Dead Air
Season 1, Episode 1

The Night of the Screaming Horses
Gwenda Bond

1.

 

9-1-1 OPERATOR: 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?

MAN: God. I don’t . . . [sobbing] My wife . . .

9-1-1 OPERATOR: Sir, can you tell me the nature of your emergency?

MAN: I came home and the horses were screaming and she must have—she must have been—

9-1-1 OPERATOR: Sir, I need you to breathe. Is your address 404 Man O’ War Highway? Can you give me your name?

MAN: Heart Stone Farm, send someone, please. This is . . . It’s Dick Carlisle.

9-1-1 OPERATOR: [long pause] I know this is hard, sir, but can you tell me what’s happened? Are you safe? Please stay on the line.

DICK CARLISLE: My Peg. The horses were so loud when I got home and . . . and then . . . In the house . . . She’s in the bedroom on the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Her hair’s sticky with it. She . . . I don’t . . .

9-1-1 OPERATOR: Are you still with me? Is this a medical emergency? Have you tried CPR?

DICK CARLISLE: No. No . . . She was dead when I came in. She’s dead. She’s gone.

A CHILD cries in the background.]

 

• • •

 

I do it—I hit play. I air the clip.

There’s no backing out now.

I lean forward in the creaky rolling chair. Around me, the cramped broadcast booth of the University of Kentucky radio station has a fossil record’s worth of tattered band flyers and free show posters coating the walls. It’s the midnight shift, and I take some comfort in the knowledge that probably no one’s listening.

Even though I secretly hope someone is.

I press the button on the base of the microphone to go live. “You might be wondering what’s going on. Why did you just hear a 9-1-1 call instead of more mumbled indie rock lyrics? Should you, um, be worried?”

Um is for amateurs, but then, I am one. I rush ahead. “M is now for midnight, Mackenzie, and . . . murder. Welcome to Dead Air. In the weeks to come, I’ll be telling you all about the sordid tale of the murder of Margaret Heather Graham, known as Peg to her friends, and the bizarre twists and turns that led to the killer’s confession. Yes, at least you don’t have to worry about him showing up at your doorstep. He’s in prison.

“You just heard the 9-1-1 call made eighteen years ago tonight by Peg’s husband, Dick Carlisle. Peg was the founder of Heart Stone Farm’s thoroughbred dynasty, an outspoken advocate against doping, and a legendary trainer in the making. Until her untimely death three weeks before a Derby that Champion’s Heart, the horse she’d been training, was favored to win. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the heart, simple enough. But strange details abound that include the screaming of Peg’s horses acres away in the barns and a horseshoe placed in her right hand.”

My nerves catch up with me. My heart gallops as hard as any racehorse. “I’ll be here until the end of the hour, playing some horse-themed tunes in memory of poor Peg. If there’s anyone listening, call in with your thoughts and requests, and tune in next time for more of the story. In the meantime . . . keep breathing.”

I hit play on the first track I have queued up, and the air fills with Tom Petty singing about a good girl who loves her mama, horses, and America, too. Just like Peg Graham.

I rock back and forth, strangely giddy. I can’t believe I went through with it.

I’ve always been Macy, short for Mackenzie. Macy, the quiet girl in the back of the lecture hall. The one you ask for the class notes, because you know she was there and took them. But on the radio, I might finally be Mackenzie, loud and cool and unafraid. Or that’s the experiment in progress, anyway: Mackenzie on Dead Air, talking true crime.

A midnight slot on the station twice a week has been mine since I came back for senior year after a leave of absence. I get an extra credit for audio production class for my trouble. In the two months I’ve been doing this, it feels like radio is dead, at least on college campuses—no one’s ever called in, not even with a song request, and so, in the quiet, I fell in love with this idea. Instead of just playing random music to the empty airwaves for an hour, why not talk about something that matters?

I spent my semester off on my parents’ couch watching true crime documentaries. The Staircase, Making a Murderer, The Jinx. I branched out into podcasts: Serial, S-Town, My Favorite Murder, Family Plots . . . After I exhausted all of those, I read articles, books. Websites with headers dripping blood, white type on black backgrounds. So. Many. Murders.

When a phone line lights up bright red, I jump. No shock there—I’m jumpy.

It stays lit. I hesitate, then grab the receiver off the crusty landline on the desk.

“Macy—I mean, Mackenzie,” I answer, rolling my eyes at my own fumble. Apparently I can’t instinctively hold on to my radio persona when I’m not on the air yet. “Do you have a song you want to hear?”

Silence meets the question.

“Hello?”

“I’d like to request some farts. Your farts!” This emphatic declaration is followed by howls of laughter.

Haha, so clever. “Um,” I say, and a blush heats my cheeks. They hang up before I do.

What was I thinking? Of course the only people out there listening are part of the prank-call-in-for-farts brigade.

Instead of talking more, I play another track. A “Wild Horses” cover by Iron & Wine, which will buy me six minutes to get over the thought of prank callers being my only audience.

I have lots more sound at home for the next show. I don’t want to back out now, but maybe I’m kidding myself that I can do this . . . or that this is worth doing.

When the phone rings again a few minutes later, I consider not answering. But I refuse to be defeated by people with such a boring concept of humor.

“Hello,” I say. “This is Mackenzie.”

No response.

But someone is there. There’s no howling or heavy breathing. This call has a different feel to it. The silence stretches so tight, I imagine a rope between me and the person on the other end of the phone. Each of us pulling from our side.

“Hello?” I try again.

“You have it wrong. What if . . . What if the person who killed Peg Graham isn’t in prison?” The voice is male, deep. There’s a shake to the words.

“Excuse me?” I ask, wondering if I misheard.

“The murder. Peg Graham. Everyone thinks they know what happened, but it doesn’t add up.” Silence. “There’s more to it. Someone . . . You should look deeper.”

“How do you—” Before I can finish the question, there’s a click and the silence becomes a void. The rope between me and the caller has snapped.

I sit back in my chair, adrenaline surging.

The station offices outside the control booth are all haunted darkness. No one else will be in tonight except the person who has the shift after mine, and so on. This is a campus building. The security guard is upstairs. I’m as safe as anyone can be. But the tips of my ears burn, and suddenly I feel . . . visible. Anyone listening knows exactly where I am right now.

Only Mackenzie is visible, I reassure myself. You’re still Macy.

I wait for the caller to psych himself up to phone in again, to say more, to give a reason. I navigate to the pictures of Peg Graham bookmarked on my phone. In the first, she stands in front of an open spot on the fireplace mantel in her office, about to fill it with the heart-shaped lump of rock she named her farm after. Her smile stretches a mile wide. Effortlessly happy.

The phone stays as quiet as a grave for the rest of the hour, the eerie melody of Leonard Cohen’s “Ballad of the Absent Mare” seeming to linger even after the last note plays. Of course, like everyone’s, my show will be archived online as a podcast once it’s over. So in that way it will linger.

When my shift ends, I pass the studio off to a girl with pink hair and a nose piercing. Upstairs, the long corridor is dark and empty, save the security guard inside the lobby booth.

“Macy Walker,” I tell him, and he gives me a long look, then scans a list, logs the time I’m leaving, and buzzes open the outside door. I try not to consider what a lone security guard manning the nighttime shift could get up to if he wanted.

Sometimes you just have to pretend to trust people and hope for the best. But I feel his eyes on me every step of the way toward the doors.

Cool, steady rain pelts me on my walk to my car, my keys gripped between my knuckles. Just in case.

I know that the parking lot’s appearance of safety is just a convincing lie. The lack of enough parking on campus means that even at this hour, cars cram every spot, including the two reserved for the college radio station—I used one for my hand-me-down Toyota, a gift from my mom. A regular patrol of ticketers for those without a permit come and go through the night. There are security cameras sprinkled around the lot and above the building doors. Red emergency call boxes on well-lit poles in case of a would-be attacker.

But it’s one in the morning, and I’ve heard too many stories about a nice-seeming guy with a tale about a lost dog or lack of jumper cables . . .

By the time they figure out what happened to the sweet girl who helped him, it’s always too late. Sure, I’ve taken a few self-defense classes, but I’ve never been put to the test. So I stop and look up into the nearest security camera, providing a helpful mug shot for a crime show to use if I disappear tonight.

Yes, this is the way my brain works now—ever since my cousin Delilah died in a hotel room last year. Her phone was missing, never recovered.

I unlock the door to the Toyota and slide behind the wheel. It still feels like someone is watching me. There’s a sense of expectation in the night.

Sure, the call could be another prank. The Peg Graham case is long closed. A man confessed to Peg’s murder and willingly went to prison. Who would do that if they weren’t guilty?

But . . . I could take a look. If I find something, maybe everyone will listen.

 

 

2.

My two-bedroom off-campus apartment is a second-floor beige box filled with mismatched but comfortable furniture. I open the front door with a single key, and sigh.

“Kara?” I call, letting myself in. She never locks the dead bolt. It’s the only thing we argue about. That’s something I can’t say for my parents; it was beyond time to move out and get a place of my own. I like knowing they’re just across town, though.

My roomie bartends at the Winner’s Circle, a campus pub and grub where I also work part-time. I consult the schedule sheet hanging on the fridge—she’s still at work. As I go back to the door and flip the dead bolt, I can already hear her complaining about the extra time it takes to open that lock, too.

I’ve never told her why I insist on having it locked. Or why I insisted we not have a first-floor apartment.

If she can live her life without thinking about all the ways she might vanish or stop breathing, about how many creeps there are in the world, then I don’t want to ruin that pleasant existence.

I shut the door to my bedroom, as generic as the rest of the apartment, and sit on the bed with my laptop. I’ve picked up a few programs here and there so I can edit sound at home instead of just in the libraries or editing suites at school. I already have several of my sound clips for the next show; I stripped them out of old news broadcast files. My switch to journalism as my major may be new, but I’m jumping in with both feet.

I click on the one labeled BRANDON MCDONAL 9-1-1 CALL—aka the initial confession of the convicted killer. The audio is slightly muddier than the recording of Dick Carlisle.

 

9-1-1 OPERATOR: 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?

BRANDON MCDONAL: [slurred speech, Irish accent] I’m calling to say I did it. I killed her. Margaret . . . Peg . . . Peg Graham.

9-1-1 OPERATOR: Sir, what is your name?

BRANDON MCDONAL: Oh . . . right. Brandon McDonal. I work at Heart Stone Farm with Peg. I loved her and she wouldn’t love me back. So I shot her. I . . . I can’t go on knowing what I did. I’ve taken something and I’ll be gone soon . . . But I want everyone—

9-1-1 OPERATOR: Sir, what exactly did you take?

BRANDON MCDONAL: I’ll be gone soon.

9-1-1 OPERATOR: I’m dispatching an ambulance. Can you stay on the line with me?

BRANDON MCDONAL: No, let me go. Let me be gone. I can’t bear to live with what I’ve done.

 

The clip ends. Even fuzzy with drugs, Brandon McDonal’s accent is almost musical.

He didn’t manage to kill himself—he’d taken horse tranquilizers, but the ambulance got there in time to save him. Afterward, he rejected his public defender’s advice and pled guilty. He accepted a sentence of life in prison. Listening to his call now, this confession strikes me as almost perfunctory. Or am I just hearing what I want to hear?

I didn’t know until I started reading about the murder, but it’s a pretty common thing for young Irish men to come over and work on horse farms. McDonal was one of them, on a visa, working as a stable assistant to Peg Graham at Heart Stone Farm. The story goes that he fell for her, but not vice versa. When she rejected him that night, he killed her with a bullet to her chest. He tossed the weapon out a car window on his drive home, claimed to be so upset that he couldn’t remember exactly where. No one ever found it. According to his full confession, he put the horseshoe in her hand to try to make it look as if it hadn’t been a crime of passion but something to do with the farm. He felt so guilty, he couldn’t stand to look at the horses afterward. So he decided to confess and commit suicide, but only one of the two took.

Peg Graham wasn’t just anyone. That matters in murder cases. She was wealthy, beloved, and beautiful, and she left behind a three-year-old son and a besotted husband. Said husband had an alibi—he’d been out to dinner with old college friends, and then in the barn helping calm down the horses.

It was so straightforward. Men kill women for rejecting them all the time. But could someone else have murdered Peg? Why would someone have called in to say that if they didn’t believe it? The voice on the phone hadn’t sounded like a prankster.

The investigation into the murder wrapped up very quickly because of Brandon McDonal’s confession. Maybe they missed something.

I tug at my lip, thinking, and then Google “how to investigate a murder.” Everything is buried on the sites of college programs that specialize in police training and criminal justice or in police force HR manuals.

The answer is obvious, if I’m doing this: Go to the police station. They’ll have files I can request. After all, they’re the quoted source in most of the news stories I’m using. But.

Talking about a long-closed murder case on the air is something entirely different from digging through the darkest chapter of one of Kentucky’s richest families. Who am I to take that on?

Then I think about how quickly Delilah’s case was closed. There was no justice for her, no matter what the cops say . . . And my decision is made. I have to try.

I look up how to request the records and print out a page from the state attorney general’s website that gives clear steps. I can send a letter. But it says for quicker results the best bet is to visit the office and ask to inspect the records in question. I confirm the location of the Lexington Police Department. Right next to the library. Huh.

I guess I knew it was there on the periphery.

The front door bangs open and I jump in my seat. I wait, tense. “Hello?” I call.

“It’s me,” Kara responds, and grumbles something about the dead bolt.

“Good night,” I say.

Will I chicken out in the morning or am I really doing this? That’s the question I go to sleep considering.

 

 

3.

I don’t chicken out. Parking is always a hassle downtown, so I walk.

Lexington prides itself on being the “Horse Capital of the World.” Bronze equine statues frozen midstride race down Main Street, and flags with stately blue horse heads flap from black streetlamps. A small city at the core, Lexington sprawls out to include more than half a million people, give or take, depending on whether UK is in session. Pockets of prosperity and poverty rub up against solidly middle-class neighborhoods like the one a few blocks away where I grew up. Where I live now, a few blocks in the other direction, could be described as student slum–adjacent.

Halfway down the block, between the county clerk’s office and the library, I find the police department. The office has a brown stone front and a huge window covered by a vaguely tacky oversized badge decal. A van stops at the curb and a guy in a baggy T-shirt waiting in the shade beside the glass door lumbers away from the wall. There’s been a minor uproar about the growing numbers of men with signs pleading for spare cash at every intersection downtown, and the work van is the city’s response. Many of these people are strung out on heroin. The work van is a Band-Aid for an open wound.

I reach inside my purse and confirm that the printed sheet about requesting records is there if I need it. When I reach the door, a man in a suit nearly collides with me as he leaves. He raises his eyebrows, says, “Watch out, sweetie,” and hustles past me.

I’m not your sweetie, probable serial killer, I think, but I don’t bother saying anything. Polite condescension toward women is the Southern way. And I consider about half the strange men I see to be probable serial killers, including this one. I’m half kidding. Or am I? The co-ed killer Ed Kemper was besties with the cops before they busted him.

I step inside before the door closes. My impressions of what a police station is like come mainly from cop shows—in other words, fantasyland. The reality is somehow both duller and more intimidating. No one notices me.

The ringing of phones is constant. The front counter boasts a receptionist wearing cat-eye glasses over heavy black eyeliner along with regular office clothes, a pink blouse tucked into navy slacks. Behind her, several uniformed officers work at desks in an open floor plan. A row of chairs lines the wall of the waiting area. A couple of people, one man and one woman, fidget in two of them. A long hallway is visible just past the seats.

I muster the courage to approach the receptionist, then clear my throat. I wonder if she’s ever answered when I’ve called to see if there’s any news on Delilah’s death.

She glances at me, then grabs a ringing phone receiver and holds up her finger. She consults her computer. “You’ll need to go to the jail,” she says, and her voice doesn’t strike me as familiar. “I’m sorry, but he’s already been transferred.” Pauses. “To. The. Jail.” She hangs up and then says to me, “Yes? You here for someone?”

I feel any amount of time I take up in her day will be too much. “I need to speak to someone about some records.”

“Come again? I didn’t catch that,” the woman says. “Speak up.”

I do. “I need to request some records.”

“You a paralegal who doesn’t know the ropes?” the woman asks, squinting at me. The eyeliner creases at the corner of one eye. She waves a hand. “Just fax the request over.”

“Fax?” I ask. The only way I know how to fax is that app for contacting your Congressional reps.

She gives me a “not my problem” look. This is going well.

Behind her, a dark-skinned black woman in a traditional navy police uniform laughs. “I’ll bite. What kind of records are you here for?” she calls over. “Ella here is too efficient for the likes of us.”

“True,” the receptionist says. “This charity case is all yours.”

The officer laughs again, and gets up from her desk. “You a UK student? Class assignment?”

I grasp the opening like the lifeline it is, looking past the receptionist. She’s already moved on to answer another call.

The cop walks to the other side of the counter, and I shift over so we can speak without interrupting the efficiency of her coworker.

“I’m Mackenzie Walker,” I say. “I’m a senior at UK.”

“Officer Matthews. But you can call me Letisha—as long as you’re not committing any crimes.” She winks.

I relax a fraction.

“Now, Mackenzie,” she says, “what kind of records do you want?”

I pause. Might as well just say it. I’m in Mackenzie mode, after all. “All the available investigation files for the murder of Margaret Graham in 2000.”

Officer Matthews blinks. “That’s an old murder.” She pauses. “I remember the case.”

Of course she remembers; it’s one of Kentucky’s most famous murders.

“Can I ask why?”

“I, ah, from what I’ve read, I don’t have to supply the why to get the records.”

She blinks again, but something like respect crosses her face. “That’s correct.” She hesitates, then taps the counter. “But if I know what you’re looking for, I might be able to help you phrase the request appropriately. You a criminal justice major? Pre-law or something?”

“Just curious. Journalism major. I intern at the radio station.”

“You planning to do the next Serial?” she says, smiling.

My expression must confirm it.

She sobers. “It’s true; you can get what you’re asking for. Most of the files are open since it’s a closed case.” She puts exactly as much emphasis as you would imagine on those words. “They got the guy. It won’t be light reading. You can expect a lot of boring reports. Disturbing photographs. The newspapers will hit the high points and would be easier on you.”

I appreciate her trying to protect me. That’s what cops should do. Protect people. But . . . “I’ve got most of those already.”

Her eyebrows lift. She about-faces to her desk and returns with a legal pad. “I’ll put in the request. I’ll just need the spelling of your name and your contact information.”

I feel visible again. “Why?”

“So we can notify you when the records are available.”

Right. “I can’t inspect them while I’m here today? I read that’s the quickest thing, to inspect the records on-site.”

Officer Matthews considers me. “You’re good at the homework, hmm, Mackenzie?”

Always have been.

“I’m afraid that’s only true if the files are readily available,” Officer Matthews says. “These are in the archives. It’ll probably take a few days, maybe a few batches. You’ll have to pay for the copies, too. Ten cents a page. There’s an additional cost for materials for audio, color copies, and photos. Do you want those, too?”

The emergency credit card my mom gave me can probably handle it. I hope. Otherwise, I may have trouble making rent.

“That’s okay.” I take the pen she offers and scribble my email address and phone number. “Thanks.”

“Good luck,” Officer Matthews says. “Let me know if you have any questions once you get them. Okay? Don’t go poking around in dangerous places first.”

The picture I present isn’t of some daring girl detective. My shoulder-length brown hair is in its usual ponytail; my sweater and jeans are pretty unremarkable. And as far as Officer Matthews is concerned, this is a closed case—this research is purely academic.

But if the guy who did it is still out there . . .

“Do you think I would?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “No one does homework unless they’re planning to ace the test. But even closed cases hold a lot of bad memories for the people involved. Be careful.”

“I’ll come to you first,” I say, even though it’s almost certainly a lie.

 

 

4.

Paying attention in my afternoon media law class is torture. Since I have a few days to kill before I get the first installment of files, I figure the place to start is by going over all the newspaper articles and stories from various databases. See if I spot any threads to tug on, things that don’t fit the official story.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up, though. There’s probably nothing to find. And I should want there to be nothing, right? In theory, the best-case scenario occurred. Peg’s killer is rotting in jail. Her murder was solved and everyone has moved on.

But some part of me is eager to find something off, to be the one to find real justice for Peg Graham. I don’t expect to. I feel guilty about wanting to. But not guilty enough to give up yet.

When I leave class, I see a guy waiting by the door in the hallway who seems somehow familiar. Khakis and a tucked button-down shirt. Brownish blond hair, tan skin, strong jaw. The whole modern prince thing going on. He’s the kind of hot that means he’s definitely not waiting for me.

When I slip past him, he peels away from the wall. “Mackenzie?” he asks.

Record scratch. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.

“I’m Macy,” I say.

He frowns. “Short for Mackenzie, though? You have a show on the radio station, don’t you? You were on last night.”

He obviously knows the answer, whoever he is. He’s tracked me down for some reason.

It’s daylight and the hall is crowded. He doesn’t scream “murderer”—not that murderers always do. Maybe he wants to unseat Ted Bundy as the handsomest serial killer. Or maybe he’s a radio fan. There’s no reason to feel a threat, but I do.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He looks around and says, “Do you mind if we talk somewhere a little quieter? Outside?”

Yes, I mind. Fuck politeness, I think, like any good murderino would. But all I say is, “That’s fine.”

We’re quiet as we make our way out. He holds the door for me and I search my brain, trying to figure out if I’ve met him before. His isn’t the kind of face a girl forgets, and I do vaguely recognize him. But . . . from where? Have I seen him in my giant anthro lecture class? If so, why would he come here instead of finding me there? For that matter, how did he know where I’d be right now?

He stops when we reach a patch of grass, bordered by sidewalks and trees beginning to sprout green leaves. We face each other, back to awkwardness—at least, I am.

“So,” he says.

He doesn’t say anything else. Maybe he’s nervous, too.

“Do we know each other?” I ask, even though the answer is clearly no.

“I’m Ryan,” he says.

“Okay.” Not exactly a distinctive name.

“Ryan Graham-Carlisle.”

Ryan Graham-Carlisle. Peg Graham’s three-year-old son. Who isn’t three anymore.

Oh shit.

What is he doing here? Is he angry with me for talking about his mom on the radio? He must be. How did he track me down?

Somehow I never thought about this particular set of facts. That Peg Graham’s son is still alive. So is her husband, and her mother. Probably even the horses that screamed the night she died. Eighteen years feels like ancient history—because it isn’t my history. These are real people. I knew, but not like this. This is what Officer Matthews meant.

I struggle to find words. “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be, I guess,” he says. But he doesn’t sound certain. “Look, I don’t want an apology. I called a friend in the president’s office and asked for your schedule so I could talk to you. We have a class together, it turns out: anthro. But . . . I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

I’m afraid to ask what he does want.

His phone dings with a text, and he removes it from his pocket and silences it without checking the screen. This conversation isn’t over, apparently. He looks back to me.

“You thought about her—my mother. I haven’t heard anyone but my grandmother talk about her in a long time.” His expression is vulnerable, but my paranoia is starting to turn into fear. There’s a subtle distinction between the two, one I’ve thought a lot about.

“I know you said you don’t want an apology, but I am sorry,” I said. “For bringing up . . . old memories?” Does he even have any? He was three.

“Like I said . . .” He definitely sounds nervous. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” The question slips out, unintentionally accusing.

Ryan Graham-Carlisle doesn’t flinch, and I couldn’t look away from him if I wanted to. And I don’t.

“If you’re going to do this, you have to do it right. I can help you.”

I rock back on my heels. I can’t be hearing this correctly. “You’re not telling me to stop?”

“No.” He rakes a perfect hand through his perfect hair. But his face is vulnerable again. He’s uncertain, and it makes him seem less like a prince and more like a person. “If you’re going to tell her story, I want to be involved.”

I have to tell him. That what I’m doing might have changed.

“Someone called in last night, during the show.” I pause. “They suggested that maybe Brandon McDonal wasn’t the actual killer. I . . . I thought I might investigate. See if there’s anything to it.”

He goes silent. Our eyes lock.

“Like I said,” he says, finally, “I’ll help.”

I search his face. By all indications, he means it.

This rates high up on the list of the most interesting things that have ever happened—to me or possibly to anyone. “You’d be okay with that? What if I find something . . .”

He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t you want to know? If you were me.”

I think I would, but my mom’s still alive and breathing across town. I’d give anything to understand why my cousin died the way she did, though.

“Okay,” I say slowly, “but I’m just amateur detecting here. It’s a little odd that you’re ready to jump on board.”

That’s a Mackenzie observation if ever there was one. I need to know where he’s coming from.

His next words are low. “I heard the gunshot. That night . . . I’ve been told I was too young to remember, that I was in another part of the house and my mind’s playing tricks, but I have that memory. She was my mother.”

“Okay,” I blurt out. His stake is personal. How can I refuse his help? “I requested the police files this morning.”

It takes him a second to respond. “That’s probably a good place to start.”

I want to ask him a million questions. “I don’t have them yet.”

He pauses. “How about a tour of the crime scene in the meantime? Have you ever been to Heart Stone?”

He’s serious. His blue eyes watch me, waiting. The opportunity is too good to say anything but yes. My mom’s a vet tech at a practice that serves several of the big farms in the area. But we never had horses—living in town—and I never even learned to ride. Which means I also know next to nothing about the entire business.

Like Ryan says, if I’m investigating Peg’s murder, I might as well do it right.

“When can I come?”

 

 

5.

Mom brings in a pan of homemade lasagna and a plate of garlic bread fresh from the oven and sets them on the dining room table. Wednesday dinner at my parents’ house is a standing occasion since I went back to school. It seems to mean a lot to them. The vase in the center always has fresh flowers in it, arranged by my mom every Wednesday to make it special for me.

“I see we can’t compete with the charms of the Internet,” Dad says, taking the chair at the head of the table. He’s a high school chemistry teacher, but has changed into sweats for dinner.

“You mean it’s not enough just to bask in my presence?” I ask.

Tonight I lugged along my laptop and, yes, have it open on the table beside me. I’m determined to memorize every pertinent fact about the Peg Graham case before I meet Ryan on Saturday for my tour. My parents don’t know about my radio show. It’s a fairly un-Macy-like activity, and they’d worry. Especially Mom.

She slides into the chair across from me. She’s still in the horse vet version of office attire—boots and jeans.

“We love to bask in your presence,” Mom says dryly, but I know she means it. “Homework? You having problems settling back in?”

“None whatsoever,” I say. “Just some light studying.”

I pass my plate over for food and Dad loads it up. I take a bite of lasagna and finish reading a profile of Peg written two years before her death. She was one of the first major owners to come out against all the doping and mistreatment of horses in racing. A controversial figure hated by some and admired by others. I got into this because I love these beautiful animals, she’s quoted in the article as saying, so why would I be okay with hurting them?

“Mom,” I say, clicking to bring up the next article. It’s from the night of the murder—one of the first published.

“Oh, you’re talking to us now?” she says.

“Haha,” I say, and continue reading. The piece starts with the shocking revelation of Peg’s death and moves to a quote from the nanny saying she didn’t hear the gunshot . . . but then it quotes the police saying that doesn’t mean anything because the house is so large. Funny that Ryan remembers hearing it, though.

“Have you ever done any work at Heart Stone Farm?” I ask.

I look away from the screen when Mom doesn’t answer right away.

“She has,” Dad says. “She’s worked at all of the big farms.”

Mom nods, agreeing. “Sure, but I’ve not been out there recently. Why?”

I search for a way to broach this subject that won’t end with her in my business. Or worrying.

“No real reason,” I say. Although . . . “I just have Ryan Graham-Carlisle in one of my classes.”

She takes a sip of wine. “Which one?”

“Anthro,” I say.

“I wonder why he’s taking that,” she says. “He’s being groomed to take over the family businesses. They’d never let him do anything else. His grandfather would not approve.”

“Is this Ryan cute? Does someone have a crush?” Dad asks, teasing.

My cheeks burn. “Um, no,” I say. “I was just making conversation.”

“Good,” Mom says, “because that family has troubles.”

Every family has troubles, I think, including ours. “Have you talked to Aunt Rae this week?”

The question changes the subject, but I wish I could take it back. The mood goes pitch dark fast, like a light being switched off. Aunt Rae has been struggling since the loss of Delilah.

“No,” Mom says. “I should call her later.”

She takes another, longer drink of wine. I go back to reading.

 

 

6.

Ten minutes outside Lexington city limits, the scenery transforms from strip malls to idyllic countryside. My phone dictates directions, but the printed property map in the passenger seat beside me shows when the rolling green hillsides along the two-lane road become Carlisle property. I’m still miles away from the entrance to the farm. Out the car window, white four-board fences in pristine condition surround the edges of fields, also in pristine condition. Horses and colts romp or graze within. On my printed-out map, I’d drawn in the property line with a red marker. To my surprise, it made a rough heart shape.

Heart Stone Farm is a kingdom unto itself. Peg’s mother, Georgia, who had a new oil fortune, bought it from a down-on-their-luck old money family for Peg to turn her love of horses into a business. The property survey records online say the estate has been managed by her husband’s family ever since Peg’s death.

I recognize the stone columned entrance to the farm from the website. Carved on one side is the name, and as I turn up the paved drive I’m greeted by black-and-white signs warning “Private Property, No Trespassing” and “Tours by Appointment Only.”

The welcome sign is farther up the paved drive, and hulking stone and wood barns loom into view ahead. A castle-like mansion presides over it all in the distance from the top of a taller hill. The family home. My destination.

My phone buzzes. I make sure no one’s behind me, put the car in park, and check it. A text from Ryan.

New plan. Dad’s running late and I think it’s best we avoid him today. I’ll meet you down at the main parking lot. We can go up after he’s gone.

I tap back a response: OK.

I wonder if Dick Carlisle is habitually late. Or . . . if Ryan has brought me out here under false pretenses . . . Maybe hearing my show did upset him, and this is all some elaborate plot to get me to a secluded location out here on the family estate. And here I am, alone. I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going.

A car honks behind me, interrupting my paranoid spiral. Not that being paranoid means I’m wrong.

At least the farm isn’t deserted. There are a handful of people in bright jackets waiting in front of a smallish stone cottage. They have the look of retirees out to enjoy a horse farm tour. I park in the lot beside them and get out.

The cottage door opens and a lanky guy in a plaid jacket emerges, carrying a clipboard. “Good morning. I’ll just get you guys checked in and we’ll go see some stallions,” he says. “And before you ask, yes, Warrior’s Heart will be breeding this morning and we’ll get to see him on his way down to the shed.”

Some of the couples coo with excitement. I don’t get it.

I wait, resisting the urge to text Ryan, while the guy checks off the names of everyone but me. The guide smiles and consults his clipboard. “Did you register in advance?”

“Not exactly,” I say, and pray for Ryan to show up. I could just leave.

But then Ryan strides around the little house, scanning the crowd until he spots me. He gives me a reserved smile. The sun catches highlights in his blond hair. He has on jeans and a T-shirt with an open flannel over it, and boots. Casually perfect.

“Hi there,” he says, approaching. “Sorry, it took me a minute to get down here.”

The tourists have figured out who he is, because they make way for him without being told. The tour guide shoots me a wink and I want to say, Whatever you’re thinking is wrong. So wrong.

“Uh, hi,” I say, and suddenly I don’t want to be alone with him in the house where Peg died. Not yet. Not until I get a feel for whether he is setting me up. “You mind if we tour the farm first?”

He looks at the people around us. “Sure.”

I start to follow him as the guide gives Ryan a knowing nod, which bugs me. The tour group watches as Ryan steers me away, up the drive. Behind us, the guide starts his spiel. “In case anyone isn’t familiar with what we do here . . .”

“I’ll get all the facts they do?” I ask, stalling, still worried about leaving the safety of the group.

“You’ll get a better tour from me, I promise.” He sounds entirely confident about that and I see no murderous glint in his eye. I also spot workers ahead on the grounds in front of us and relax—a little—because we won’t be completely alone.

“Of course,” I say, refocusing on what I’m here to do—learn more about the victim. The victim is where good investigations begin. It’s the one thing the whole Internet agrees on.

I also need to work out why Ryan is willing to help me with this. He thinks there’s a chance someone besides Brandon McDonal did it, right? It can’t just be a what-if game for him. What does he know that he hasn’t told me?

The drive changes from pavement to a jigsaw puzzle surface as we near the first set of barns. We head in the direction of the biggest one.

“Okay,” Ryan says, “so all the buildings on the property were designed by this famous architect my mother brought over from Italy, Enrico Cessoni.”

Possible murder suspect? A crime of passion involving a passionate Italian architect? I should consider everyone.

He leads us through an open set of sliding doors into the barn. It feels like trespassing, but of course, this place is his.

Inside are stalls with plaques affixed to the doors, engraved with names and birth dates that obviously belong to horses. I turn and see what I think at first is just a roped-off stall, but then I realize what it is: Peg’s old office. The sliding door’s open and the entrance is blocked by a velvet rope. I remember the picture where she’s about to preside over the placing of the heart stone in the fireplace. And there it is, in pride of place.

“This is where she worked?” I ask.

“Just as it was the day she died,” he says stiffly. “Dad decided we shouldn’t touch it.”

We walk over to the rope and I can’t help being impressed by all the trophies she won and photos of her and various famous people. “Is that a Kennedy?” I ask.

“Jackie O,” Ryan says, a little sheepish.

There are still papers on Peg’s desk. The story I read said the fireplace was made expressly so the heart stone would be its centerpiece.

What a lonely place this is, missing the person it belonged to. The heart stone is here, but the heart is gone.

“You know how the farm got its name?” Ryan asks.

“Yes,” I say, “her first horse—”

“Lucky Girl, her jumper,” he says.

“Peg was riding her and spotted the rock just in time, before it could lame Lucky Girl. She decided to name the farm after it, because it was shaped like a heart.”

“She’s buried with Lucky Girl’s horseshoe.” He stares into the office. “It’s the one she was holding that night.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “It used to be here, with the heart stone.”

I did know that. It was all in the stories, but I’m sensitive enough to know that it’s best to stay quiet right now.

Ryan speaks again. “She wanted the farm to feel like her own enchanted kingdom, hence the castle theme. It does feel different from the other farms, if you ever go to them. Most are a lot more traditional. It’s kind of as if her vision is still here, like the office, even if she isn’t.”

This entire place’s creation was presided over by Peg Graham. What could say more about her than the kingdom she built and ultimately died in?

“Do you remember her?” I ask, even though it’s too personal. Even though he was only three.

“Sometimes I think I do, but I was so young . . .”

A Latino man in work clothes and boots enters from the opposite end of the barn and waves.

Ryan clears his throat, changing back to business talk. “Anyway, this is where our ten breeding stallions live. There are only a couple in here right now. The rest of them are out in their pastures.” He points to a bright red button as he leads the way toward the man. “That’s a quick release, opens the stall doors in case of emergency.”

When we reach the worker outside an open stall, I discover it holds an enormous shiny brown horse. The worker slips a halter on and the stallion clomps forward.

“Hey, Juan,” Ryan greets the man with the horse. He angles himself toward me and flourishes a hand toward the animal, who stands calmly, like he’s used to being admired. “This guy here is the farm’s biggest earner at the moment, Warrior’s Heart. He’s part of the line my mother started with Champion’s Heart, hence the name. He won the Derby five years ago, but didn’t start bringing in the big bucks until his first babies started winning races, too. He’s a proven stallion now, so his breeding fee is two hundred thousand dollars a pop.”

“Wait,” I say, blown away by the number. “He gets paid two hundred thousand dollars for . . .”

The stable guy coughs. “For his sperm,” he says. “Yes.”

My eyes go to Ryan before I can stop them.

“For fertilizing mares. Artificial insemination is prohibited by the thoroughbred commission,” Ryan says. “He brings in about twenty million dollars per breeding season.”

“We have a mare coming in just a few moments,” Juan says, “if you want to watch.”

“That’s all right,” I say. “I don’t like to watch.”

Ryan flushes. So do I.

Juan takes it in stride. “Fair enough. Excuse me, I’ve got to get this guy to the breeding shed for his next—”

“Pop,” I supply. Twenty million dollars per breeding season. Wow.

Juan waves us to one side of the stall, and leads Warrior’s Heart through the center of the barn. The horse clearly knows where he’s going—he’s ready to earn his money. His male equipment is as enormous as everything else about him.

I am so glad I’m not a broodmare.

Ryan and I exchange a glance and we both laugh. It feels like we’re friends hanging out, possibly even flirting.

But only until I remember why I’m here.

“What else should I see?” I ask. I pull out my phone to check it nervously.

Ryan says, “No service in the barn. It’s a dead spot.” I start to panic at these words, but Ryan continues, “There’s Wi-Fi, though. The password is heartbarn-one.”

I tap in the password. Not cut off from the world entirely. “Oh. Do you know so much about all this because you grew up around it?”

“I’m doing a double major. One’s in equine management,” he says.

“What about the other?”

“Business, for taking over the more boring parts of the family portfolio.” His lack of enthusiasm is obvious. “It’s my duty.”

“But not what you want to do?” I ask.

“I’d love to go after some bigger changes for the breeding program here instead—using more genetic testing to leverage the speed gene and other traits.” He lights up, talking about it. “My mom, I feel like she’d have been into the science. She believed racing could do better by horses, and we can start by being better breeders. Stop breeding horses with traits that mean they’re fast but we lose them to accidents at the track, or that they don’t live as long as they could.”

“But . . . wouldn’t all those ethics cost you money? It sounds like people pay to breed with the winners, no matter what.”

“Yes and no. Not if we did it right. We’d end up with even healthier horses across the board, and they’d make money, too.”

His interest in this, real and deep, takes me by surprise. I’ve underestimated him. He’s more than a preppy trust fund baby.

“But you don’t think you’ll be able to do it?” I’m honestly perplexed. Who would tell Ryan Graham-Carlisle not to follow his dreams?

“My grandfather has expectations for me,” he says, and his tone makes it clear the subject is closed.

After my mom mentioned his grandfather the other night, I looked up what I could find about him. He’s another Richard Ryan Carlisle, an exceedingly wealthy and successful one. Ryan’s maternal grandfather passed away when Peg was just a girl.

“You ready to see the house?” Ryan asks, breaking me out of my reverie. “We can visit Mom’s grave on the way.”

Should I just send a quick email to my roommate with my last known whereabouts first? But I just say, “Okay.”

We’re quiet again as we trek back across the grounds. Everything is cared for, green and tidy. A few groundskeepers are repairing a bit of fence on an empty field. Ryan waves at them like he knows them, though it feels impossible with a place this size.

We pause at the bottom of the hill with the mansion at the top of it. “We take this path to go around back,” he says.

My nerves kick into high gear as we walk along a well-kept dirt path lined with stones, around to the back side of the hill. Tall trees with canopies sway in the breeze, keeping the path private, the house looming high above on the hill.

The family cemetery is visible before we get there, the edges lined with black wrought-iron fence, forbidding. Tulips are planted along the outside of the fence line, starting to bloom for spring. Their pale white against the black fence is stark. The stories about Peg’s funeral mentioned that tulips were her favorite flower.

Ryan surprises me by veering off the path and pulling open the latch to the gate. It creaks as he presses it open. The cemetery is as carefully manicured as the rest of the farm. There aren’t many graves here. A few headstones and statues stand sentry and a mausoleum sits at the back, with columns and a door.

We walk to the marble statue of Peg jumping on Lucky Girl.

The statue is impressively lifelike. Lucky Girl looks strong and fast, and Peg atop her is young, smiling, carefree, her hair flowing into the air behind her like a flag. Only the lack of color, the cold white of the marble, spoils the effect.

“What you asked before . . . about if I remember her,” he says. “I feel like I don’t even know much about her. Dead people become perfect. What I know is everything with the edges cut off. She doesn’t have flaws in Grandma Georgia’s stories. I wish I’d been old enough to remember what happened, what she was like. That’s why I’m helping you. If there’s truth to know, I want to know it now. Whatever it is.”

I think I believe him.

He reaches out and touches the nose of the stone horse and says, “See you next time, Mom.” He turns to me. “Want to go up to the house?”

The words hang in the air. A mix of emotions whirls inside me. I’m sad for him and disquieted by the statue of his murdered mother and also wondering if this is when he bludgeons me, and then I feel guilty because he honestly doesn’t seem like a bludgeoner.

“Sure,” I say, “let’s go.”

The path up the hillside is cut in switchbacks, presumably so the slope doesn’t kill everyone who makes the hike up. Even approaching the house from behind makes my head swim. Talk about luxury. This is how the one percent lives.

A castle built to preside over the rest of the kingdom. It has round turrets on the ends and three stories of pretty stone covered in crawling, well-manicured vines in the right spots to be attractive instead of abandoned-looking.

“After you,” Ryan says, swinging open the French doors.

I hesitate. “No security system?” I ask.

“Dad never remembers to set it,” he says, stepping inside to point at the keypad on the wall.

“Oh,” I say and, with a deep breath and a prayer that this isn’t a terrible idea, I join him.

He breezes through the downstairs, pointing out a sitting room, parlor, and living room. The “downstairs kitchen” and a few bathrooms.

“The bedroom where it happened is upstairs,” he says. “You ready?”

I linger at the bottom of a broad, sweeping staircase inside the front door that connects the first level with the upper two. “Is it weird, knowing it happened here? Continuing to live here?”

“Sometimes . . . I told you I heard it,” he says, turning to face me. “The gunshot. I freaked out every time I heard one on TV for a long time. Grandfather says it’s probably a false memory caused by trauma, but it feels real.”

“It’s your memory, not his.” Something tickles the back of my mind, but I wave for us to go on. “Let’s see the room.”

It’s obvious that his dad still sleeps in the master bedroom suite. The housekeeper hasn’t been in today, and he’s an untidy occupant. Gum, cigarettes, fountain pens, and loose wads of cash dot the dresser and the bathroom vanity.

The room itself is spacious, with a high ceiling. An expensive but tacky light pink comforter covers the bed. A pair of heels are discarded on the floor next to it.

“He has a girlfriend?” I ask.

“Always.” Ryan studies the shoes, exasperated. “He says he loved my mom too much to ever marry again.”

He gestures to the floor near the foot of the bed, but I notice he stays back from it. He’s not really looking there, either. “That’s where they found her. I believe.”

I picture poor Peg Graham, sprawled out on this floor that now plays host to her husband’s girlfriend’s shoes. The air in here is cold and heavy. Or maybe I just imagine it that way. I don’t know what clues I expected to find so many years later. It feels invasive, standing here—like this room should’ve been roped off as a memorial, same as her office in the barn.

“You believe,” I say, turning away from the place where the body was found. “You heard the shot but didn’t see the body?”

I start to apologize, but Ryan answers. “Either I’ve blocked it or someone kept me out. Or it’s all trauma hallucinations.”

I think of the stories, the nanny’s statement. “There was a nanny here with you, right?”

He nods.

“Can you show me where her room was?” It’s an excuse to leave this room, and he seizes on it.

“Of course,” he says. “She went back to Argentina a while after Mom died. Wanted to help out her family there.”

He flips off the lights in his father’s bedroom and escorts me up the hall a ways. “My room’s here,” he said, knocking on a closed door, “and Camila was in here.” He indicates the room beside his. “Housekeeper’s room now,” he says. “It’s her day off.”

He opens the door but stays in the hall. Which I approve of. We have no right to mess around in the possessions of a living, breathing woman without her permission.

We both hear an echo as a door opens and shuts downstairs. I look at Ryan.

“Ryan?” a man’s voice calls. “You still here?”

“Dad,” he says, and pulls me toward his room, opening the door. We listen as steps bang up the stairs and then the hall and Ryan’s eyes widen with what seems to be panic. He says, almost pleading, “Pretend you’re here on a date?”

“Um, okay,” I stammer.

He gently pushes me onto the bed. “This okay?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He lifts a hand and puts it on my cheek. My skin feels like it’s burning. We stare at each other and I find myself looking at his lips. I almost forget this is pretend.

The bedroom door opens, and we pull apart.

“Dad?” Ryan asks, as if he’s distracted.

I make a mental note: He’s a good actor. Or should I say liar?

Dick Carlisle has obviously been drinking already, despite the pre-noon hour. The air around him wafts a none-too-subtle hint of bourbon our way. His shirt is rumpled, no tie. His face must have been handsome once; he and Ryan look like each other. But now it’s flushed and puffy.

“Oops!” he says. “Sorry, son. No wonder you were in such a hurry to get rid of your old man.”

I study the bedspread. Blue-and-red plaid.

“Excuse me,” Ryan says to me. “What is it, Dad?”

“Sorry to interrupt. I forgot the tickets for tonight. We’re going straight from the course to Spindletop. Your grandfather reminded me to tell you to be there. You will be?”

“A benefit,” Ryan says, again speaking to me before responding to his dad. “I’ll be there.”

“No escape for the wicked.” His dad winks at me.

I die inside. Then Daddy Carlisle goes to his bedroom, rummages for a short time that seems to last a hundred years, and leaves again.

“I’ll let myself out and talk to you soon,” I tell Ryan, pulling on the bottom of my T-shirt to straighten it. “I think we’re onto something.”

I assume he’s embarrassed by the phony scene, and that explains why he doesn’t ask what I mean. I hurry down the stairs but then pause outside at the top of the hill, watching his dad’s red sports car speed down the drive.

The barns in the distance are castle-like, too, and it isn’t hard to see this place as a horse-themed fairy-tale land. Dark things happen in fairy tales, after all. Witches steal children, women are forced to spin gold for demons by moonlight, queens order young girls’ hearts brought to them by woodsmen. People die. By accident or punishment, deserved or not.

I picture Peg Graham in the house that night, on that bedroom floor, a bloody stain spreading across her ripped-open chest, her heart no longer beating. I don’t believe in ghosts, but it feels entirely possible that the horses sensed her spirit moving among them on the night of her death. Maybe it’s only because I’m thinking about her, but I could swear she’s here, observing me.

If she is, what would she think about what I’m doing here? Would she welcome me or want me to get lost?

Not believing in ghosts means I don’t have to answer. Answers are for the living—and considering how easily the sound traveled upstairs when Dick Carlisle entered today, there’s no way anyone in that house didn’t hear a gunshot on the night of the murder. Something’s not right.

My phone buzzes, and when I pull it out, I see it’s the radio station. Frowning, I answer, “Mackenzie here.”

“Someone left a package for you,” a guy’s bored voice says. “You better come get it; there’s no room for it here.”

“Be right there,” I say, puzzled.

On the drive back, I start to put together the next show in my head. On tonight’s broadcast I’ll need to set out the facts and reveal to my listeners that this is now an investigation. What comes after that? I get the police files and figure out my suspects. Already Dick Carlisle and his parade of girlfriends makes me want to take a closer look at him, alibi or no alibi . . . I wonder what Ryan will think about that. But there’s a reason people buy “The husband did it” T-shirts.

Since I’m just running in to get this mystery package, I chance pulling up to the curb of the building and putting on my hazard lights. I race through the sign-in process and down the stairs, into the outer office of the station. The cardboard box is right inside the door, big and labeled in black letters: Mackenzie Walker, Dead Air.

Pickup, I mouth through the control booth glass to the ponytailed dude currently on the air.

I bend and heft the box and . . . almost fall over at the weight. Whatever’s inside is not just heavy, it clanks. “What the hell?” I mutter.

I decide to open it on the spot. I find some scissors and slice the line of duct tape holding it closed—trying not to think about how useful murderers find duct tape—and pry open the lid. Horseshoes.

The box is filled with horseshoes.

Just like the one they found in Peg Graham’s hand. My heart thuds in my chest.

It’s a warning. But from who?