“With what?”

“A police matter.”

Now I was more curious than cautious—which made me also foolish.

Dr. Camille Ashby was an administrator at Emerson University, an elite, private college with powerful alumni that included some of the most prominent lawyers, judges and businessmen in South Carolina. Recently, I’d accepted a commission to restore an old cemetery located on university property. One of Dr. Ashby’s stipulations was that I not post any pictures on my blog until the restoration was complete.

I understood her concern. The dismal condition of the graveyard wasn’t a favorable reflection on a university that espoused the traditions and ethics of the old South. As Benjamin Franklin had put it: One can tell the morals of a culture by the way they treat their dead. Indeed.

What I didn’t yet know was why she’d sent John Devlin to find me.

“I understand you’ve been working in Oak Grove Cemetery,” he said.

I suppressed a shudder.

Oak Grove was one of those rare graveyards that evoked uneasiness, that literally made my skin crawl. The only other time I’d experienced a similar sensation was while visiting a small cemetery in Kansas that had been dubbed one of the seven gateways to hell.

I adjusted my collar against the glacial prickles at my nape. “What’s this about?”

He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “When was the last time you were there?”

“A few days ago.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Last Friday.”

“Five days,” he murmured. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, of course. A big storm blew in that night and it’s been raining off and on ever since. I’ve been waiting for the ground to dry out.”

“Camille…Dr. Ashby said you’ve been photographing the graves.” He waited for my nod. “I’d like to take a look at those shots.”

Something about his tone, about this whole conversation put me on the defensive. Or maybe it was his ghosts. “Can you tell me why? And I’d also like to know how you found me tonight.”