“Okay, are we sure that this place is actually real?” I lean back against my car, covering my eyes so I can see the map pulled up on my phone. “I swear we’ve driven around Greenrock like, six times.”

Aiden stands on the other side of the car, squinting out at the winter landscape as if it might give us some indication of which way to go. The snowy blankets on the branches of the surrounding pines are dripping, melting away beneath the unseasonably warm sunshine. The droplets tumbling from the trees make a sound like gentle rainfall, pattering softly all around us.

It looks very beautiful, but we’re not here to take in the view. We’re on a Ghost Office mission.

As always, Kasey came through with a new idea. She pointed out that the newspaper from 1961 was the only publicly available information we’d gathered on John Botswick. There may have been updates since then, from the years after. Newspaper articles that aren't kept at the Ketterbridge archives, for example.

I immediately grabbed my laptop and searched up the Botswick case. We discovered that the murder seems to have garnered almost no public attention after the initial stir it caused in Port Sitka. The internet had very little to say about John Botswick. Our search results were sparse, and none of them had anything to do with the case.

And then, finally, we found something: a post on a true crime blog called The Body Bag. It was the last thing to pop up in the search results, so not a very popular blog, presumably.

That blog post led us here, to the outskirts of Greenrock.

The post was published years ago, and never updated since. It contained no information that we didn’t already have, but it did give us a lead. The sole author behind The Body Bag is a man named Floyd Little. Kasey pointed out that he probably doesn’t live that far from Port Sitka, given that he referred to the Botswick case as ‘a fascinating piece of local history’ in his post.

Aiden looked him up. It turns out that Floyd has not moved away in the years since he posted the Botswick story on his blog. He’s the owner of a true crime bookstore in Greenrock, called Body Bag Books.

Kasey is hoping that Floyd will have some information for us, that he might know more about the Botswick case than what he chose to include in his blog post. He’s the only one besides us who’s ever taken an investigative interest in it.

Floyd also describes himself as an unsolved murder expert - which, who knows what that means - and while the graphics on his blog look like they haven’t been updated since the advent of the internet, he does post on it with a degree of regularity, even now. Everyone on Team Ghost Office agreed that it was worth seeing if he’d talk to us.

Everyone except for me, that is. I have nothing but objections, personally. And the fact that we can’t find the bookshop is starting to strike me as weird, compounding all of my misgivings about this mission.

The store isn’t in downtown Greenrock, or even on the fringe. I think it must be as far away from Greenrock as you can get while still claiming an address there.

Even my phone has no idea where we are. I have no service, not out on these rarely-used country roads. Fields and forest alternate on either side of us, making everything look roughly the same. I’d guess that we’ve driven up and down this same road three different times.

I wouldn’t have even noticed we were doing that, but there's a long row of red alder trees growing alongside this stretch of road. I pulled over when I recognized their pale trunks, the orange-brown catkins hanging down from the branches. Seeing them meant that we’ve once again gone in a giant circle, and still not found the bookstore.

“Should we just give up?” I suggest hopefully. “Go back to Ketterbridge, get some tacos?”

Aiden pulls a face at me over the roof of the car. “You just don’t want to go to the bookstore.”

“Of course I fucking don’t! Once again, I’m the only one on this team with a shred of self-preservation! I’m terrified of this fucking guy, and I won't pretend otherwise. A self-described ‘unsolved murder expert’ sounds like the kind of person who might, you know. Murder us?”

Aiden comes around the car, his Timbs crunching on the snow, and runs his hands up and down my shoulders.

“Jamie, breathe. We’ll be fine.” He smiles down at me, smoothing his thumb along my jaw. “I’ll be right there with you. I bet I can take Floyd Little in a fight, if it comes down to it. He’s got little right there in the name. You’re the one always calling me a giant.”

“The fact that he’s named Little makes me assume that he’s enormous,” I mumble, fidgeting nervously with the zipper of Aiden’s jacket. “The nickname is always the opposite of what the guy really is.”

“I’m pretty sure that rule only applies to like, the mafia, dude. And it’s not his nickname, it’s his real name.”

“Still!” I groan, burying my forehead into Aiden’s chest.

Aiden huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh. He pushes me upright, taps my nose with his fingertip. Then he plucks the phone from my hand and looks down at the map.

“I think we need to go back the way we came. We didn’t try this turn, did we?”

He points to the screen to show me. It’s a tiny road, unlabeled even on the map. I didn’t notice it at all when we drove past it. I doubt that we’ll find a shop of any kind there, but it might be the only thing we haven’t tried, at this point.

“Ugh, fine. But if this isn’t it, we’re going home.”

Aiden nods firmly. “Deal.”

“Really? Oh, thank god!”

“But you have to tell Kasey why we failed,” he informs me, already heading back around the car. “And that it was your idea to give up.”

“What, you think I can't handle that?” I ask, trying to sound offended. “I’m not afraid of her, okay? I’m a grown man.”

“Well, good, cause that’s the deal.” Aiden shrugs, then pops open the passenger’s side door. “I don’t care either way, but you’ve got to decide what you’re more afraid of. The murder bookstore man, or the wrath of Kasey.”

Aiden disappears into the car, and I consider that for a moment.

“Please be the right turn,” I say beneath my breath, and stuff my phone back into my pocket.

~~~~

We’re a few minutes up the unpaved road when Aiden rests a hand on my thigh.

“Look,” he murmurs.

I follow his eyeline to a sign stuck into the ground by the side of the road. It’s quite literally made out of cardboard, stapled to two wooden pegs. In unsteady Sharpie letters, it simply says: BOOKS. And there’s an arrow, pointing us forward.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, looking at the sign. “This is not a real store. This is a murder place.”

I go to put the car in reverse, and Aiden catches my hand.

“Come on, man. You confronted the thief, all by yourself. I think you can handle this.”

I force myself to take a breath, nod in silent agreement. Then I let out an agonized groan of protest, so loud that it draws a startled laugh from Aiden.

“If we die, I’m gonna be so mad at you,” I tell him. “We’re gonna walk in there, and Floyd is gonna be waiting for us, tarps already laid down…”

“Oh my god, Jamie, relax,” Aiden laughs. “We’re not in danger, I’d hear it.”

That’s true, I realize. Sometimes I forget about that. I manage to take a better breath, and guide my car up the road at a slightly less reluctant pace.

Low-hanging branches brush against the roof of my car as we emerge from the forest road. Before us is a wide stretch of open fields. Perched on the frontmost edge of the property is a small, one-story house.

I think we’ve gone the wrong way again, but when I lean forward and peer through the windshield, I spot a sign attached to the front of the house.

Body Bag Books. The line in all three capital B’s is designed to look like a zipper.

Aiden unstraps himself and steps out into the sunshine, pulling his snapback onto his head as he goes. I join him in front of my car, and he offers me his hand. I take it, holding onto him more tightly than I usually do.

The ghosts can’t leave Ketterbridge, so they couldn't come with us to scope out the bookstore in advance. Aiden and I will be going in with no idea of what to expect. 

We walk up to the bookstore together, and Aiden knocks.

No answer. Aiden glances at me, then tries the knob. The door swings open, and the papery smell of old books meets my nose. I actually like that smell. It reminds me of the archives. I’d find it comforting, in any other situation.

Aiden gives my fingers a squeeze, then steps forward into the shop.

“Oh, god,” I whisper, following him inside. “Oh, god, oh god, oh god-”

The door swings shut after us. It was pushed hard by the wind, but it closes with only a soft click. Now shut inside, Aiden and I blink around at the store, our eyes adjusting.

My first impression is that there’s a decidedly home-grown vibe to this place. Mismatched shelves line every wall, all of them overburdened with books. None of the shelves are labeled, so it’s hard to say if there’s an organizational system in place. Rafts of sunlight fall through the windows, dappling the faded rugs on the floor, the spines of all the books.

A glass counter lines one wall. A cash register that looks more like a typewriter sits on top of it.

There are a few potted plants scattered around the shop. They look like they’re well cared for, which actually makes me feel a bit better about the situation. Also making me feel better is the smell of fresh coffee, though I don’t know who made it. So far as I can see, the shop is empty.

My roving eyes land on an armchair in the corner. I gasp, realizing that there’s someone slumped down in it.

“Oh, my god!” I seize Aiden’s arm, my eyes wide. “Is he dead?”

The man in the armchair suddenly moves, dislodging the book that was open on his chest. He blinks drowsily, rubs his eyes beneath his glasses - then glances up, and sees us.

He freezes in his chair, and we both freeze by the door.

“Oh - oh! A customer?” He springs to his feet, polishes his glasses on his shirt, and sticks them back onto his face. “Two customers?”

He comes rushing across the shop towards us, and I get a better look at him. He’s got wild, untamed grey hair, worn in a loose braid down his back. Flyaways are escaping all over the place, sticking up at violent angles. 

He’s wearing a grey t-shirt that says THE HUSBAND DID IT in big block letters. Rings on every single finger, some double-stacked. His glasses are perfectly round and have very thick lenses, making his eyes seem huge. He’s a few inches shorter than me, and he has to tip his head all the way back to look up at Aiden.

“Well, hello, fellas!” he says excitedly, skidding to a stop before us. He seizes Aiden’s hand and shakes it with extreme enthusiasm, then does the same to mine. “Welcome, welcome, come in!”

He takes Aiden by the hand again, then takes my hand, too, and yanks us further into the shop. He's a very slight man, and he has to throw his entire bodyweight backwards to get us to take a step forward.

“Two customers!” he says again, lifting his glasses to gaze up at us. “Isn’t this just absolutely dynamite? Welcome to Body Bag Books, where there are grisly crimes every day!”

“Um,” I stammer, “What?”

“Oh.” The man frowns, nods like he hears the problem. “That doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“It - doesn’t sound amazing,” Aiden answers, and I elbow his arm.

“Sorry, we need a new slogan for the shop,” the guy explains. “Just thought I'd take that one out for a test drive. I'm working on improving my branding. Did you guys see my new sign? By the side of the road?”

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to catch Aiden’s eye. I manage not to, but it’s a battle.

"Yeah, it looks - great," Aiden says, and the man beams at us again.

“What can I help you boys find?” he asks. "I assume you're looking for a good true crime book, since you're in my shop?"

Aiden winces as he breaks the bad news. “I’m sorry, but we’re not here to buy anything.”

“Oh.” The guy’s shoulders slump, and he looks put out. “Another one looking for directions, then? It’s not too bad, getting back to the highway from here. I’ll draw you a map, I’ve got a pen somewhere-”

“We’re not here for that, either,” I quickly interrupt. “Are you Floyd Little, by any chance?”

The man had turned towards the counter, reaching for a pen. Now he turns back to face us, surprised.

“Yes, that's me. Do we know each other?”

“No,” Aiden says. “We’re fans of your blog, and we were hoping to talk to you about a case. We could really use your expertise. I’m Aiden, by the way, and this is Jamie.”

Floyd stares at Aiden in wide-eyed silence for a moment.

“Fans of my blog?” he asks. “A case? My expertise?”

“Um…” I exchange a hasty glance with Aiden. “Yes?”

Floyd stares at us like he can’t figure out if we’re joking. Then he breaks into a very wide grin.

“Absolutely dynamite!” he says again, striding around behind the counter. “What a day this is turning out to be!”

He beckons for us, so Aiden and I cross the shop towards him.

“I take back what I said,” Aiden whispers in my ear. “You were totally right about Floyd. Real shark, this guy.”

I try to covertly pinch Aiden, but he swerves out of the way in time.

“What was that?” Floyd cups a hand around his ear as we stop at the counter. “Did you ask me something, Aiden?”

I don’t want Aiden to tell Floyd that I assumed he'd be a murderer, so I answer before he can.

“No, he was talking to me. His voice is real deep, so it carries.”

Aiden arches an eyebrow at me, and I quickly pin on: “Not that it’s a bad thing, not at all! I love your voice! It’s beautiful! Don’t you think so, Floyd?”

“Oh my god, Jamie,” Aiden groans, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks. “Leave Floyd out of your-”

“No, he’s right,” Floyd says brightly, looking at Aiden. “It’s very nice!”

“Oh.” Aiden blinks in surprise, then laughs in a baffled sort of way. “Thanks?”

“You should voice my true crime podcast! I don’t have listeners yet, but soon enough, I’m sure!”

“Oh - that’s-” Aiden bites his lip, struggling for a nice way to refuse this invitation. He looks to me for help, but I have to turn away, suppressing a laugh. “Maybe we can come back to that idea, Floyd? We should probably talk about the case, right?”

“Yes, let’s!” Floyd glances back and forth between the two of us. “Why are you looking into a case? You’re not police, I can tell.”

“How can you be sure? Maybe we are.”

“True, Jamie,” Floyd agrees. “It's just that I’ve never heard one cop tell another cop I love your voice, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, we’re not cops,” Aiden says firmly. “But we’re trying to solve a cold case. A case that no one has paid any attention to since the 1960s. Except you.”

Floyd looks up at Aiden with open curiosity. His eyes are piercing and intelligent, if wildly magnified by his glasses. I get the sense that he’s actually read every book in his shop. I wouldn’t be surprised if Floyd turns out to be someone with an internal encyclopedia, just like Kasey.

I reach into my bag and extract the printout of the blog post that Floyd wrote on John Botswick. I slide it across the counter, and Floyd snatches it up eagerly.

There’s a silence when he realizes what it is.

“Oh," he breathes. "The Botswick case."