tunnels beneath the theater.”

Kit frowned. “There are no tunnels.”

“Mrs. Green would beg to differ.” He tilted the book in her direction.

“Alpharetta Green wrote that book for tourists to buy during her ghost tours decades ago. She told the public what they wanted to hear.” Kit moaned and laid her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes. The weight of the accident, the pantry’s vandalism, Madison’s disappearance . . . it all was so much.

“Or was it based in truth?” Evan shut the book and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Most ghost stories contain elements of truth. History and real events that capture people’s imaginations. Heather seems to think the spirits hang around to hear their stories told. I believe it’s that people want to see or hear something to substantiate the stories, to keep them alive. Mrs. Green writes that there were rumors of tunnels that led from below the theater to the Barlowe home a block away. Mr. and Mrs. Barlowe could attend the performances and slip through the crowds of the social elite without difficulty.”

“I suppose.” Kit accepted the theory.

“And if that were true . . .”

Kit opened one eye to find Evan staring at her. “What?”

He shook his head as if she were missing something obvious. “Then it’s possible Madison left through one of the tunnels.”

Kit’s other eye opened, and she stiffened. “But there are no tunnels. People have looked and never found them. And why would Madison leave the theater by way of a secret tunnel and tell no one and then remain as if she disappeared?”

Evan snapped his fingers. “That’s a million-dollar question.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to pay a million dollars for the answer based on that theory.” Though if Kit could, she would. Anything to get her best friend home safely.

“Don’t you want to find out, though?” Evan’s voice grew serious.

“I want to find Madison. That’s what I want.”

“What if this is how we do it? Reaching for what seems unreachable?” Evan tapped the booklet with his finger, not taking his eyes off Kit’s face.

Kit worked hard at keeping the ever-ready burning of tears at bay. She’d give anything to receive a text from Madison, to learn her best friend had somehow just gotten lost in an unknown tunnel system beneath the theater.

“But that’s why they call it ‘unreachable,’” she whispered hoarsely.

Evan studied her for a moment before nodding slowly, his lips pressed together in thought. His response, when it came, was disheartening. “So I’m the skeptic?”

Kit stared at him. “I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“I’m all about being realistic. But that’s after all the possibilities have been exhausted. It’s what I did as a detective. It’s what I do on the show to debunk the paranormal and prove that things have explanations. But first you have to dig—in places where no one else takes the time to. You can line up all the facts, but at some point you have to step out in faith too.”

Kit eyed him. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to say something like that.”

Evan gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have faith that there are things we can’t see until we look for them.”

“Like ghosts?” Kit meant for her challenge to add some humor, to offset the seriousness that had risen between them.

Evan wasn’t smiling. Instead, he replied, “Not ghosts. Things of value. With substance. That will change the course of an investigation where no one thought it could be changed. That can change the course of a life even.”

“You really do like ghost hunting with Heather, don’t you?” Realization was dawning on her, and she wasn’t sure if she liked what she was uncovering.

Evan looked down at the booklet, then up at Kit. “I like finding out the truth. I don’t like abandoning a search. I won’t abandon Heather. We don’t see eye to eye, but that doesn’t mean I’d quit on her. On what she believes she sees or experiences.”

“Why then do you try to prove her wrong?”

“I hunt for truth and I never, never give up if there is hope.”

Kit could relate but on a different level. People had always been that hope to her. Those who came to the pantry, the ones the community didn’t see as valuable as others, the people who paraded themselves about as if they were worth everything while inside they felt they were nothing. Her quest was to find that hope in people—their value as God saw them—who were created to be so much more than what life had dealt them. And yet . . .

“What if we run out of hope?” she asked.