Page 73 of Haunted

“Did boot camp do that to you? Because it’s a really annoying superpower.”

“It’s all you.” I rub his back. “You ready?”

He looks at the Shiloh Baptist church hall. It’s a brick building with a huge, unadorned cross mounted in the front. We go down the concrete walkway together and under the cross, and he doesn’t let go. Inside, there is a sign with the words “Phoenix Society” written on it, and an arrow that leads us to a meeting room with cinder-block walls, an antiseptic white tile floor, and a drop ceiling lit by fluorescents. Chairs in neat rows before a podium with a cross on it, and people milling around the back tables, where there are, as predicted, pastries and Lipton sweet tea. They speak in hushed tones.

Behind the podium, mounted on an easel, is a blown-up copy of our picture from that day. Underneath it: “Phoenix Society.”

“Wow,” Jonny says. “I swear they actually made it bigger after I asked them to take it down.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever outrun that picture,” I say. “I think the photographer won a major award for it.”

On the snack table someone has put a framed photograph of Alice Cadwalader. A candid shot, laughing, taken outdoors. My chest tightens. I used to see that face on stage every year, watching the Phoenix Society memorial ceremonies from whatever base or barracks I was posted to, scanning the crowd for Jonny and never finding him.

A woman next to us shakes her head at the photograph. “Isn’t that sad? What is this world coming to? And her not even on her own, with Tom right there. If it isn’t safe with a man and a dog, when is it safe?”

“It’s such a tragedy,” Jonny says softly. “We’ve lost so many Denning Court people. Suzannah Drumm, Randy Dare, and now Alice.”

The woman wrinkles her brow in a don’t-I-know-you way, and then looks at the picture of us. When she looks back, her speech is rushed and awkward. “That whole street. I don’t think this town has ever really taken it in. Martha Gillibrand, well, the cancer took her, and Vernon fell off a ladder four years ago, and Eloise Jones—” She shakes her head.

“Did you know Alice well?” I ask, to get us off the subject.

She smiles, clearly relieved to be on a safer topic than excavating the tragedy before them. “Oh yes! She was one of the founding members. I’m sorry—I’m Margaret Vane, 1413 Morris Mountain Road.”

Involuntarily I think of those houses I sped by on Morris Mountain Road, their abandoned Halloween decorations and garden flags, the stampede of terrified deer. I was probably the last human who saw her home, and I couldn’t pick it out of a lineup. “Lance Broussard.” I shake her hand. “This is Jonny Bishop. You’d have known him as Parker.”

Her eyes sparkle. “My goodness, you’re still together after all these years. Well, if that don’t just beat all.”

Jonny looks at me. “Yes, it kind of does,” he says.

“About Alice,” I say. “What was she like? I only knew her from the memorial ceremonies.”

“Oh, Alice was a force of nature. Ran the HR department at the university by the end. Perfect job for her—she was a mother hen. Led the charge for proper maternity leave. Every woman who worked there sang her praises. She was always clucking over some new recruit, helping them with the paperwork, making sure they settled in.” Margaret lowers her voice. “They’d confide in her about everything. I think she knew where all the bodies were buried, if you take my meaning.” She gives me a knowing look that tells me that she’s already been speculating about the motive for her untimely demise.

“But she had no enemies, right?” I ask.

“Oh no. And the only person she ever butted heads with was Henry. Henry! Can you imagine, with the patience of that man? What we would have done without him over these years, I just don’t know. Especially after everything he’s been through.” She looks around. “Speaking of which…Henry! Look who’s finally here! Lance and Parker—sorry, Jonny.” She turns to Jonny. “Sorry, honey.”

“That does sound unlikely,” I say. “What was it about, do you know?”

“Oh, some film she had. From the day of it.” Margaret waves a hand. “She wanted it shown at the memorial and he wouldn’t hear of it. Which I understand, mind you—not everybody wants to sit and watch that. I’ve seen it. It’s just some unedited footage of her walking up the street talking to people. There’s nothing really interesting in it except the houses are still standing.” She looks at Jonny. “Some of us just wanted a clean start after that fire.”

“I think we all did,” Jonny says.

“My goodness,” Henry Drumm says. He’s dressed in a clean shirt and tie. “I can’t believe you made it. I think the whole community wants to know how you both’ve been coping. A lot of people have been asking about you. Isn’t that right, Margaret?”

“Oh yes. In fact, I was just about to say that Alice was asking about them. Poor Alice.”

“Poor Alice,” Henry agrees. “Isn’t that awful what happened? So senseless. She was such a breath of fresh air.”

“I was just telling them how much we rely on you,” Margaret volunteers, putting her hand on his arm.

Henry blushes. “You’re too kind. I just muddle through. Somebody had to. After Suzannah passed, I think it’s all that kept me going for years. I think I would’ve lost my mind if I didn’t have y’all to think about.”

“Well, soon, you’ll have a baby to think about,” Margaret coos.

“That’s wonderful!” Jonny says. “You were just telling me last time we met that you had remarried. Lydia, was it? When is she due?”

“She’s not,” Henry says, smiling. “We’ve been going through the adoption process for two years now, and we’ve got an interview next month that looks like the big one.”