The Hidden

“Look, here’s the one I’m going to take,” she said. “It’s a modified Colt six-shooter from the 1880s. Ben said it’s okay, and it’s in good working order. That’s why I chose it. I have bullets, and I won’t even load it unless it’s necessary, unless I’m alone or out in the forest or something. Okay?”


Diego knew they were all waiting for him to speak. The thing was, she did know what she was doing with a gun, especially an antique. Part of that was his doing—she’d been to the shooting range with him several times—and the other part of it was her love of history.

It was just that she’d always hated them.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she questioned warily.

“Yes, take it. But you do have to get a concealed-carry permit. We’re the FBI. We can’t have you breaking any laws. All right?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll get a permit tomorrow,” she promised.

He nodded.

“Well, then, that’s that,” Scarlet said, smiling in satisfaction as she carefully collected the bullets for the Colt. “By the way, how’s your friend?”

For a moment Diego had no idea what she was talking about. “My friend?”

“The woman you and Matt picked up at the airport tonight. Jane Everett. Is she here?”

“Not yet, though she will be. Right now she’s at the morgue, working,” Diego said. “We tried to talk her into waiting ’til morning, but she was eager to get started. She’ll have a likeness for us by morning.”

“Wow,” Scarlet said. “I’m impressed.” She started up the stairs, and the others followed. He could tell they were all still a little worried about Scarlet carrying a gun. But he’d spent days teaching her not only to shoot, but also all about gun safety, and if he hadn’t trusted her to handle a weapon he would have objected to her having one.

“Would anyone like tea?” Scarlet asked when they got up to the kitchen. “Hot chocolate? Something stronger?”

No one spoke.

Scarlet stiffened. “What? You think I’m overreacting, don’t you? That all this has driven me crazy, maybe even made me dangerous.”

“No, no!” Meg protested.

“Scarlet, it’s not that,” Diego said.

“Then what?” she asked in confusion.

“We think you saw a dead man in town, and at the cemetery and The Stanley,” Diego said flatly.

She stared at him then as if he’d lost his mind.

“Look, I know all about your ‘zombie’ case in Miami. This guy wasn’t lurching around, half-decayed and talking about brains.”

“That’s not what Diego meant,” Meg said quietly.

“What are you talking about, then?” Scarlet demanded.

“We think you’re seeing a ghost,” Diego said.

“Okay. Stop. I’ve spent half my adult life digging up old burial sites. My idea of the perfect vacation is exploring the pyramids at Giza, and the catacombs in Rome and Paris. I don’t see ghosts!” She sat down in a huff.

“I never saw them myself—until they needed me,” Brett said, taking the chair opposite her.

Meg sat down, too, looking at Scarlet with her eyes serious. “Scarlet, it began for me at a traumatic period during my childhood. It works that way for a lot of us. But sometimes it happens the way Brett said. Someone has the ability but it’s dormant, for lack of a better word, until it’s needed. Until a ghost needs our help.”

Scarlet looked from Meg to Diego. “You’re suggesting that a ghost is trying to talk to me. Do you also think a ghost killed those people? And that Nathan Kendall’s ghost possessed that statue and walked up the stairs and into my bedroom?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Brett said. “That statue is far too heavy for a ghost to lift.”

“Not any ghost I’ve ever encountered, and that’s quite a few,” Meg said.

Scarlet sat back. “You’re crazy. You’re all crazy. I’ve begged crazy people to come out here and help me.”

“Scarlet,” Diego said, “it’s not crazy. It’s true.”

“So you really do think that a ghost stole an antique Colt from the museum, and killed Candace and Larry Parker?”

“No, not at all,” Matt said. “I’m quite certain they were murdered by a living person.”