he rest of the day passed as if he were watching it through someone else’s eyes. Hurt and angry, he barely remembered following Alvin along the highway back toward Raleigh. More than once, he glanced in his rearview mirror, staring back over the black asphalt, watching the cars that followed in the distance, hoping that one of them was Lexie. She’d been perfectly clear in her desire to end the relationship, but even so, he felt a surge of adrenaline whenever he saw a car that resembled hers, and he would slow down to get a better look. Alvin, meanwhile, would move farther into the distance. Jeremy knew he should be paying attention to the road beyond the windshield; instead, he spent most of his time looking back.

After dropping off his rental car, he paced the terminal and made his way to the gate. Walking past crowded shops, veering around people who were scurrying his way, he wondered again why Lexie seemed so willing to give up everything they’d shared.

On the plane, his thoughts were interrupted when Alvin took a seat next to him.

“Thanks for making it so we could sit together,” Alvin said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stored his bag in the overhead bin.

“Huh?” Jeremy said.

“The seats. I thought you were going to take care of them when you checked in. It’s a good thing I asked when I got my boarding pass. I was supposed to sit in the last row.”

“Sorry,” Jeremy said. “I guess I forgot.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Alvin said, dropping into the seat next to him. He glanced at Jeremy. “You want to talk about it yet?”

Jeremy hesitated. “I’m not sure there’s anything to talk about.”

“That’s what you said earlier. But I’ve heard it’s supposed to be good for you. Haven’t you been keeping up with the talk shows lately? Express your feelings, purge your guilt, seek and ye shall find?”

“Maybe later,” he mumbled.

“Suit yourself,” Alvin said. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll just take a nap.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Jeremy stared out the window as Alvin slept for most of the flight.

In the cab he took from La Guardia, Jeremy was bombarded with noise and the hectic pace of the city: businessmen rushing past carrying briefcases, mothers towing small children while attempting to manage shopping bags, the smell of car exhaust, horns honking, and police sirens blaring. It was perfectly normal, a world he’d grown up in and had taken for granted; what surprised him was that as he looked out the car window, trying to orient himself to the reality of his life, he thought of Greenleaf and the utter silence he’d experienced there.

Back at his apartment building, his mailbox was stuffed with advertisements and bills; he grabbed it all and trudged up the stairs. Inside the apartment, everything was the same as he’d left it. Magazines lay strewn around the living room, his office was as cluttered as always, and there were still three bottles of Heineken in the refrigerator. After stowing his suitcase in his room, he opened a bottle of beer and carried his computer and satchel to his desk.

He had all the information he’d accumulated in the past few days: his notes and copies of the articles, the digital camera containing the photographs he’d shot of the cemetery, the map, and the diary. As he began unpacking, a packet of postcards fell onto the desk, and it took him a moment to remember that he’d picked them up on his first day in town. The top postcard was a view of the town from the river. Removing the wrapper, he began to thumb through the rest of them. He found postcards depicting the town hall, a misty view of a blue heron standing in the shallows of Boone Creek, and sailboats congregating on a blustery afternoon. Halfway through the packet, he found himself pausing at a picture of the library.

He sat motionless, thinking of Lexie and realizing again that he loved her.

But that was over now, he reminded himself, and he continued shuffling through the postcards. He saw a strangely grainy photograph of Herbs and another of the town as viewed from Riker’s Hill. The final postcard was a picture of the downtown area of Boone Creek, and here he found himself pausing once more.

The postcard, a reproduction of an old black-and-white photo, captured the town circa 1950. In the foreground was the theater with well-dressed patrons waiting near the ticket window; in the background stood a decorated Christmas tree in the small green area just off the main street. On the sidewalks, couples could be seen peeking in windows decorated with garlands and lights, or strolling hand in hand. As Jeremy studied the picture, he found himself imagining how the holidays were celebrated in Boone Creek fifty years earlier. In place of boarded storefronts, he saw sidewalks crowded with women wearing scarves and men wearing hats and children pointing upward at an icicle hanging from a signpost.

As he looked, Jeremy found himself thinking about Mayor Gherkin. The postcard depicted not only Boone Creek’s way of life half a century before but also the way that Gherkin hoped the town could be again. It was a Norman Rockwell existence, albeit with a southern flair. He held the postcard for a long time, thinking about Lexie and wondering again what he was going to do about the story.

The meeting with the television producers was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. Nate met Jeremy at his favorite steak house, Smith and Wollensky’s, beforehand. Nate was his buoyant self, excited to see Jeremy and relieved to have him back in town under his watchful eye. As soon as he sat down, he began talking about the footage that Alvin had shot, describing the images as fantastic, like “that haunted house in Amityville, but real,” and assuring him that the television executives would love them. For the most part, Jeremy sat in silence listening to Nate jabber on, but when he saw a dark-haired woman leaving the restaurant, her hair exactly the same length as Lexie’s, he felt a lump in his throat and suddenly excused himself to go to the restroom.

When he got back, Nate was perusing the menu. Jeremy added sweetener to the iced tea he’d ordered. He, too, scanned the menu and mentioned that he was thinking of having the swordfish. Nate looked up.

“But this is a steak house,” he protested.

“I know. I’m in the mood for something lighter, though.”

Nate’s hand absently traveled to his midsection, as if wondering whether to do the same thing. In the end, he frowned as he set the menu aside. “I gotta go with the strip steak,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning. But where were we?”

“The meeting,” Jeremy reminded him, and Nate leaned forward.

“So it’s not ghosts, right?” Nate said. “You mentioned on the phone that you saw the lights but had a pretty good idea of what they were.”

“No,” Jeremy said. “It’s not ghosts.”

“What are they, then?”

Jeremy pulled out his notes and spent the next few minutes telling Nate what he’d learned, beginning with the legend and describing in detail his process of discovery. Even he could hear the monotone in his voice. As Nate listened, he nodded continually, but when he finished, Jeremy could see wrinkles of concern forming on Nate’s forehead.

“The paper mill?” he said. “I was hoping it was some sort of government tests or something like that. Like the military testing a new plane or something.” He paused. “And you’re sure it’s not a military train? News folks love to expose anything about the military. Secret weapons programs, things like that. Or maybe you heard something out there that you couldn’t explain.”

“Sorry,” Jeremy said, his voice flat, “it’s just light that ricochets off the train. There weren’t any noises.”

Watching Nate, Jeremy could see the wheels turning. Nate, Jeremy had come to realize, had better instincts than his editors when it came to stories.

“It’s not much,” he said. “Did you find out which version of the legend was true? Maybe there’s something you could do with the race angle.”

Jeremy shook his head. “I haven’t been able to confirm that Hettie Doubilet even existed. Aside from the legends, I couldn’t find any record of her in any official documents. And Watts Landing is long gone.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be picky here, but you’ve got to pump up your delivery if you want this to work. If you’re not enthusiastic, they’re not going to be excited, either. Am I right or am I right? Of course, I’m right. But come on, be honest with me. You found something else, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alvin,” Nate said. “When he dropped off the videos, I asked him about the story just to get his impression, and he mentioned that you found something else that was interesting.”

Jeremy’s expression didn’t falter. “He did?”

“His words, not mine,” Nate said, looking pleased with himself.

“He didn’t tell me what it was, though. He said that was up to you. Which must mean that it’s big.”

Staring at Nate, he could practically feel the diary burning a hole through the fabric of his satchel. On the table, Nate fiddled with his fork, turning it over and back again, waiting.

“Well,” Jeremy began, knowing his time to make his decision had finally run out.

When he didn’t continue, Nate leaned forward. “Yes?”

That evening, after the meeting was concluded, Jeremy sat alone in his apartment, absently watching the world outside. It had begun to snow, and the flakes were a swirling, hypnotic mass under the glow of the streetlamp.

The meeting had started out well; Nate had revved the producers up to such an extent that they were transfixed by the images they saw. Nate had done the best he could. Afterward, Jeremy told them about the legend, noting their growing interest as he spoke of Hettie Doubilet, and the painstaking way he’d approached the investigation. He interspersed the story of Boone Creek with other investigations into the mysterious, and more than once, he saw the executives glance at each other, clearly trying to figure out how to work him into the show.

But as he sat alone later that night, the diary in his lap, he knew he wouldn’t be working with them. His story—the mystery of Boone Creek’s cemetery—was akin to an exciting novel that petered out at the end. The solution was too simple, too pat, and he’d sensed their disappointment by the time he said good-bye. Nate had promised to keep in touch, as they did, but Jeremy knew there would be no further calls.

As for the diary, he’d kept that to himself, as he had with Nate earlier.

Later, he made a phone call to Mayor Gherkin. Jeremy’s proposal was simple: Boone Creek would no longer promise visitors on the Historic Homes Tour a chance to see ghosts in the cemetery.

The word “haunted” would be removed from the brochure, as would any claims that the lights had anything to do with the supernatural. Instead, the legend’s history would be given full play, and visitors could be informed that they just might witness something spectacular. While some tourists might see the lights and wonder aloud if they were the ghosts from the legend, the volunteers who conducted the tours were told never to suggest as much. Finally, Jeremy asked the mayor to remove the T-shirts and cups from his department store downtown.

In exchange, Jeremy pomised he would never mention anything about Cedar Creek Cemetery on television, in his column, or in an independent article. He wouldn’t expose the mayor’s plan to turn the town into a ghostly version of Roswell, New Mexico, nor would he tell anyone in the town that the mayor had known the truth all along.

Mayor Gherkin accepted the offer. After hanging up, Jeremy called Alvin, whom he swore to secrecy.