I turn the fire article to face him. “This fire?”

He skims it. “Yes, that’s right.” He taps his finger over Ronald’s name. “That man. Ronald Schmidt. He still around?”

“He is,” I say cautiously.

“Always thought that one knew more than he let on.”

“He’s my boyfriend’s father.”

Grover sets his doughnut down. “Forgive an old man.”

“Nothing to forgive.” My smile is tight. I’m walking a thin rope, trusting this man I’ve just met. “I think there is something off in the village of Lilydale.”

If Grover recognizes his old quote, he doesn’t let on. “That’s true of many places.” He brushes sugar off his hands. “You know, I find myself mighty tired all of a sudden.”

A chill envelops me. Is he going to tell on me? Is he one of their agents, like Dr. Krause? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tucker. Have I said something to offend you?”

“Grover, and no. I’m getting up in years, and that’s the beginning and the end of that story. Leave me your phone number, and I’ll reach out if I hear anything. In the meanwhile, you’re always welcome to drop by.”

I jot down my number and let him lead me to the door, feeling like I’ve lost an opportunity. I can’t think of any more questions to ask, until: “I saw an accident last week in Lilydale. A man got hit by a car. An ambulance took him away. Looked like it was coming this direction. Did you happen to hear anything about it?”

Grover leans against his door, shaking his head sadly. “I didn’t see anything in the papers, but I’m so sorry you witnessed that. Once you hear the thump of a car hitting a body, that’s a noise you won’t likely soon forget.”

He closes the door, but I can’t move.

My heartbeat is pounding too loudly, realization crashing through me.

There hadn’t been a thump.

Just the screech of the car, and then the body lying there.

CHAPTER 33

I won’t call Ursula again.

And anyone else would lock me up.

That’s how I explain what I’m doing outside the alley entrance to Regina’s upstairs apartment. I almost turn around rather than knock. She isn’t expecting me. I don’t want to intrude. She was welcoming in the bar, but she might not want me in her home. Seriously, what the hell am I doing here?

I spin on my heel and start down the rickety wooden stairs, hitting the ground behind Little John’s. I’m halfway to my car when I meet Regina coming toward me, carrying a Wally’s grocery bag.

“Joan! You stopped by.”

Her pleasure seems so genuine that I don’t question it and instead follow her inside. Her apartment is small, a studio with her living room, kitchen, and bedroom combined, and the only doors lead to a bathroom and closet. It’s cluttered, and I feel safer here than I have anywhere else in Lilydale, including my own home.

“It’s a nice place,” I say, watching her toss her purse onto a pile of clothes on the floor before setting her grocery bag on the counter.

“It’s a shithole,” she says. She pulls out eggs, milk, bread, and butter. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Do you have cola?”

She tugs her fridge open, biting her bottom lip in concentration, her hair braided in a single plait down her back. She’s wearing a peasant blouse and a miniskirt so short that I get a peek of her red underpants when she bends over. Her outfit is cute, and young, and makes me realize I’m dressing like an old maid, that I’ve been sliding down that path since moving to Lilydale, growing big and slow and domestic.

“Questionable orange juice, water, or whiskey. That’s what I can offer you.”

“Water will be fine.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, closing the fridge and pointing to the cabinet to the right of it. “Cups in there, water in the tap.”

I open the cupboard. It houses four jelly jars and a chipped mug. I grab a jar, run the tap until it’s cool, and fill it. “How long have you lived here?”

“What’s the date?”

“May 27.”

“Six months, then. Can you believe I showed up here in winter and still decided to stay? How long are you planning on being a Lilydale resident?”

“I’m working here now. At the newspaper.”

“I know. I read your article on the music pageant. It was good.” Once the groceries are away, she yanks open the cupboard, pulls out another jelly jar, and splashes a shot of whiskey into it. She shoves clothes off a chair and indicates I should do the same.

She laughs when I move them to the bed.

“They’re dirty,” she says. “Might as well be on the floor.”

“Is there a laundromat in town?”

“Yes. Since I’m down to one clean pair of panties, I’ll have to visit it soon.” She drinks her whiskey. “You drove here. I saw you pull in. Don’t you live over on Mill Street?”

“I do.” I force myself to relax. “I was in Saint Cloud working on the Paulie Aandeg article. You met him yet?”

Now I have her interest. “He’s been to the bar every night this week.” She drapes the back of her hand across her forehead, miming a woman fainting. “I do declare, he is one dreamy hunk of love.”

My cheeks pink against my will.

She crows with laughter. “It’s no crime to have eyes, lady.”

I reach for her whiskey and take a sip. “It’s not just eyes. My loins saw him, too.”

She’s still chuckling as she pours me my own glass of whiskey. “Had an aunt that got pregnant when she was forty-eight. Can you believe that shitty luck? Anyhow, she swore the pregnancy made her hornier than a sailor on shore leave. The baby’s daddy wasn’t around to help her out in that regard, either. It got harder and harder for her to pick up men as her belly grew.”

I grimace.

“I’m not saying that’s you,” she says, furrowing her brow. “You’ve got a man at home. I’m only telling you that it’s normal to have extra-strong urges when you’re pregnant.”

“I went to see the sheriff who handled Paulie’s case back in 1944,” I say, changing the subject.

“How old’s he?”

“Seventies.” I refrain from saying he’s a black man. I get the idea Regina wouldn’t care. Or maybe I don’t want to seem like I do. “He said Kris could be Paulie. He’s going to look into it.”

Regina polishes off her whiskey and reaches for more. “It must be exciting, being a reporter. You said you did that when you lived in Minneapolis. Did you cover your own mugging?”

She’s smiling, has no idea she echoed the same crazy thought I had while the man in a porkpie hat held a knife to my throat, and just like that, the whole story tumbles out. Not only the mugging, or the fact that I’d won Slow Henry out of it, but that I’d imagined I’d seen the mugger here, two different times, and the second time he’d looked dead as a doornail on the road.

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” I ask when I finish, positive that Regina is going to judge me as harshly as Ursula did, desperate for her not to. I need someone else to believe my stories, crave it.