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that morning, when police scanner chatter began buzzing about a possible vehicle found buried in the mud, J.J. asked a reporter to pull a slew of old news clips from the Bugle microfiche archives. Carleton Johnston was described as an out-of-town visitor who claimed he’d seen a white man jump from the passenger side of a car just before it drove off the pier into Paw Paw Lake—with someone slumped at the wheel—then watched the man scurry off into the woods. Johnston said he couldn’t swim so he ran to get help. Less than a month later, it was reported that Mr. Johnston passed away of natural causes at his home in Charlotte, and no one was ever charged in connection with Barbara Jean’s disappearance.
    According to the clips, the Cataloochee County Sheriff’s Department and North Carolina state troopers dragged the lake four times in the months after her disappearance, but came up with nothing. Johnston’s story was never substantiated, and as the years went by, many people assumed he was responsible for her disappearance. In 1975, Barbara Jean’s family had her legally declared dead.
    “Did you know that Carleton Johnston was my mother’s uncle, visiting from Charlotte? And did you know that the poor guy had some kind of learning disability? Back then, they just called him slow.”
    J.J. raised an eyebrow in surprise. “No. I did not.”
    “See—you don’t know everything.”
    J.J. yanked a reporter’s notebook from his back jeans pocket. “Why haven’t you ever told me this?”
    “Never came up.” Turner scanned the scene, watching the progress of the dozens of recovery and emergency personnel working to extricate the car. “Now listen, Jay. I’m not saying shit on the record. But as your friend, I’m asking you to wait before you go blabbing some half-assed truth all over creation.”
    “But—”
    Turner cut him off. “If we find human remains—and that’s a big if—nobody’s going to be able to positively ID anyone or anything for a very long time.”
    J.J. nodded.
    “Whatever we find will only be one piece of a bigger puzzle. When this cold case thaws out, I’m afraid the whole thing is going to stink to high heaven.”
    J.J. let out a long and low whistle and began to write. “You’re confirming that Carleton Johnston didn’t die of natural causes. You’re saying somebody killed him to keep him from talking.”
    “I’m not sayin’ anything.” Turner bit on the inside of his lip. “All I know are the ghost stories we heard when we were kids—that and the suspicions of my mother’s family.” Turner glanced over his shoulder at the crane. “But as of right now, for your news story, we don’t even know whose car this is.”
    J.J. smiled. “Ah, well, I can help you with that. See that frail old lady over by the fire truck?”
    Turner peered through the sun. “Yeah. Who’s she?”
    “That’s Barbara Jean’s sister, Carlotta Smoot McCoy, from Maggie Valley. She stopped by to watch the recovery.”
    Turner’s mouth fell open. “Did you call her, DeCourcy?”
    He shrugged. “I had one of my reporters go over to her place for a quote, and she insisted on coming down.”
    “Shee-it,” Turner said, wiping his mouth nervously. “I really don’t want this turning into any more of a damn circus than it already is.”
    At that moment, real estate developer Wim Wimbley strolled past, coming within earshot. Turner stopped talking, and his back straightened noticeably. He tipped his hat. “Wim,” he said.
    “Sheriff.” Wim acknowledged Turner coolly, giving just the barest nod of his head. Then he caught J.J.’s eyes. “DeCourcy.”
    Wimbley walked on by, nose high, hands in his chino pockets, a professionally made crease down the arm of his pale pink, button-down Ralph Lauren dress shirt.
    “Little shit,” J.J. mumbled.
    “Yeah, well, he’s the filthy rich little shit who owns the property we’re standing on. And if this development takes off it will make him even