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Henry let me go, and we went inside without a word.

I’d been expecting to bear witness to whatever Elliot and Henry needed to do—Gregory’s body, unembalmed, the pallid, waxy cold of the dead, was already dressed in the traditional clothes Elliot and I had dropped off, but his face and hands would be painted red and black while Henry and Elliot recited prayers in Menomini.

I didn’t speak the language, but I was commandeered to help hold the pots of paint—first, the black coal-based paint that Henry and Elliot themselves wore, each painting the other before Elliot turned his blackened fingers on me. I let him do it, feeling both deeply honored and deeply awkward, my eyes closed as he traced black over my cheeks, across my forehead, along my jaw, and on my lips.

And then I held the pots of red ocher and black coal that Henry and Elliot used to paint Gregory’s too-pale and too-slack face and the backs and palms of his limp hands, feeling tears pressing the back of my throat and running through the coal on my face. Mine weren’t the only ones—Elliot’s voice broke more than once, and his fingers trembled as he daubed the crimson stain across his father’s skin.

Henry’s hands were as steady and even as his voice, the beadwork of his headband bright in the glow of the funeral parlor’s lights. Henry had done this many times, speaking the way of the dead and guiding those among the living who needed his calm strength. He’d done the same for Naomi Crane almost twenty years ago, and he did it for Gregory now—even though Gregory was Ho Chunk, he’d been a part of the Mamaceqtaw community, although as I understood it, the practices were fairly similar.

Elliot had said that his dad didn’t really have that many connections in the Ho Chunk community—he’d been an only child and both his parents had died before Elliot was born, so he didn’t have family left. There were a few people planning to come to the funeral, but Gregory had, for all intents and purposes, been a part of Naomi’s tribe rather than his own.

I’d asked Elliot once what he considered himself, and he’d said he was both, but he thought of himself more as Mamaceqtaw than Ho Chunk. I knew he hadn’t really gotten connected to the community down in Madison—he’d been to some events, attended some tribal meetings, but he’d told me he just wasn’t as invested in it as he was in the Menominee Nation, even if he didn’t live here anymore.

I guess maybe that was yet another reason why that might change—why Elliot might decide to move back to Shawano.

Henry took the two pots from my hands. “Thank you, Valentine.”

I nodded in response. It was the first time I think I’d ever heard him use my full name, but given the formality of the situation, I wasn’t going to be an ass about it.

I helped Henry and Elliot place the bread, some blackberry preserves and honey Henry had brought, a small bottle of maple syrup, the little carved badger from Gregory’s office, Naomi’s necklace, a knife (also from Henry), and a basket filled with dried corn, herbs, and wildflowers in the casket alongside Gregory’s body—things that would sustain his spirit until it was ready to move on.

I pulled a small toy out of my pocket—I’d gotten Ward to ask Gregory himself if there was something he wanted to go with him. He’d mentioned the necklace Elliot had already chosen, but he’d also asked for the tiny toy car.

It had been the first Hot Wheels he’d ever bought for Elliot. When El had gotten rid of a bunch of his childhood toys, Gregory had pilfered it and hidden it in his desk as a reminder of the little boy Elliot had been.

I didn’t know if Gregory—his spirit—was here with us today. My skin felt clammy and wrong, so it was possible, but pretty much everything from the second Elliot had called to tell me Gregory had been murdered felt kinda clammy and wrong, so I didn’t trust my own instincts at this point. But whether he was or not, I was going to put the damn car in the casket because that’s what Gregory wanted, and I owed it to him.

I owed him a lot more than that, but this I could do. I was going to do my best to find his killers, but at least the Hot Wheels car—a bright blue Mustang—was something I could accomplish.

I tucked it in by his hip, letting my fingers rest on his thigh for a moment. It wasn’t him anymore—I knew that. This lump of cold flesh that was starting—despite the refrigerator drawer they’d kept him in—to decay no longer held the spirit or the lively mind of Gregory Crane. But I’d known him in this fleshy shell, and, somehow, touching it was a reminder that he was gone.

And then my arm went cold, and I knew he wasn’t—not yet, anyway.

“Thanks,” I whispered to the dead man—not the corpse, but the ghost I knew was nearby.

My arm pulsed cold again, then stopped.

I took a deep breath, then helped gather up our things to go upstairs and get ready for the funeral itself, comforted a little by the fact that Gregory was with us. I had the feeling he was following us—not because I felt him, but because I knew him, and I knew he wouldn’t leave his son alone to deal with this.

And I shouldn’t, either.

We got into Elliot’s truck to drive out to the gravesite where the service would be held as the funeral home attendants began to load Gregory’s coffin into the hearse that we would follow there. Around us in the parking lot other cars were arriving—some people would likely go straight to the cemetery, but there were a handful, my parents and Taavi included, who would drive over with us and Henry.

As we sat in the car, I turned to Elliot. “El.”

He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“He’s here. With you,” I told him.

He sighed. “You don’t know that,” he replied softly.

“Actually,” I countered. “I do. I can feel him.”

Elliot turned to me with a frown. “What?”

“I can feel ghosts,” I explained quickly. “And… he touched me. When we were inside. I felt it.”

“He… did?” There was something like hope, or maybe desperation, in his voice.