She’d made the drive to the cemetery so often over the past ten months that each winding turn in the road was indelibly stamped on her brain. Normally, she drove in silence, needing the time to prepare herself for a visit that never got any easier. Isabella especially didn’t feel like chitchattin...
Facing two men, strangers, she grappled for her phone, ready to speed-dial police dispatch. The pudgier, red-haired man with a crew cut spoke quickly. “My name is Roger McBride. This is my friend, Charlie Fitzpatrick. Last night the police chief came to see me. He said you...
—Catalyst that provoked the wagon train reenactment. NOLAN CAMPBELL, PROFESSOR of history, stared woefully at a skinny white Christmas tree standing in one corner of the staff lounge at his Columbia, Missouri, college. The tree was virtually smothered in pink ornaments and...