The Case of Elmwood Ranch

Chapter 1

ONE

I was over five hundred miles away from home. Not because I believed in ghosts—but because I needed one good night’s sleep to clear my head.

Because I needed to give my older brother, Wilson, some tangible proof I took our inability to keep our ranch hands safe while staffed seriously. Because he’d sunk so much money into (what now seemed) a pipe dream. My pipe dream.

I was over five hundred miles away from home because my brother had burned his hand on the eye of an unlit stove. And I had no clue on how to debunk his current conclusion: we were being haunted.

Wilson paid two hundred eighty-five dollars for an “extended access” ticket to Oh, So Paranormal Con. His return on investment was a signed hardback copy of Your Ghost, Your Story and a maybe, sort of, if you cross your heart and hope to die, chance for me to speak with the author, Rae Jones.

“Could you clarify what you mean by ‘maybe’?” I asked the twitchy teen manning the check-in table.

The teen picked at the side of their phone case, silicon indented with the grooves of past attacks. “She’s a busy person.”

Rae Jones was a woman who claimed we all had the power to fight our own monsters (most of the time—all the other times she told you to book her for a hefty fee).

“Oh, I’m sure.” I swallowed a laugh that’d been building up since I pulled on my I Believe lanyard. “But I don’t think it’s difficult to offer a definitive answer, considering her entire job’s signing copies of books today, no?”

Rae Jones was the featured guest among the sea of “paranormal investigators” turned internet celebs. They plastered her face all over their official website and the merch being hawked at nearly every table.

They even had themed drinks inspired by her team: Ruby Rae Float, Naughty Nico Berry, Dirty December Shake, and Jonah’s First Sip.

The more I drowned in the commercialization of their likeness, the more my teeth ground. I got gimmicks and understood hustle, but our need for help was dire. Wasting money was unacceptable.

The teen gave in for a second, checking their phone before saying, “Sorry, it just…depends.”

The air went dead as he unlocked the phone and opened a social media app.

I watched in silence and utter awe as he slipped into instant distraction.

I resisted the urge to click my tongue to regain his attention.

Strangers typically weren’t fond of noise cues.

Horses were more forgiving…and apparently present.

“On…?” I asked. “The planets aligning? A blood moon? Ritual sacrifice?”

“Oh.” To his credit, his cheeks stained almost as red as his brightly dyed hair. “On if the line isn’t too long. Really popular guests just sign and go. No photos. No questions.”

“But I have the extended access pass.” I pointed at the badge hanging on my neck in case the volunteer didn’t notice the gold letters of my name and the tiny, illustrated crown showing I was one of the biggest suckers in the building.

“Extended access just gets you an exclusive tee and water bottle.” The teen locked his phone again but resumed the case-picking. “But it doesn’t guarantee a chance to talk with any of our celebrity guests. It’s more of a bragging rights thing, to be honest.”

I took a deep breath, trying to lower my heart rate and fend off the heavy weight that’d burrowed into my bones after my long drive.

“Bragging rights.” My lips pulled up, but the smile was as real as the existence of a genuine paranormal investigator. “Just what I need.”

The teen didn’t follow but nodded anyway. “It’s pretty cool. I wish I could get the tee. It’s designed by the team themselves.”

“So cool. Thanks for your time.” I grabbed my swag bag and moved out of the way for the next na?ve soul.

Maybe I could still make this trip worthwhile. I had to make this worthwhile.

Jones’s talk was in the largest conference room in an hour.

Her signing was directly after. People already lined up to be let in.

The horde of fans snaked their way through the merch booths, strangling the flow of traffic.

I dragged myself to the back of the line, ending up nearly outside the building.

Voices echoed off the shiny gray concrete floor, a reminder of how empty this convention center would become after the joy of ignorance left.

Twenty minutes of mind-numbing standstill went by before my phone buzzed with a call from Esther. I cleared my throat and took a sip from the world’s most expensive water bottle before answering.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“I’m in the belly of the beast,” I confirmed, my voice far more level than my heartbeat. “Smells like cleaning supplies and conspiracy theorists in here.”

She snorted. “Lovely.”

“They said it’d be a thousand attendees, but there has to be at least five times that.

” I pressed two fingers to my forehead, trying to massage away the growing pain in my head.

My eardrums had been trembling since I stepped out of my truck.

For the past six months since the purchase of my ranch, I hadn’t been in the presence of over three or four people at a time. Small-town life was blissful like that.

“I found your copy of Your Ghost, Your Story,” Esther said.

“That’s Wilson’s,” I corrected.

Esther hummed, considering. “Then why is your handwriting all in the margins?”

“There was no way I was driving all the way down here without knowing what the woman stands for.” I switched my phone from one hand to the other so I could wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans. It had to be a million degrees and climbing.

“And what does she stand for?” There was a flip of a page on Esther’s end. She was still reading the margins. Probably disrupting my sticky note placement.

“A ton of BS,” I lamented. “But also, some sound business advice.”

In between the lines of paranormal bull, Rae Jones offered glimpses of a head for marketing. I ripped the seams of her writing to find a perfect, solid base. A base I could actually work with.

“‘Does it even matter if she believes her own lies?’” Esther read and paused to think before saying, “I mean, I would hope so.”

“Yeah?”

“Who wants to work with someone who doesn’t believe in what they’re selling?”

I tilted my head back and forth, allowing the question to occupy both sides of a scale. “I don’t know, I think it’s infinitely more interesting if a person doesn’t believe what they’re selling but can sell it.”

A good salesperson convinced you. An incredible salesperson sold you, themselves, and the rest of the world. That type of talent was game-changing. That type of knowledge was something I hadn’t been able to find in any books or videos.

“This investigation stuff is a”—I lowered my voice, cupping my hand around the phone’s speaker—“big scam. She can’t solve our string of bad luck.”

“Bad luck,” Esther repeated under her breath.

She’d slowly started to subscribe to Wilson’s school of haunting thought over the past couple of weeks.

He’d littered our entire living room with articles about ghosts and hauntings.

We couldn’t have one conversation with the man without a tangent on the afterlife and crossing over.

“You were a professor,” I’d reminded him one night when his ranting had gone on long enough for his whiteboard to be filled with equations and doodles.

“Of physics. You can’t really believe in ghosts and the afterlife.”

“Being a professor is why I believe, Via,” he’d said.

“We’re all overworked. These things can easily be tricks of light. House settling. Clumsiness.”

“Right,” Esther’s tone was flatter than freshly laid concrete.

“It’s temporary. But good branding’s not.”

“You’re going to ask a celebrity paranormal hunter for branding tips?”

“She doesn’t have much else to offer.”

The line moved. My aching limbs rejoiced.

“Do you two think you’ll be okay for the night?” I pivoted. Every minute that ticked by, it was looking less likely I’d be able to drive back home tonight.

“We got this,” Esther promised. “I’m driving Wilson to The Inn tonight once I finish up chores here.”

Despite my disbelief, I didn’t like the idea of either of them staying on the ranch at night alone. Esther had taken too many falls off the ladder, and each one seemed to be worse than the next. “Sounds good.”

“One more order of business.” Esther released a barely audible sigh. “Dr. Klein called.”

My stomach churned. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to manage the sensation.

“He says he’s willing to do a payment plan,” she continued. “But it’ll include interest.”

Just what I needed. “Yeah, okay. Tell him to call me next time and take your number off his contact list.”

I wasn’t a fan of my one employee having to field my debtors. For practical and optical reasons.

I still had money in the bank. But it filtered through an hourglass at a concerning speed.

“Got it,” Esther said with a sigh, hinting she was relieved not to have to carry the responsibility of the update anymore. “So, when are you meeting the woman of the hour?”

“After her speech.” There was no use in worrying my brother or her about the “maybe” of it all.

I’d figure out a way, even if it came to sneaking backstage and begging the woman to talk to me.

I hadn’t cried in years, but perhaps I could force out a tear or two for effect.

If I thought about the mounting loan bills waiting for me at home, the waterworks would probably overflow.

The line of people started cheering, tearing my focus away from deciding if I should brush away my tears while putting on a show or leave them on my cheeks for a more rounded performance. What would Jones do? Another thing to ask.

A few yards ahead of me were the esteemed guests. I glimpsed their faces as they squeezed through the rustling crowd.

“She’s here.” I stood on my tiptoes in time to see a waft of bone-straight black hair flowing behind a door that led into the conference room.

“That’s why they’re chanting?” A low, impressed whistle escaped her lips. “I didn’t realize they gave paranormal investigators the pop star treatment.”