Page 32 of In Her Memory

Bickel stood, adjusting his tie. “Same as before. Mrs. Marsh’s death was tragic but ultimately accidental. She fell from a stepladder while trying to change a light bulb. Nothing sinister about it.”

Nolan remained seated, his eyes moving between them with wary attention. He wore work clothes—khaki pants, a faded blue button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms marked by years of manual labor. The perpetual tiredness in his brown eyes seemed more pronounced today.

“Mr. Greer,” Jenna said, “we’d like to speak with you. Alone, if possible.”

Bickel glanced between them, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. “Well, I should get back to Mrs. Marsh’s unit anyway. Still a few things to document.” He collected his notebook from the side table. “We can finish our conversation later, Nolan.”

They waited until Bickel’s footsteps faded down the corridor before Jenna took the seat he had vacated. Jake remained standing, positioning himself slightly to the side of Nolan’s chair.

“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” Nolan asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“That depends on your definition of ‘problem,’” Jenna replied. “We’ve been looking into some letters sent to the Trentville Weekly News. Letters from a ‘concerned citizen’ protesting the development of Calloway House.”

Something flickered behind Nolan’s eyes—a momentary tell that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“We spoke with Agnes Freelander this morning. Her staff traced those emails to a public library computer. Account name: Nolan Greer.”

“I don’t see what a few letters might have to do with Mrs. Marsh’s death,” he said, neither confirming nor denying.

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Jenna said, studying his face. “Residents have been complaining about maintenance issues lately. Flickering lights. Unexplained drafts. Doors that won’t stay shut. Were those your doing as well?”

His eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove anything like that.”

“We don’t need to prove it right now. We just need to understand why you would take a job as superintendent for a building project that you clearly don’t support.” Jenna watched him carefully, registering the subtle shifts in his expression. Years of interviewing suspects had taught her to read the small tells—the rapid blink, the tightening around the mouth, the way he had begun to tap against the arm of the chair.

But she spotted something else there too. Something beyond guilt or defensiveness. There was fear.

“Mr. Greer,” she said, softening her tone, “what are you holding back?”

He looked away, toward one of the tall windows where afternoon light streamed in. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try us,” Jake said.

Nolan took a deep breath. “I saw it. Two nights ago. The ghost others have been talking about for years.” His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper. “I didn’t believe it myself. Thought it was just stories, or maybe someone playing pranks. Until I saw him with my own eyes.”

Jake exchanged a skeptical glance with Jenna. “And what exactly does this ghost look like?”

“I can show you.” Nolan stood abruptly. “Follow me.”

He led them from the sitting room, through the grand foyer, and down a hallway. At the end of the hall, he unlocked a door marked “Storage” and flipped on the light switch.

The room was filled with carefully labeled boxes, antique furniture draped in protective coverings, and various artifacts from the mansion’s past. Nolan made his way through the organized chaos with ease, stopping before a large object leaning against the far wall. It was covered with a white sheet.

“When Boyd Calloway bought this place, he decided some of the original furnishings and artwork were too...” he paused, searching for the words, “well, reminiscent of its past owners. This was one of them.”

He pulled away the sheet to reveal a large gilt-framed portrait of a man in his thirties. The subject had a full head of dark hair parted in the middle, a thick mustache, and eyes that seemed to follow them around the room. Though the painting style was somewhat stiff and formal, the artist had captured a sense of ruthless intelligence in the man’s gaze.

“Pete Shannon,” Nolan said, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. “Builder of this mansion. Coal baron. Exploiter of men.”

Jenna studied the portrait, taking in Shannon‘s stern features, the set of his jaw that suggested unyielding determination. “And you believe you saw his ghost?”

“I know what I saw,” Nolan replied. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. “Same face. Same cold eyes. Standing at the top of the main staircase at midnight, looking down at me like I was nothing more than dirt to be stepped on.”

Jake crossed his arms. “Convenient that you suddenly see ghosts right when we start asking questions about sabotage.”

Nolan’s anger simmered visibly. “I didn’t kill anyone. But if I could...” he gestured toward the portrait, “if I could go back in time, I’d kill him.”

“Why?” Jenna asked quietly.