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the deadline and e-mailed the attachment to her editor. Her little television flickered in the corner. Conan O’Brien was interviewing Canadian stand-up comedian Pete Zedlacher. The two were laughing at something, but Maria couldn’t tell what because she had the sound muted.
    Her apartment was small but comfortable—bathroom, living room, kitchenette, and two bedrooms, one of which served as her office. The place was furnished with a curious mixture of leftover dorm furniture from her college days and more recent purchases from Ikea and Target. A new couch. A used futon. The eggshell-colored walls were sparse—a framed Monet print, a montage of photos from high school and college, and a collectible spoon rack. There was only one picture of her parents in the whole apartment, subconsciously hung above the entertainment center where she didn’t have to look at them every day. Maria spent little time in the living room—when she was home, her evenings were spent sleeping or working. Her office wasn’t much. Two desks had been lined up in an L-shape in the corner. One held her laptop and the other her older desktop. A two-drawer filing cabinet contained her various clippings and bylines, as well as contracts, receipts, and financial records. Two bookshelves leaned against the wall. One overflowed with paperbacks and compact discs. A green vase sat precariously at the top. The other bookshelf held her television and more books.
    Conan gave way to an annoying commercial for a headache medicine. She was just about to turn the television off and go to bed when her laptop beeped, signaling a new e-mail. She clicked on Outlook Express and saw it was from Miles, her editor at the paper.
    It read:
Got the piece. Thanks. Will run in the local section tomorrow. Meanwhile, how would you like a bigger assignment? Looking for a special feature on a new local Ghost Walk. At least one full page, plus pictures. Maybe more, if material warrants. One of the staff photographers has already made arrangements for pics. Just need someone to do the story. Normally, Hilary would cover this, but she’s still on maternity leave and the Ghost Walk’s own er, Ken Ripple, is adamant about coverage. The attraction opens the night before Halloween, so we’ve got to get hopping. Not a lot of time. It’s a rush job. You interested? —Miles
    She was surprised to see that Miles was still awake this time of night. But then again, judging by how often he complained about his wife and kids, maybe he was happier at work.
    Maria hit reply. Was she interested? A full-page feature? That paid a lot more than a sidebar item about local government. Hell, yes, she was interested, and she told him so. A few minutes later, Miles responded with Ripple’s contact information and a suggestion that Maria come in and go through the newspaper’s archives tomorrow. There was a lot of history associated with the haunted attraction’s location, and since she wasn’t a local, she’d have to brush up on it.
    Assuring him that she would, and promising to stop by the office in the morning, Maria logged off and went to bed. It was a long time before she fell asleep.
    When she finally did, she had a nightmare about her parents. They were displeased with the path she’d taken in life and had decided to talk to her about it—with knives.
    They were very angry, and the knives were very sharp.

CHAPTER THREE
    Ken Ripple wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Then, hands on hips, he stretched his aching back. He let out a satisfied sigh as it cracked.
    “Getting too old for this shit?” Terry Klein asked.
    “No,” Ken said. “I was banging your wife last night and threw my back out.”
    “Well, at least one of us is getting some from her.” Terry pulled off his leather work gloves and flexed his fingers. “Damn, blisters.”
    Ken grinned. “Too much jerking off.”
    “Like I said, at least one of us is getting some from her.”
    Both men laughed, and then turned back to the