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Implicit in the statement wasand these people have a lot more to say to her than you possibly can.I nodded and stepped right up to his side, hoping proximity to him would help her awareness of me. I even loosened my shields a little, trying to become brighter, in spiritual terms, so I might be easier to see.

It worked: her eyebrows furrowed and she tipped her head again, now watching me, but as if I was as washed-out and difficult to see as she was.

I only had one question, and it caught in my throat. Billy gave me a sharp look. I fell back a step, losing most of Naomi’s attention, and shook my head. “Let them say goodbye first. I’m not sure what my question will do to her.”

Naomi’s sister, Rebecca, whispered, “Thank you,” and joined the hands of the two people on either side of her so she could rise without breaking the circle. She came to stand by Billy, face contorted with tears, but Naomi’s expression lit up and she extended her hands toward Rebecca. I fell back another couple of steps, not really wanting to eavesdrop on the last words two sisters shared, and kept my eyes mostly averted while a handful of others came to say their good byes as well. Breathing the air within the circle hurt; it was that full of loss and sorrow. My refreshed power pounded at my temples and in my heart, searching for some way to ease their pain, but they already hadtheir mechanisms. The ghost dance was meant to do just that. They would be fine, in time, perhaps especially because they had this rare opportunity for closure after Naomi’s sudden, terrible death.

Gradually—actually rather quickly, but it seemed slow because of the ache in the air—the few who’d come to say a specific goodbye rejoined the circle at large. Others obviously wanted to take their place, say goodbye individually, but Naomi was visibly fading, Billy’s grip on her loosening.

They began to sing, a Native American song I imagined was a mourning tune from Naomi’s tribe. That was how the bulk of them would say goodbye, by overriding their own desires so I would have a chance to ask my question. I joined Billy again, knowing what I owed them and still reluctant: Naomi seemed relatively at peace, and I was afraid what I had to ask would shatter that calm.

On the other hand, I didn’t see that I had much choice. The killer’s trail had gone cold, and while going out hunting Morrison was a worthy cause for the remainder of the night, it wasn’t going to render the dance troupe safe from another attack. “Naomi, can you show me where your killer is?”

Naomi Allison withered, shrieking, and spun skyward to rush out of the theater, every goddamned bit as untrackable as the killer’s trail had been.

The circle brokeup around us, dismay crowing from every throat as dancers scrambled to their feet in Naomi’s wake. Rebecca was in tears, hiccups of “But she was fine, she was okay, she was fine,” clearer than most of the other babble. Littlefoot pulled her against his chest, scowling over her head at me. Not blaming me, I didn’t think. Just angry and frustratedand probably scared because he didn’t understand what had happened.

Neither did I, exactly, except I’d been relatively sure asking about her killer would upset her. I’d hoped she might do something mundane like point in the right direction, or better yet, give me an address, though I’d thought the former more likely. Zipping off into the ether was really no help at all, though it was a little hard to condemn the ghost of a murdered woman for not wanting to consider the means or perpetrator of her death.

“I’ve got it.” Billy sounded as thick as he’d sounded light before, like a sinus headache had suddenly taken up all the space and comfort in his head. “I can see her trail. Almost. Close enough to follow, anyway.”

Breath whooshed out of me, and the hubbub fell silent as everyone absorbed that. Rebecca sobbed one more time, a short sharp noise, but this time there was relief in it: maybe Naomi’s horrible departure had a purpose. Even I thought that somehow made it better.

I grabbed Billy’s hand, said, “Sorry, I’m stealing him,” to Mel, and started tugging him toward the door. “Where? Which way? I can’t follow a trail very long and I don’t know how long a ghost trail might last. Where do we need to go?”

“Joanne!” Melinda’s voice cracked across the stage and I turned back, electricity jittering down my spine. She softened a little, though her voice remained serious: “Be careful.”

I gave her a weak smile, nodded and hauled Billy out of the theater. He shook off the deepest part of his malaise as we got outside and cleared his throat. “Keys.”

I dug them out of my pocket as I scurried along, and he thrust his hand at me. I frowned at it. “What?”

“Give me your keys. I’m the one seeing ghost trails.”

A little bubble of astonishment popped at the very bottom of my soul. It gave rise to lots more, like soda fizzing in a glass. The closer they got to the top, the more they exploded with tiny bursts of outrage instead of astonishment. “You want to drivePetite?”

“Everybody wants to drive Petite, Joanne. She’s a beautiful car. People who don’t drive want to drive her.”

“And nobody gets to!” One person. One person besides me had driven my baby since I’d rescued her from a North Carolina barn over a decade earlier, and I’d torn into that person with the unholy vengeance of a thousand paper cuts. I had put blood, sweat and soul into my big purple beauty, andnobodygot to drive her but me.

Billy, with infinite patience, said, “Don’t be an idiot. Give me the keys.”

I clutched them against my chest, eyes wide with indignation. “Do you even know how to drive a stick?”

“Walker!”

Sullen, I said, “You sound like Morrison,” and tried to hand over the keys. I did. I really tried, but my hand wouldn’t uncurl from my chest, nor would my fingers unclench from around the keychain. “I can’t.”

“You can’t hand over your keys.”

They cut into my fingers, I was holding them so hard. It hurt enough that I was starting to want to let go, but my crimped fingers wouldn’t loosen. “I really don’t think I can.Nobodydrives Petite, Billy. Nobody but me.”

My partner flung his hands into the air—a remarkably melodramatic and impressive act, in his bright blue zoot suit—and stomped around the car. “Morrison is right. Your relationship with your car is pathological, Walker. If we lose this trail because you miss a turn, I will haunt you for the rest ofeternity.Do you understand me?”

I said, “Yes,” in a tiny voice, and even believed him, but it was still me who got in the driver’s seat.

Billy alternated between giving directions and cursing me, all the way downtown. I parked Petite at the all-night garage on Pine Street, grumpily aware that I wouldn’t get to write off the parking fee because I wasn’t officially on a case. Billy stopped swearing once we were safely parked, sat silent a minute or two, then started up again. “I can’t see the trail anymore. We need to go south from here.”

“I don’t know if there’s any overnight parking south of here and I’m not leaving Petite on the street.” I got out of the car, locked my door, and waited for Billy, cursing all the while, to do the same.