Free The Dead Will Tell by Linda Castillo

there some way she survived? That we’re wrong about what happened? That she’s alive and she’s come back for a little payback?”
    “Is it?” Jules asked.
    Brick sighed. “You didn’t see her,” he said. “No one did.”
    Crossing his arms over his chest, Snipe leaned back in the booth. “I know what I saw. And let me tell you something: She saw me, too.”
    “What are you saying?” Jules asked, looking alarmed.
    Snipe tossed her a nasty look. “Connect the dots.”
    “Stop scaring her,” Brick growled.
    “Better scared than dead.” Glancing over his shoulder, Snipe lowered his head and spoke urgently. “I’m not the only one who saw her. I was down at Ladonna’s Diner last Saturday, and I heard Tyler McKay say he saw her, too.”
    “Tyler McKay is a drunk,” Brick said.
    “Maybe we’re wrong about what happened. Maybe she survived.” Jules drank some of the wine, leaving a red imprint of her lower lip. “Maybe she’s come back.”
    “Come back to do what?” Brick asked.
    “To get revenge on us for what we did,” Snipe said.
    “For what you did,” Brick snapped.
    “We were all there.” Jules looked down at her glass of wine. “We’re all guilty.”
    Snipe grimaced. “I heard Pudge was gut-shot and strung up in his barn like a side of beef.”
    “Do the cops have any idea who did it?” Jules asked.
    “No one knows anything,” Brick said. “We need to make sure it stays that way.”
    “They’ll know about the calls he made to us,” Jules pointed out.
    “There’s no law against old acquaintances calling to catch up on old times.” Brick looked from Jules to Snipe, wanting to make sure they understood what he was telling them. Snipe had never been smart, and evidently the years hadn’t changed that.
    Jules nodded. “Okay.”
    “All right.” Snipe leaned forward. “How do we keep her from coming after us, too?”
    “Keep your imagination in check,” Brick said dismissively.
    The words hung in the air, and for the span of several minutes, they drank in silence. “I know it sounds crazy,” Snipe said, “and I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I do know what I saw. I think she killed Pudge. And I got a feeling she isn’t finished.”
    Jules pressed her hand against her chest. “Snipe … please.”
    “Lots of people have seen her up to the Hochstetler place,” he maintained.
    “Those are just … silly ghost stories,” Jules said.
    “Silly until she sinks a knife in your back,” Snipe returned evenly.
    Brick slapped both palms down on the tabletop so suddenly, Jules jumped. “Ghosts? Really? For God’s sake, Snipe, are you hearing yourself?” he asked in exasperation. “No one saw her. She’s not alive. And she’s sure as hell not back from the dead. You got that?” He divided his attention between Jules and Snipe. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for thirty-five years. People don’t come back from that.”
    Jules stared down at her wineglass.
    Snipe glared at Brick, but he didn’t speak.
    After a moment, Brick sighed. “Anyone heard from Fat Boy?”
    “I called him.” Snipe glanced at his watch. “He should have been here.”
    “Figured he wouldn’t show,” Jules added.
    “Never liked that two-faced, do-gooder punk,” Snipe muttered.
    Brick picked up his glass and drank, enjoying the heat of the cognac on the back of his throat. “Do either of you know if the cops have any leads?”
    Snipe shrugged. “Haven’t heard.”
    “I’ll ask around at the gallery,” Jules offered.
    Brick nodded. “Look, what happened to Pudge could have been a random thing. A robbery or something. He made all that real estate money back in the ’90s.”
    He could tell by their expressions, neither of them believed it. He wasn’t even sure he believed it. Still, it was better than the alternative.
    Across from him, Snipe finished his whiskey, set the glass down with a little too much force. “It was her.” He said the words without looking up. “Or