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I stared at the museum. At its barred windows. At the brick that somehow looked…hungry. My skin prickled, like someone had run an icy fingertip down the back of my neck.

There was no movement inside, no shadow, no real reason for the feeling at all—just my brain being dramatic. Or concussed. Or both.

Still, the unease clung to me.

I forced myself to look away, back to Hattie’s beaming face. “So…what exactly draws so many serial killers here? Do you have a recruitment tent at the high school career fair? ‘CPA, firefighter, mass murderer—pick your path!’”

“Oh, no,” Hattie said solemnly. “Everyone says it’s the water. Too much iron in it,” she explained, nodding wisely. “Makes folks restless. Or maybe it’s the mountains—they press in like they’re keeping secrets. My cousin thinks it’s the moon cycles, but she’s also into essential oils and men with neck tattoos, so her judgment is questionable.”

“Right. Of course.”

“But personally?” Hattie inched closer, lowering her voice.

I found myself leaning in as well, ready for enlightenment or scandal or both.

“I think it’s Dot’s pie.”

I coughed. “Dot’s…pie?”

“Yep,” she said. “Evil can’t resist a good lattice crust.”

I stared at her for a long moment. “I’m sorry, are you implying that serial killers migrate here for dessert?”

“Every creature has its weakness,” she said gravely, then brightened again. “Anyway! Museum tour now, or food?”

“Food,” I said. “I’m running on caffeine fumes.”

“It’s just over here.” Hattie cheerfully led me away from the creepy museum.

We turned the corner, and there it was, The Hollow. The crooked neon sign glowed faintly, even in daylight, the same one I half remembered through rain and headlights when I’d stumbled out of my crumpled car.

The sign buzzed against the midday sun like it was determined to prove it mattered, advertising itself as the only place in town worth knowing. Even at lunch, the place was full. Trucks lined the curb. The porch sagged under the weight of boots and laughter. When the door swung open, sounds spilled out: voices, clinking glasses, and the faint, off-key wail of a piano.

Hattie steered me toward the porch. That prickling at the back of my neck still hadn’t left, like eyes were crawling over me from somewhere I couldn’t see.

I turned and there was my nemesis.

Big Hank.

Back on his feet again, planted a few feet away like nothing had happened. Except…not nothing. His side was cracked, spiderwebbing down his flank, and one horn was gone completely.

A ladder leaned against his side, and a man in coveralls was balanced on the rungs, a wrench clanking against the metal.

“Couple of the boys hauled him upright first thing this morning,” Hattie said breezily. “Blackwood doesn’t like to linger on tragedy. Looks good as new, right?”

“Sure,” I muttered, staring at the one-horned cow—sorry, steer. “If new comes with a cracked rib cage and a missing body part.”

“Better busted than boring,” she said, tugging me toward the door.

I almost laughed. Hell, that might as well be my new mantra. Broken marriage, broken car, broken dignity.

But at least I wasn’t boring.

“You’ve known me for five minutes and already given me my new life motto,” I mused.

She winked. “You’re fitting in here great.”

Exactly what I wanted. To fit in at Serial Killer Disneyland.