“How does information about a missing persons case in D.C. just happen to fall into a private investigator’s lap in Albuquerque, New Mexico?”

It was another thing entirely to hear it spoken aloud.

“Is there a reason you’re getting defensive?”

Maybe I should hyphenate.

“Is there a reason you think I should get defensive?”

Davidson-Farrow.

“You tell me.”

Mrs. Davidson-Farrow.

“Is that why I’m here?” The young agent bolted out of his chair, his movements sharp and on the ragged edge of violence. “Is that why they brought me here?”

Agent Nguyen had risen, too, readying himself to subdue his volatile colleague. But it was around that time that I noticed something else. The woman had stopped screaming. She was staring at me, almost as curiously as the agent had.

“Finally,” she said, crossing her arms, the knife resting across her rib cage. She tapped her toes and waited.

“Well?” Kit asked me, waiting as well.

I dug deep for a nonchalant smile, hoping for a cue from Kit. Any cue.

“Oh, my god,” the woman said, throwing her arms up. “She doesn’t know any more than anyone else.”

I focused on her. “Then tell me.”

“If I had a nickel for every time someone had new information on my case…”

She still had no idea I could see her, and she didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass that I was bright enough to sear the retinas from her eyes. Most departed noticed the fact that I hemorrhaged light like a trophy wife hemorrhaged money right off the bat. That usually led to them wanting to cross. I was the flame. They were the moths.

Maybe her antennae were broken.

“Tell me what happened,” I said softly. It was hard to miss the blunt-force trauma to her head, or the blood that had saturated her hair and pale pink robe.

Everyone had stopped and was staring at me, including the woman.

“Tell me what happened,” I repeated.

“You—” She took an involuntarily step forward and was now standing with her hips halfway inside the conference table. “You can see me?”

I nodded.

“How?” she began, but changed her mind. “Why would—? Wait, no.” She bent her head to think a moment, then looked back up. “What are you?”

I glanced around at our audience. “That’s hard to say at the moment.”

“Who is she talking to?” the agent asked.

Agent Nguyen sat back down and glared at his fingernails. Kit grinned and took another sip of her latte.

“Do you know where your body is?”

The woman blinked at me, turned to look behind her to make sure I was talking to her, then refocused on me and nodded.

“Do you know who killed you?”

“A psychic?” the agent asked, angrier than ever.

“Not a psychic,” Kit said, so calm and pleased with herself, I almost giggled. “A prodigy.”

“In our backyard. And, no, he didn’t do it,” the woman said before I could ask. Then she turned to her husband. “His psychotic, freakazoid sister drugged me, then bashed in my skull with my Miss Kentucky trophy. I can’t believe nobody noticed it was missing.”

I knew I’d detected an accent.

“He’s, like, the worst investigator. I’ve been trying to tell him who killed me for two effing years.” And she was off. “Two mother-effing years. I tried to defend myself.” She waved the knife at me.

I encouraged her to continue with a nod.

“But it’s hard to fight off batshit crazy, ya know? Woman is effing batshit.”

So, shit was okay, but fuck was not. She had to be Southern Baptist.

“Batshit. With a capital B. And then she moves in with him to help him take care of the house. Moves right the fuck in.”

Or maybe Catholic.

“Like she owns the place. And there I am, pushin’ up daisies. And I know what you’re thinking.” She leaned her face toward mine. “But I mean that literally. I am literally pushin’ up daisies.”

I decided to relay the current bits of information while she got it out of her system. “Your sister did it,” I said.

To say that he had his doubts about my ability would have been an understatement. The sneer on his face could’ve scoured the rust off metal.

“She planted them over my dead body.”

“And she buried your wife in your backyard.”

“It was her way of having the last laugh even though she already had. I mean, hello. I’m dead, aren’t I? But no. That’s not enough. She just can’t let things alone. She has to throw in that final ‘fuck you.’”