knew about Henry’s past. The wife who died when she was nine months pregnant. The car accident that had given him his first round of scars. The torture he had been subjected to at the hands of the Grim Reaper. More than anyone else, Kat Campbell understood his pain.
“Yes, I’m happy,” Henry answered.
He was lying but not by much. He wasn’t unhappy. He was content to live in quiet solitude—that hadn’t changed since his Perry Hollow days—and deep down he understood that’s how it was meant to be. Both times he had grown to love someone, they had been taken away from him in very different ways. He now knew it was foolish to fall in love a third time, so he didn’t even try.
But the funny thing about living in Rome was that he was never truly alone. The ancient city was always bustling, filled with tourists and locals alike, all pressing up against each other in the squares, on the buses, in the restaurants still thick with cigarette smoke. Henry enjoyed that feeling of being by himself yet simultaneously being a part of something bigger.
“Now another question,” Kat said. “The big one. Why on earth are you back in Perry Hollow?”
“I’m on assignment.”
“But you said you never leave.”
“I don’t,” Henry said. “But something came up. A story. So my editor sent me here.”
“What kind of story?”
“You ever hear of a man named Giuseppe Fanelli?”
Kat shook her head.
“He’s an Italian businessman. Very rich. Worth billions. And very famous. He lives for publicity, good or bad. He’s like the Donald Trump of Italy. With better hair, of course. A few days ago, we got word that he was tied up in something in the United States.”
Kat gasped. “The mafia?”
“No,” Henry said dryly. “But great job stereotyping an entire nation.”
“If I ever get to Italy, I’ll be sure to apologize.”
“Fanelli’s reputation is clean. He’s a real estate developer. Over the summer, he formed a U.S. subsidiary of his European company. Fanelli Entertainment USA. It was registered in Philadelphia and created, we presume, for the express purpose of buying land and developing projects in America.”
Kat straightened in her seat, suddenly—and seriously—interested. “What kind of projects are we talking about?”
“Megamalls. Skyscrapers. Soccer stadiums. Fanelli never buys any land unless he intends to build something huge there.”
“So I’m assuming he bought some land close to here.”
“He did,” Henry said. “Closer than you think. As of two weeks ago, Giuseppe Fanelli is now the owner of one hundred acres of land in Perry Hollow, Pennsylvania.”
Kat, who had been taking a sip of coffee as he spoke, swallowed hard at the news. “Where?”
“A site you and I know all too well.”
He didn’t need to give her another hint. Kat knew the town better than anyone. “The Perry Mill,” she said.
Henry nodded solemnly. “It’s the first piece of land he’s purchased in the United States.”
“What does he plan on building there?”
“We don’t know,” Henry said. “But I was sent here to find out.”
Kat stayed quiet, staring once again into her now-empty coffee cup. It was a lot of information for her to take in. But Henry knew her sudden quiet had more to do with concern than comprehension. She was worried about what Giuseppe Fanelli intended to do in her town.
“It might be nothing,” he said.
“But it’s something,” Kat replied. “You said yourself he only builds things that are huge. Now that he owns that land, God knows what he plans to put there.”
“Just because he owns the land doesn’t mean he can build whatever he wants.”
Henry had worked for the town’s newspaper once. Although his job had been writing obituaries, he was well versed in the workings of planning boards, zoning approvals, and building permits. Town officials had the ability to shoot down anything Fanelli proposed, a right Henry hoped they executed. Even if it was good for business, he wasn’t sure Perry Hollow could handle the type of gargantuan projects Fanelli specialized in.
“How is Perry Hollow?” he asked. “Has it recovered since last year?”
Kat reached for the pot of coffee and poured herself another cup. “It’s starting to. Business is picking up. Most residents are doing fine.”
“And you and James?”
“We’re getting there,” Kat said with a sigh. “It’s been a tough road.”
Her son, one of the most charming boys Henry had ever met, had come face-to-face with the Grim Reaper, seeing things no child his age ever should. According to Kat, he was now seeing a therapist.
“I should probably see one myself,” she said, “but I’m stubborn that way. It didn’t help that there was more excitement a few months ago.”
“Eric Olmstead and his brother,” Henry said.
Kat seemed surprised, although not unpleasantly so. If anything, Henry sensed she was impressed that her tiny town had once again made international news. Although not as big as the Grim Reaper murders, the story of Eric Olmstead’s quest to find the brother who had vanished decades before was enough to get the attention of his newspaper, if only for a day or so. Eric’s mystery novels, after all, were just as popular in Italy as they were in the United States. And the case was so sensational that no editor could resist.
“I barely survived that one, too,” Kat said.
“Maybe you have nine lives, like your name implies.”
“I hope so. Because I have a feeling today is going to kill me.”
They had yet to talk about the reason Kat was in the town’s history museum at such an odd hour. Henry knew it wasn’t just a fire keeping her up. Something else was going on. Something bad.
“Who was killed?”
Kat didn’t even bother asking him how he knew. He was a reporter. Part of his job was to be observant. Certainly, she was aware that a mobile CSI lab parked in front of the museum would tip off even the worst journalist.
“Constance Bishop,” Kat said. “President of the historical society. You ever come into contact with her during your time here?”
Henry hadn’t. He hadn’t been the most outgoing person when he lived in Perry Hollow. He hadn’t come out of his shell until a serial killer started playing mind games with him.
“I know you’ll catch whoever did it,” he said.
“Once again, we have help. Don’t be surprised if you see state troopers filling the streets while working on your article.”
“Is Nick Donnelly one of them?”
Kat gave a terse shake of her head. It’s what Henry had feared—Nick was no longer a cop. He had thought the state police would give him the benefit of the doubt. But some violations were too big to look past. Nick’s, apparently, had been one of them.
“I hate to do this,” Kat said, checking her watch and taking one last gulp of coffee, “but I need to run. I have to head out to the morgue.”
“That,” Henry said, “doesn’t sound like fun.”
“It won’t be.”
This time it was Kat who grasped his hands, squeezing them tight as she made him promise not to leave Perry Hollow again without saying good-bye.