Trailing the detective was proving to be a far trickier endeavor than I’d anticipated. My only frame of reference came from a lifetime of crime dramas and Hollywood’s portrayal of private investigators, none of which prepared me for the real thing. Still, I refused to back down, gripping determination tighter than my nerves. I maintained a careful distance, making sure to keep to the edges of the path, my breath puffing in little clouds in the chilly air. The winding trail was uneven, dotted with loose gravel and damp leaves, and my footing faltered with almost every step. It was akin to navigating a sheet of ice.
The detective, on the other hand, moved with ease. His brisk pace sent up small scuffs of dirt with each step, his boots striking the ground. His broad shoulders were set, his stride steady, as though he belonged here—or at least knew where he was headed. How did he know the area so well? I clung to the rough bark of nearby trees for balance, using their towering forms for makeshift cover.
Every time I glanced up, I half-expected him to glance back, but he didn’t. He pressed forward, oblivious—or so I hoped. My heart thudded in a rhythm that felt deafening against the hushed silence of the road. With every crunch of a misplaced step, I winced, certain my clumsiness would give me away.
The strange man walked for several minutes, finally disappearing behind a bend in the road. Moments later, the roar of an engine sounded. I stuck close to the shadows falling from a large oak, watching his car speed out onto the road.
That was why I didn’t see his car earlier. He had it hidden from sight, another reason not to trust him.
Spinning on my heels, I ran back up the road and started up the truck, pulling it out of the driveway faster than I had ever before. I followed the direction of the detective until I spotted his car on the road, then slowed down. Staying a safe distance away, I drove after him, my hands white-knuckling the wheel. The entire scene was out of a mystery novel—absolutely bonkers.
When the detective finally veered off the main road, my mouth gaped.
“The cemetery?”
Why was he going in here?
I followed behind until he stopped the car and parked. Allowing the detective to walk farther ahead, I climbed out of the trunk and dashed after him. My boots made a mess of the snow-covered trails as I darted around tombstones to keep up yet stay out of sight. Even though we were the only people in the cemetery, I still felt that I was being watched the entire time. It was an unnerving gnawing at the back of my head that kept me glancing over my shoulder every few steps.
The detective did not appear to have the same reaction to the cemetery, and trod ahead with the assurance of someone who had spent many days in and out of the place. I racked my brain for any memory of him in all the times I’d paid the portal a visit, but nothing came to mind. He made a sharp right turn and my heart sank. The stranger was taking the long way to the portal site, I was sure of it.
If he wasn’t from Orchard Hollow and was only here following another case, how did he know about that part of the cemetery?
Nothing about this man added up, and the more I saw, the more I disliked him. When he reached the exact place I stood in yesterday, my entire body convulsed.
What are you doing here?
A part of me half-expected him to sprout wings and disappear into the portal. Instead, he walked right past and darted into the shadowy opening of one of the mausoleums. My eyes raked over the worn-out etching at the top. Starling. The family name didn’t ring a bell. Then again, none of them did. Why was this specific mausoleum important to him?
I gave the area a once-over before running in after him. As I entered, I noticed two things right away. One, the inside of the mausoleum smelled of dead rats and even deader people. Two, the detective was nowhere in sight.
Spinning in a circle, I checked every nook and crevice and came up empty. Where could he have gone? I was standing in the middle of a ten-by-ten box, not exactly a great place for hiding.
“What in a fairy’s nose?”
I checked again with the same pathetic results. Walking around the perimeter of the mausoleum, I clung close to the walls and searched for any hidden compartments I may have missed. I doubted the man vanished into thin air and I didn’t smell magic on him, so he couldn’t have used special abilities to whisk himself out of here. Detective Flynn had to be here somewhere. I just had to look more carefully.
It was then that I noticed it. The tiles on the floor farthest from the main entrance were shinier than the rest of the mildew-stricken flooring. I inched closer, pulling out my phone to shine a light on them. I was right. They appeared to have been freshly polished. No, that wasn’t correct. Not polished but worn in, as though someone had slid them across another surface.
My head jerked left and right, looking for a miracle. I pressed my hand to the wall and tested every brick in the way I had seen adventure seekers do on television. My palm caved into one brick and a definitive click cut through the silence of the mausoleum. In a flash, the floor shifted, tiles sliding under each other to reveal an opening.
“No fairy way,” I whispered. “Theo is going to be so jealous.”
Craning my neck to see clearer, I rolled my gaze down the winding stone stairs that led into the dark abyss below. My teeth were chattering even though it wasn’t cold here. Steeling my spine, I blinked twice and took one small step toward the opening. “Here goes nothing.”
2025 Copyright © A.N. Sage with permission from Oliver-Heber Books.
Mistbrook Manor #1
An introverted fairy, a secret society of undertakers, and a talking cat—what a deadly combination!
In the Mistbrook Manor Funeral Home, Lyra Moore prefers the company of the dead to the living. As a fairy in hiding and the town’s funeral director, she’s perfected the art of staying out of the spotlight—until an unclaimed body appears on her doorstep under mysterious circumstances. No one knows who the victim is or how he died, but Lyra is determined to leave the case to the authorities. She does not need any more strangers knocking on her door, at least not breathing ones.
Unfortunately, life outside Fairy has other plans. When Lyra returns home to find an odd man lurking in her living room, he claims to be a detective, yet Lyra can see right through his lies. Even without her fairy magic!
Reluctant to leave well enough alone, Lyra stumbles on a secret society of undertakers with a unique calling: solving crimes.
With her own magic to conceal, and a bratty talking cat—who happens to be a changeling stuck in feline form thanks to an administrative slip-up and a foolish feud—Lyra finds herself entangled in the mystery with no way out.
But can she crack the case while keeping her magical secret? Or will the truth refuse to stay buried?
Mystery Amateur Sleuth [Oliver-Heber Books, On Sale: January 28, 2025, e-Book , / ]
A.N. Sage is a bestselling, award-winning author of mystery and fantasy novels. She has spent most of her life waiting to meet a witch, vampire, or at least get haunted by a ghost. In between failed seances and many questionable outfit choices, she has developed a keen eye for the extra-ordinary.
A.N. spends her free time reading and binge-watching television shows in her pajamas. Currently, she resides in Toronto, Canada with her husband who is not a creature of the night and their daughter who just might be.
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