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“I’m trying to help in any way I can.”

“You’ve been inside the caves?”

Graham’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head. “What? Absolutely not. That sounds terrifying.”

“You saw the bats fly out at night?”

“I thought I might die.”

I laughed. “It can be quite the experience.”

“I’d say.”

I didn’t mention it, but the bats’ nightly exodus was one of the things that Wilmot loved so much. Briefly, the thought warmed my heart. But then it transformed into something else: the flash of something that might have been a memory or an old dream. I’d gone out to look for my father one day. I found him by the caves, and he had blood on his cheek. But as I thought back to that memory, I knew it wasn’t real. It was just a way for the image of blood that kept coming to me to show itself.

What was trying to come to me?

“Hazel?”

I blinked back to the moment. “Sorry. What was that?”

“It’s small but mighty enough.”

I tried to figure out what he was talking about.

“My lab.”

“Oh. Of course. Yes, I see why you travel with it.” I didn’t really, but if I could take a lab with me, I would take it everywhere, probably.

We watched the dust devil as it dissipated and came to a stop.

I said, “Thanks, Graham. Stop by my place any time and I’m happy to show you my lab. Bonus, it used to be the place my father did his work in case you’re interested.”

Graham smiled. “I heard, and I can’t wait to see it.”

I thought about taking a quick look inside the caves since I was there, but I didn’t have the appropriate lighting or jacket. It was dark and damp in there, sometimes downright cold. I hiked to the caves a couple times a year, not because I wanted to explore or see the bats, but because if my father left of his own accord, he might have gone there. I had never found any sign of him.

I’d found the bones of a bat once, splayed at the opening as if they were some sort of gift or invitation made just for me. The specimen had been pristine, stripped clean of tissue by the hot sun, all the bones intact.

The bat’s radar must have been off, and it smashed itself into the side of the cliff, falling to its demise and then decomposing quickly. I realized that the bones would have made a perfect contribution to rogue taxidermy or Jerry Smoot’s piles.

I’d found the skeleton beautiful. Wouldn’t others? And what a shame for others not to see it.

Sometimes I had to remind myself that the passion of my life might be unique. Not everyone liked bones.

Even if I thought they should.

CHAPTER

17

THE SUN WAS low on the horizon by the time I left Graham’s setup. On the way home, I listened to the first episode of Minnie’s podcast about Wilmot. He was my father, but he’d left my life a long time ago. Some stuff I knew, but some I didn’t. Mostly, I found Minnie’s reporting compelling. She was very good at her job.

The first episode was about Wilmot’s beginning. He had been born near Black Vulture. His parents had died before I’d been born. He’d talked about them a little, but he wasn’t big on reminiscing. I knew they’d lived in the mountains, off the land, in a cabin Wilmot’s father had built himself. I hadn’t known that my grandfather had been killed in a mining accident when Wilmot was five, sending him and his mother into town so she might get a job.

Before the diner had become a stronghold, other restaurants fed locals, and my grandmother had worked in one until she died when Wilmot was seventeen. Their neighbor had been a taxidermist, and Wilmot had needed to do something to help pay the bills, so he’d become a willing and, apparently, naturally talented apprentice.

Wilmot explaining his childhood to me had consisted of “It was rough. We were poor. We figured it out.” But I hadn’t researched my father.