ELIZABETH, HAVING failed to get Rachel to come with me, I was confused and disturbed. Traffic on the interstate flowed freely, giving me plenty of opportunity to chew on what Rachel had said. Despite Braden’s history of depression, I was inclined to agree with her that he hadn’t seemed suicidal at the ghost hunt. Preoccupied, maybe, but not suicidal. Besides, who would choose such a bizarre place to end their lives? And, throwing oneself down a couple of flights of stairs was hardly a guaranteed ticket to the cemetery, as Braden’s fall proved. Surely, anyone intent on ending his life would pick a more effective method? Without even wanting to, I quickly thought of three or four better methods. And an accident seemed almost as unlikely as suicide. Braden was a football player, an athlete, for heaven’s sake. How likely was it that he would trip going up the stairs or stumble coming down and not be able to catch himself on the rail or regain his balance? And why had he gone upstairs in the first place?
