“And now you want to pay me ten thousand to keep quiet about Claire.”

Gene checked his gold wristwatch one more time, his jaw setting into a hard line.

“Claire Rowan died thirty-four years ago in a highway wreck, Mara.

You’re chasing a ghost because a sick old man got confused before he died in hospice.”

“Claire showed me the photo from nineteen eighty-nine,” I said softly.

“The one with the notch in the eyebrow.”

“Take the check, Mara,” Gene said, his voice falling to a harsh rasp.