“So this is it,” Harper said, coming to terms with her demise.

I turned around to face her. “I’m so sorry you’ve passed, hon.”

“Have you known this whole time? That I was dead?”

“Yes. It’s what I do.”

“So, no one else can see me? I’m—I’m a ghost?”

“I’m afraid so. But you can cross through me whenever you’re ready. Your family is waiting for you on the other side. Your mother. Your grandparents. They’ll be so happy to see you.”

She nodded. “I know. I think I’ve known they were waiting for me this whole time.” Her voice cracked. “I wonder how long I’ve been dead.”

“Well, you came to see me two days ago, but Mrs. Beecher knew you’d been gone longer than that. That’s how I knew she did it. But your psychotherapist said the last time he saw you in his office was almost two weeks ago. So it had to be—”

“That’s it.” She stared in thought. “I was in a session with Dr. Roland and I was telling him about a trip I was going on. He asked me what color my suitcase was, and everything came rushing back. Dewey killing that boy. Mrs. Beecher putting him in that red suitcase.” She covered her mouth. “What kind of people do that? She lived with us for over two decades. How could we not know?”

“I was a little floored myself when I figured out she was involved. I think she is very good at fooling people.”

We pulled up to the speaker box. “Whatever you do,” I told Uncle Bob, “do not order a taco. They’re very sensitive about that.”

He nodded, flashed his badge, and said, “Open that gate. I have a warrant.”

And the gate opened. Just like that. No haggling or bartering. I totally needed to become a real cop. It probably paid better.

Mrs. Lowell met us on the steps to her house, as did her son, Art. He was dressed in a nice suit and tie, and Mrs. Lowell had been spit-shined herself. She wore a long evening gown and pearls. Clearly we’d interrupted their evening plans.

“Now what?” she asked as I got out of Ubie’s SUV.

He hurried around to intercept.

Despite their duds, they seemed upset. I got the feeling they’d been arguing when we arrived.

“Mrs. Lowell, we have information about a missing child. He’s been gone for over two decades, and we believe he is buried on your property.”

She huffed, indignant. “Oh, for the love of—”

“Your former housekeeper,” I said, interrupting her tirade before she became too invested in it, “buried him here, knowing no one would look on your property. Why would they? The boy was from Peralta.”

She paused and ogled me like I’d lost my mind. I looked from her to Art, knowing he would take Harper’s death hard.

“Can we go inside?” I asked him.

“I can’t get ahold of Harper,” he said as he waved Uncle Bob and me inside. “She hasn’t returned my calls for over a week. Have you talked to her?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That’s the other reason we’re here.”

* * *

Two hours later, I found myself hiding in the Lowells’ bathroom as the digging crew lifted a red suitcase out of the turned earth. It was exactly where Harper had said it would be, under a patch of garden that Dewey had tended for over twenty years. Unlike Mrs. Beecher, Dewey’s actions would speak of remorse and regret.

An entire team had been dispatched to the scene, and along with it came camera crews and reporters galore. I almost felt bad for Mrs. Lowell. This definitely would taint her image, no matter how innocent of wrongdoing she was. But when Uncle Bob told her Harper’s body had been found, the hard shell she’d encased herself in shattered. Her shock was so complete, so devastating, the pain of it almost doubled me over. She really did care for Harper. There was no denying it.

And I also knew she had nothing to do with that little boy’s death or the subsequent cover-up. Her surprise was utterly genuine.

Art took Harper’s death hard. He ensconced himself in a room upstairs, but even the thick walls of the Lowell mansion could not block the waves of agony that poured out of him.

And I stood hiding in a bathroom, fighting for air among the fragments of a broken family. Their suffering was only beginning, and even though I was still not allowed to see Mr. Lowell, I felt his pain spill down the stairs like a heavy fog.

“I can’t be here anymore.”

I turned to Harper. She stood looking out the bathroom window, watching the workers excavate the grounds, a dozen officers surrounding the taped-off area.

“I need to go before I can’t go at all,” she said.

I couldn’t feel emotions off the departed as I could the living, not until they crossed, but the anguish on her face spoke volumes. She looked up toward the second floor, and I realized she was worried about Art.

“He’s in love with you,” I said.

She looked at me in surprise before a sad smile thinned her lips. She really was beautiful.

“He told me he was your contact.”

She nodded. “Yes. We’d kept in contact the whole time. He even flew to the island to visit me a few times.”

“Why didn’t you guys ever hook up for real?” I asked her.

“We did. Kind of. When I came back, Art insisted that we get married, but I couldn’t get past the fact that according to society, we were brother and sister. I hurt him so bad when I said that I wanted to wait.”