And then he closed the doors and locked them. Locked himself in with the dead body of his best friend. With the murderous ghost of his oldest friend.Except that he didn’t believe in ghosts. Not in ghosts that could use a knife, the way someone had used a knife on Mouser. He recognized Nate’s signature—Mouser wasn’t the first person Nate had killed. Though from what little Dillon had discovered, he preferred to hurt women.He reached for his cigarettes, and he noticed his hands were shaking. He figured he had two choices. One was to call the police and try to convince them that he, a convicted felon, had nothing to do with the dead body in his garage. The second dead body in the last three months. For some reason he didn’t think Lieutenant MacPherson was going to be listening, no matter how reasonable he’d seemed. And they certainly wouldn’t take his word for it that Mouser had been killed by a dead man.Even more important, they’d drag Jamie back to Wisconsin. It was her car, it would be covered in her fingerprints.
