The medical examiner directed two of his agents to put the body in a bag and approached us. “Let me guess,” Donny said. “Cause of death: trampling?”

“Well, there was certainly trampling. But I don’t know if that was the cause of death. Skull’s split in half. Could have happened before the trampling, or as a result of it.”

I realized, too late, that Gideon was listening to every word.

“No no no,” Metcalf was suddenly shouting. “You can’t put that there. It’s a hazard for the elephants.” He pointed to the crime scene tape being staked out over a vast square by the MCU guys.

Donny squinted. “The elephants aren’t getting back in here anytime soon.”

“I beg your pardon? I never said that you could take over the property. This is a natural protected habitat—”

“And a woman was killed in it.”

“It was an accident,” Metcalf said. “I will not let you affect the daily routine of the elephants here—”

“Unfortunately, Dr. Metcalf, you don’t get to make that choice.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How long will it take?”

I could see Donny losing patience. “I can’t really say. But in the meantime Lieutenant Stanhope and I will need to speak to everyone who interacts with the elephants.”

“There are four of us. Gideon, Nevvie, me, and Alice. My wife.” Those last words were directed right at Gideon.

“Where’s Alice?” Donny asked.

Metcalf stared at Gideon. “I assumed she was with you.”

His face was twisted with grief. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“Well, neither have I.” The blood drained from Metcalf’s face. “If Alice is gone, who has my daughter?”

I am pretty certain that my current landlady, Abigail Chivers, is two hundred years old, give or take a few months. Seriously, you’d think so, too, if you met her. I’ve never seen her wearing anything but a black dress with a brooch at her throat, her white hair scraped into a bun, and her pinched mouth shrinking even tighter whenever she pokes her head into my office and starts opening and slamming shut cabinets. She raps her cane on the desk six inches from my head. “Victor,” she says. “I can smell the work of the devil.”

“Really?” I lift my head off the desk and run my tongue over my teeth, which feel furry. “All I can smell is cheap booze.”

“I will not condone something illegal—”

“Hasn’t been illegal in a century, Abby.” I sigh. We’ve had this fight dozens of times. Have I mentioned that in addition to being a teetotaler, Abigail is also apparently in the throes of dementia, and she is just as likely to call me President Lincoln as she is to call me Victor? Of course, this works to my advantage, too. Like when she tells me I’m late on the rent and I lie and say I’ve already paid for the month.

For an old gal, she’s awfully spry. She whacks her cane on the cushions of the couch and even looks in the microwave. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Satan’s tears. Barley vinegar. Joy juice. I know you’re hiding it somewhere.”

I offer her my most innocent smile. “Would I do something like that?”

“Victor,” she says, “do not lie to me.”

I cross my heart. “Swear to God, there is no booze in this room.” I get to my feet and stagger to the tiny bathroom attached to my office space. It is big enough for a toilet, a sink, and a vacuum cleaner. I close the door behind me, take a piss, and then open the lid of the toilet tank. Fishing out the bottle I started last night, I take a long, healthy swig of whiskey, and just like that, the dull throb of my head starts to fade.

I put the bottle back in its hiding place, flush, and open the door. Abby is still hovering. I haven’t lied to her, just massaged the truth. It’s what I was taught to do a lifetime ago, when I was training to be a detective. “Now, where were we?” I ask, and just then, the telephone rings.

“Drinking,” she accuses.

“Abby, I’m shocked,” I say smoothly. “I didn’t think you indulged.” I steer her toward the door, the phone still ringing. “How about we finish this later? Over a nightcap, maybe?” I push her outside as she protests, then grab for the phone and fumble it. “What?” I snap into the receiver.

“Is this Mr. Stanhope?”

In spite of the quick swig of whiskey, my temples feel like they’re in a vise again. “Yeah.”

“Virgil Stanhope?”

When a year passed, and then two, and then five, I started to realize what Donny had told me was true: Once a cop has a ghost, that ghost is there to stay. I couldn’t get rid of Alice Metcalf. So instead, I got rid of Virgil Stanhope. I thought, stupidly, that if I started over, I could start fresh—free from guilt and questions. My dad had been a veteran, a small-town mayor, an all-around upstanding man. I borrowed his name, thinking some of his traits might rub off on me. I figured maybe I could become the kind of guy people trusted, instead of the one who’d f*cked up royally.

Until this moment, no one had questioned me.

“Not anymore,” I mutter, and I slam down the receiver. I stand in the middle of my office, pressing my hands to my aching head, but I can still hear her. I can hear her even when I go back into the bathroom and pull the bottle of whiskey out of the toilet tank again, even when I drink it down to its last drop.