Read Rocks & Gravel (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 3) for Free Online

seeking the treasure had some truth. Old Doc advised me to lay low for a while. Some of the town folks wondered if my involvement with Priscilla included hiding her children. But I have no idea where those children ended up. My sole hint of their continued existence is a rumor poor Priscilla Herrera’s body was stolen.
    For me and my family, I keep my eyes and ears open. If the tide is about to turn for us here, we may have to run.
    Hooty stopped reading and turned to another marked page in the book. “This entry’s shorter, but it might interest the board to hear it, too.”
    Last week, Luther Palmore’s house burned in the night. All inside perished. Nothing is left but the brick chimney, and it is charred black. It does not escape my attention that Luther Palmore and Reginald Mace were great friends. Did the same mob who hanged Priscilla Herrera pay Luther Palmore a deadly visit?
    I gasped. Everyone stopped listening to the video to stare at me, and I flinched, sorry I’d interrupted. The Palmore property sat behind Memaw’s land. It was as haunted as a cheesy B-rated horror movie. I waved my hand at them to let them know I would live.
    Business at my store has been the same as usual, mostly colored. But Bertram Holze came by today. He asked if I knew the whereabouts of the Herrera children. Holze said they were looking for them. I asked if it had to do with the tragedy that befell their mama. He told me to mind my own business if I wanted to keep my store. I said no more.
    All I own is in this store. People in these parts have little coin. My family eats well, but we do so on trade. If I leave here, I leave with nothing.
    Hooty stopped reading, but the video kept running. The members of the museum board sat in silence. I took notice of the reactions of the members.
    Eddie and Julie didn’t look surprised. Hooty must have read it to them beforehand. Sheriff Joey’s face had gone the color of red dirt, and his breath came out in puffs. Felicia wore her usual resting bitch face. I knew her well enough to see the anger and indignation brewing behind her flat eyes.
    Amanda still tapped on her cellphone, oblivious to it all. I wondered if she’d heard a word. I liked Amanda well enough but thought she was doing the Burns County Museum a disservice by not giving up her husband’s chair on the board after his passing last summer. Benny leaned forward in his seat, eyes wide with shock, mouth curled with distaste.
    “That was some ugly stuff,” he breathed.
    Sheriff Joey turned to face the camera. “Hannah, turn off this camera right now. And I mean it.”
    The screen went blank.
    For a moment, silence reigned in Hooty’s study. Nobody moved or made a sound. I guessed we were all busy trying to get over the window of ugliness Hooty’s ancestor’s words had opened. The lynching felt immediate, not like events dating back a century. The horrible images had jumped right from the crumbled page and into my mind, vivid in their horror and cruelty. My chest tight, muscles hot with rushing blood, my breath came in shallow pants. Sweat dampened the back of my neck. I couldn’t stop picturing the old gallows behind the museum. I saw them at a distance at least once a week. I could have been Priscilla Herrera a century ago, hanged because I could see ghosts.
    A huge, black bird landed on the windowsill, watching us like some sort of spy. It tapped the glass with its beak, breaking the spell in the room. Everyone seemed to let out the collective breath we’d all be holding.
    “You all right?” Hooty asked me and exchanged a glance with Rainey. She grabbed a box of tissues from the small table next to her chair and brought them to me.
    “You’re sweating,” she said. I mopped my damp face, trying to get hold of myself. The stuff I’d heard on the video happened a long time ago. It had nothing to do with me.
    “I’m guessing Sheriff Joey argued against adding the journal to the museum’s collection after he made you