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done to get herself into this mess was bad enough that she was willing to risk her peace of mind, and maybe even her life, to keep it under wraps.
    Suddenly Greer shivered, hugged herself. There was a distinct chill in the air, and I expected Gillian to appear, but she didn’t.
    Inwardly, I sighed. If the child didn’t turn up soon, I was going to have to go out looking for her. Yes, she was a ghost—technically. But she was also a little kid, caught between two worlds, scared and alone. She’d witnessed her own funeral, too, and that must have been almost as traumatic as her murder.
    â€œI did something terrible when I was young,” Greer said. “Someone knows.”
    â€œWhat did you do, Greer?”
    â€œI’m not going to tell you,” she said, pushing back her chair to stand. Turning to flee, she stumbled a little. “I can handle this on my own.”
    I went after her. Caught hold of her good arm. “Greer,” I pleaded, “listen to me. Somebody tried to nab you—you’re obviously in real danger. What’s going to happen if Alex pulls the financial plug, and you can’t pay these people off any longer?”
    She didn’t answer. Trembling, she shook her head, pulled free and fled.
    Some P.I. I was. I had a real way with people.
    Disconsolately, I finished Greer’s lasagna and what was left of the tamale pie. I’d barely touched my wine, so I poured it down the drain and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.
    Five minutes later, sporting jeans, a tank top and a lightweight denim jacket, I fired up the Volvo and headed out to look for Gillian. It was after nine o’clock by then, and nearly dark.
    I headed for the cemetery in north Scottsdale, where I knew Gillian had been buried. The place was fenced, but the gates stood open, so I drove in, considered the layout and parked. There were a few other people around—a couple of groundskeepers, a young man sitting cross-legged beside a tombstone and an old woman in a green polyester pantsuit and sensible shoes, arranging and rearranging flowers in an urn.
    I didn’t have to ask directions. I spotted Gillian right away, standing next to a new grave mounded with raw dirt.
    I got out of the car, shoved my hands into the hip pockets of my jeans and approached.
    Gillian couldn’t have heard me, but she must have sensed that I was there, because she looked up and watched solemnly as I drew near.
    I added another title to the growing list of Damn Fool’s Guide s I needed to acquire—one on sign language. I thought of how I’d asked Gillian about her killer, and she’d answered. Maybe she could read my mind—she’d responded at the funeral, when I’d mentally asked her to come back to where I was sitting—but it was more likely that she’d simply read my lips.
    Duh. Mojo Sheepshanks, supersleuth. Not much gets by me.
    Aware that she didn’t want to be touched, and not too keen on being seen reaching out to empty air, should anyone happen to glance in our direction, I kept my hands in my pockets instead of cupping her face in them, as I wanted so much to do.
    A single tear slid down her smudged cheek.
    Because she’d lowered her head, maybe hoping to hide the fact that she was crying, I crouched on the other side of the mound so I could look up into her eyes. I steeled myself to see marks on her neck, left by the wire someone had used to strangle her, according to Tucker, but her flesh was unmarked.
    â€œHey,” I said gently.
    â€œHey,” Gillian mouthed silently.
    It was a forlorn greeting, but at least she’d acknowledged my presence.
    â€œTime to go home,” I told her, forming the words very slowly and carefully. “You can stay at my place.”
    She stared at me, looking almost defiant. Her little hands were clenched into fists, and her stance told me she wasn’t going anywhere, and I couldn’t make her. True