The Grim Reaper's Dance

years.”

Casey took a closer look, then sent a shocked glance toward Death, who sat smugly with a hip hitched up on the big desk. Sitting just two chairs away from Bailey’s dad in the photo was one of the men from Evan’s pack of pictures.

Chapter Eight

Casey did her best not to react to the image. She wracked her brain, trying to remember which of Evan’s pictures the guy was in. He wasn’t from the group of men at the car crash, she was pretty sure of that. He was one of the people photographed talking to Owen Dixon and Randy Westing. Casey itched to retrieve her bag from the kitchen.

“So,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “Are all of these men grain farmers, like your dad?”

“Sure, mostly. Some of them have beef cattle, too, but it’s mostly crops, as far as I know. So, what do you want to do now? I don’t suppose you’d want to, like, watch a movie or something?”

“No, thanks, I… Any chance I could use a computer?”

Bailey knocked herself on the forehead. “Of course. Duh. You probably have people to e-mail.”

“I just want to look up a few things.”

Bailey glanced at her father’s desk. “Not in here. Dad’s pretty…his computer’s the one thing he doesn’t want us messing with.”

Which of course made Casey want to mess with it.

Bailey led Casey back up to her room—with a pit stop in the kitchen, where Casey retrieved her bag—and pulled a laptop from a bookbag. She cleared off a spot on her desk and set the computer on it. “We’ve got wireless, so you can go on-line from anywhere in the house, but you might as well just sit here.”

“Thanks, Bailey.”

“Sure.” Bailey dropped onto her bed, where she lay on her stomach and kicked her feet.

Casey hesitated. She couldn’t exactly do her research with the girl sitting three feet away, so she took a little time to look around the room. Posters of rock stars competed with Edward Cullen and the other vampires from the Twilight series, and a full array of glow-in-the-dark stars adorned the ceiling. The bedspread and curtains had been hand-sewn out of black velvet, and the walls were a textured gray. The furniture, including the desk and headboard, had been painted black with globs of shining glitter, and the carpet was full-out gray and black shag. Casey had to give it to the girl—despite the dark color scheme and the immense amount of stuff, the room felt…comfortable.

Bailey pulled her phone from her pocket and rolled over on her back. Her fingers flew over the keypad. Casey angled the laptop away from the girl and punched in Davey—David—Wainwright’s name, finding his home address and phone number, as well as the scrapyard’s.

“Scratch paper?” she asked Bailey.

Bailey stretched to pull out a drawer on the desk. “There. Take all you want.”

Casey raised her eyebrows at the stack of paper.

“I make lots of mistakes,” Bailey said.

Casey grabbed a page and scribbled Davey’s information. Wendell’s numbers were easy to find, as well, and she wrote them down.

Bailey sat up. “Find something?”

Casey clicked out of that site, back to the search engine, and covered the paper with her hand. “Nothing much.”

“You don’t want me to see. All right. I get it.” Her lower lip stuck out, and she looked around the room. “Well, I’m gonna go watch a movie, then. I might as well enjoy my day off. Get me if you need anything, all right?” She left the room, and Casey took a breath of relief.

“Good job,” Death said from the bed. “Now you’ve ticked off your only friend.”

“Not my only friend.”

“The only one with a car.”

Casey turned to the computer and typed in a name. Death pulled out the rubber band and began twanging.

Randy Westing. The search came up with nothing relevant—a musician with a slightly different last name, a film reviewer who obviously wasn’t Casey’s guy, plus about a million other hits that separated the two names, giving lots of Randys and Westings.

Owen Dixon. Casey laughed to herself. Lots of information for a Sir Owen Dixon, from Australia, popped up. Even more obviously not her man.

So these guys either had false names or they’d miraculously avoided appearing on the Internet. Or they just hadn’t done anything interesting enough that anybody had noticed.

Casey opened her bag and pulled out Evan’s notebook, paging to the place where he’d listed the truckers’ names. She punched in the first.

John Simones. Casey sighed. Hundreds of thousands of hits, with more John Simones than she’d bargained for, as well as multiple listings for men named John Simone and John Simons. She went back to the search box and added Evan’s note: UK 2008. This didn’t help one bit.

She went through the rest of the names, including the ones on the manifests, but didn’t hit on anything until she came to the name Mick Halveston—the male half of the couple seated across from Westing and Dixon at the diner. Halfway through the listed sites was an article about a truck accident in Missouri. Seems Mick had passed out while driving and run his truck up the side of an embankment, overturning and smashing a passenger car containing a family of five. The children and mother had died at the scene, the father at the hospital later that day.

“I remember that one,” Death said over Casey’s shoulder. “Not a fun job at all.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t want to know the details.”

“No, I mean to the trucker. Why did he pass out?”

Death shrugged. “He didn’t die, so I don’t know. Want me to ask?” Death pointed toward the ceiling.

“Would you get an answer?”

“Probably not. I’d be told it wasn’t in my need to know file.”

Casey closed her eyes, frustration building in her chest. Of all the things to get mixed up in, did she have to find something involving the death of children in a vehicular accident?

“What’s wrong?” Bailey stood in the doorway.

Casey jerked her head up and clicked out of the screen with the article. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bailey’s mouth pinched. “You don’t look fine.”

“Still tired, I guess.”

Bailey obviously didn’t believe her, but let it go. “I brought you a drink. Lemonade.”

“Thank you.” Casey took the glass and stopped Bailey on her way back out the door. “Those men in that photo with your dad, the other farmers? Do you know their names?”

“Most of them, why?”

“I thought I recognized one.”

Bailey hesitated. “I thought you weren’t from around here.”

“I’m not.”

Bailey studied her some more before turning and walking out of the room. Casey followed. Death stayed on the bed, twanging.

When they got to the photo, Bailey picked it up. “Which guy?”

Casey pointed at the familiar one.

“Oh. That’s Pat Parnell. I’ve known him forever. He’s from somewhere around Wichita. My dad’s roommate in