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made a monster noise, wro-hoo-hoo ,
while holding out one arm zombie-style. “Maybe aliens are invading their
bodies.”
    Hazel laughed, but then the
thought of mad cow disease eating holes in people’s brains made the idea seem less
farfetched and far less funny. “Let’s hope not,” she said softly.
    Sean got the van moving, turning
right at the corner and then rattling down Park Street past the row of
Victorians. Hazel always thought the houses were over the top, making
spectacles of themselves like old ladies wearing crazy hats and too much
makeup. Just past her own house, Sean turned right onto Ruby Road and then hung
a quick left up the steep drive to The Winslow, the hotel described by one
travel writer as, “An Old West treasure trove well worth braving the hazards of
Yellow Jacket Pass.”
    “Sticky and gray,” Sean was
muttering.
    “What?” Hazel said, realizing
she’d been distracted.
    Sean glanced at her. “You know
what? Screw Zachary.”
    “Are you gonna quit?” she asked.
    “Get fired, most likely.” He blew
out his breath. “He’s such a dick.”
    She nodded. “What’s his problem?”
    “Beats me. When I went to ask him
a simple question he bit my head off.”
    “I’ll talk to Owen Peabody. Maybe
he can use some help at the Crock.”
    “Cool. Or maybe your dad needs a
deputy,” he joked.
    That didn’t strike Hazel as funny.
Hell, Sean would probably be sheriff once her dad retired. For as much
as she always lamented it, she predicted Sean was never leaving Winslow, never
leaving his little brother Aaron or their mother alone with their drunken
father.
    Sean parked at the base of the
stone staircase cut into The Winslow’s massive retaining wall and climbed the
steps with a tray of bread. Then he headed around the side of the hotel to go
in through the kitchen door, where Hazel imagined he’d find his mother
preparing breakfast for the guests. Hazel was glad that Honey and Samuel Adair
ran her family’s hotel and that she didn’t have to work there. There was way
too much history in the place, and Hazel hated dragging the past around—it
was too heavy.
    “Hazel!” Aaron Adair shouted,
barreling down the steps so recklessly that Hazel was certain the
seven-year-old boy would stumble and plant his face in stone.
    She flung open the van door and
jumped down onto the driveway. “Aaron, slow down!”
    He did not slow down, not until he
smacked right into her. “I just saw another one,” he said, out of breath. The
boy was a miniature Sean: same light brown eyes, same soft brown curls. And he
was looking at her with fierce intensity. “I just saw one who looks like
Patience Mathers.”
    Not easily spooked, Hazel’s sudden
shiver caught her by surprise. Before she could ask Aaron what he meant, she
noticed Sean descending the steps. She frowned at him to signal her concern.
    Still breathing hard, Aaron
continued, “And all night long another lady with blood gurgling out of her throat
scared the bejeebers out of me.”
    Hazel’s breath caught in her own
throat. “How do you know about—” Then she stopped herself, realizing it
best not to say any more. Fearing Aaron might hyperventilate, she cupped his
small shoulders. “Calm down,” she said. “Take a long, deep breath.” Beneath her
hands, she could feel him trembling. She shot another worried look at Sean as
he joined them.
    Sean squatted down until he was
face to face with his brother. “Aaron, what’s gotten into you?”
    “They’re everywhere ,” Aaron
whispered, looking about to cry.
    “Who’s everywhere?” Sean asked.
    Aaron glanced over his shoulder at
The Winslow, then looked back at Sean with fear in his eyes. “The ghosts,” he said.
The tears did start then.
    “No.” Sean hugged his brother.
“Those are only stories—you know that. There aren’t any ghosts.”
    “But I seen them, Sean,” Aaron
said, voice muffled against Sean’s shoulder. “All over the hotel.” He pulled
back from Sean, his