Chapter 3: Family Lies, Ghostly Ties

"I’m Maggie Carter." I said it with as much dignity as I could muster.

I stood a little taller, proud despite everything.

"Which Maggie Carter?" He sounded exasperated, as if there were dozens of us running around town.

"Willow Lane on the west side of town, daughter of carpenter John Carter. Maggie Carter." I rattled off the details, hoping it would jog his memory.

I rattled off the details like a roll call, hoping it would jog his memory.

"Wait, Maggie Carter just came to the station yesterday about her son’s divorce…" The more Quinn thought, the more flustered he became, backing away in fear. His mind was spinning.

He stared at me, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. "That can’t be right," he muttered.

"You must mean my older sister—Marilyn Carter." I tried to explain, frustration creeping in.

I tried to explain, but before I could finish, Quinn stepped on something, slipped, and hit his head on a tree, passing out. I winced at the sight.

His body crumpled, his badge skittering across the grass. I winced at the thud.

Man, what a pity for my wrist bone. I sighed, feeling a little sorry for myself.

I bent over, noticing the crooked angle. Another piece of me lost to this world.

It broke, too. I stared at it, feeling oddly mournful.

I cradled my ghostly wrist, feeling the ache even though I knew I shouldn’t. Ghost pain is a strange thing.

The clerk said, "After a person dies, their soul enters the afterlife, and their bones decay in the world above. How could stepping on your finger bone tie you? And you even made up lies to trick the living."

His voice was sharp, almost scolding, but I could sense a hint of curiosity beneath the reprimand.

I hurriedly begged for mercy: "Sir, please calm down. He left flowers for me and pulled me out of the line at the base of Raven Hill, making me waste thirty years for nothing. I swear, I only wanted him to help me find out the truth about that year—I never meant to harm him."

I clasped my hands, bowing my head, hoping he’d see the sincerity in my words.

...

I poked Quinn’s face with a twig. His skin felt cold.

The twig snapped, brittle as old bones. I poked again, just to be sure.

Could he have been scared to death by me? The thought made my heart stutter.

The thought made me shiver. That wasn’t what I wanted at all.

Since I’d received his flowers, I figured I should save his life. It was the least I could do.

It seemed only fair—a little ghostly give-and-take.

I comforted myself with that thought, bent down, and prepared to transfer some of my chill to him. Maybe it would work.

I gathered the cold, letting it pool in my palms. The air around us shimmered, frost crackling on the grass.

A ghost doesn’t have much, but we’ve got plenty of cold—enough to freeze someone awake.

It’s the one thing we never run out of, no matter how many winters pass.

Just as I leaned down, a pair of startled eyes suddenly opened. Quinn stared at me for a moment, then his gaze dropped to my lips. Suddenly, he pushed me away and scrambled to his feet.

He stumbled backward, breath coming in sharp bursts, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"You say you’re Maggie Carter. Do you have any proof?" Quinn started interrogating me like a cop. His tone was all business.

His posture stiffened, voice clipped and official, badge now firmly back in his grip.

Oh, right. He is a cop.

I almost laughed at myself for forgetting.

I asked, confused, "Maggie Carter is Maggie Carter. Why should I have to prove who I am?" I just didn’t get it.

I frowned, genuinely puzzled. In death, shouldn’t your name be enough?

Quinn was at a loss for words, as if he thought I made sense, and left deep in thought as he packed up his things. He looked troubled.

He stuffed the flowers and his badge back into his bag, muttering to himself, lost in thought.

I attached myself to the keychain at his belt and followed him back to town. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

I shrank down, curling around the little brass tag—my new hiding place. The ride was bumpy, but I felt oddly safe.

He went straight to Willow Lane and found the Carter family home. I felt a pang of nerves.

The street was lined with old maples, the kind that turned the whole block gold in the fall. I felt a pang of nostalgia.

Wow—white siding and black shutters, much grander than thirty years ago. I barely recognized it.

The porch had rocking chairs and hanging ferns. I barely recognized it, but the wind chimes sounded the same.

He knocked three times, and a young woman opened the door, her hands faintly smelling of ointment. She looked surprised.

She wore an apron dusted with flour, worry lines creasing her brow. Her eyes were sharp, though, taking Quinn’s measure in a heartbeat.

Quinn asked, "Emily, is your mother-in-law home?" His words were quick, almost urgent.

He kept his voice polite, but there was an urgency in his tone.

Emily quickly stepped aside to let him in. She looked nervous.

She nodded, stepping back so quickly she almost tripped over the doormat.

"She’s home, she’s home." Her voice was soft, but her eyes darted toward the workshop in the back.

Her voice was soft, but her eyes darted toward the workshop in the back.

Following Quinn, I saw my sister Marilyn Carter among a pile of wood shavings. My heart skipped at the sight of her.

The scent of sawdust filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of varnish. Marilyn’s hands were steady as ever, even as she carved delicate patterns into a mantelpiece.

She’d aged a lot. Her once shiny brown hair now had streaks of gray, but just like thirty years ago, she wore a wooden hairpin shaped like a dogwood blossom.

The hairpin glinted in the sunlight, a small reminder of our childhood. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

"The detective himself comes to see me on his day off—have you found the one who destroyed the mantel?" She pointed at Emily, her tone unfriendly. "That day only my daughter-in-law was home. It must have been her."

Her voice was clipped, eyes sharp as chisels. Emily flinched, but didn’t argue.

Quinn signaled Emily to step back, then got straight to the point with Marilyn: "Ma’am, are you Maggie Carter or Marilyn Carter?" His tone was cool but direct.

He fixed her with a steady gaze, voice low and measured.

Marilyn froze, her left hand unconsciously gripping the table edge, but she quickly laughed it off. "What are you saying, detective? Who in Maple Heights doesn’t know I’m Maggie Carter?"

Her laugh was brittle, echoing off the workshop walls. I recognized that defensive edge.

"So many girls in town buy a mantel from me before they marry, to show their family’s taste."

She gestured to the row of finished pieces, pride flickering in her eyes.

Quinn said, "Then who is Marilyn Carter?" He watched her closely, eyes unblinking.

He didn’t blink, watching her reaction closely.

Marilyn softened her tone. "She’s my older sister. She died thirty years ago. Why are you asking about her?"

She glanced away, voice trembling just a bit.

"Just tell me how she died, and where she’s buried now." Quinn’s pen hovered over his notebook, ready for the truth.

"My sister drowned herself in the river. At the time, Dad pitied her for dying so young, so he arranged a ghost marriage with Mr. Hargrove’s youngest son, who also drowned unexpectedly. Now she’s buried in the Hargrove family plot outside town."

Her words were rehearsed, but her hands trembled, splinters digging into her palm.

Quinn returned to the police station and checked the town records. He worked late into the night.

He worked late, the glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the stacks of dusty files.

As the streetlights came on, I emerged from the keychain and lay on the desk, asking, "Detective Quinn, what are you looking at?" I floated above the paperwork, curiosity burning.

I floated above the paperwork, peering at the faded ink and yellowed pages.

Quinn was startled, leaning back so suddenly the file slipped from his hands. He looked like he’d seen a ghost—well, he had.

He nearly tipped his chair, scrambling to recover his composure.

"You—where did you come from?" His voice was barely more than a whisper, but his eyes were wide as saucers.

I pointed at the keychain at his belt, looking sly. "Until you find out the truth, I’ll be following you."