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what a broadband was, but she assumed it had something to do with websites. The site that Shells displayed on her smartphone looked as if a team of professionals had designed it, and Sam had to admit that she was impressed. Smoke over a black background set the tone, and glossy buttons drew the eye.
      "How did you do that?"
    "I don't know. I just know how to do stuff."
    "Well, you should be doing that instead of flinging falafel," Sam said.
     
    * * *
     
    Watching Alton setting up the rented gear, expensive rented gear, Sam worried. She'd spent the last of her money on it, and if they did not find some evidence or have some compelling footage to sell, then she would be sunk. She'd end up pumping gas, if she could even get the work doing that. Most of the employers she had approached shunned her. Her ordeal had simply been too public. Sam felt trapped and could find no way out. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and tried to have faith that everything would turn out all right. When Shells tripped over the cables Alton had not yet secured, Sam's heart leapt into her throat, but their luck held; no one was hurt and no equipment damaged.
    "I still can't believe that your big investigation is in a bar," Alton said, his long, straight hair hanging down past his shoulders, making him look like a relic from the '70s, his overlarge and stubbly Adam's apple sticking out and making him look like he swallowed a golf ball. "It seems so appropriate. I mean, how many of the bars around here have you haunted."
    "Too many," Shells answered for her.
    Sam gave them both the finger.
    Darkness was settling over downtown Woodstown, New Jersey, and The Corner Bar watched the sun sink below the peaks of the Delaware Memorial Bridge on the horizon.
    "OK," Alton said. "We've got two IR illuminators covering the bar, one night vision camera covering the packaged goods section, and digital audio recorders on the bar and with the static camera. This place isn't all that big, so I think we should be all set. Oh, and I put some mugs on the bar. I think they should be full of beer, but Shells disagrees."
    Sam couldn't fault his competence, but she had to agree with Shells on that one.
    "So what are the claims?" Shells asked.
    "The bartenders claim that mugs move on their own, sometimes leaping out of the overhead glass rack there," Sam replied. "They also say they see a dark shadow by the back door."
    "That it?" Shells asked.
    "Some of the patrons claim to have been touched in the bathrooms, but I'm not certain I'd put any stock in that."
    "Maybe I should grab a six pack and head for the men's room," Alton said, the portable camera resting on his shoulder.
    "No drinking during an investigation," Shells said, exasperated, and Alton rolled his eyes; Sam pretended not to hear. "And you're supposed to run the handheld."
    "So you want me to start all this stuff recording?" Alton asked.
    "We're not recording?" Shells asked. "C'mon, dude! Did you think that stuff about the claims was just for our benefit? We're shooting a show here man!"
    "Oh. Right. Sorry. I thought you were gonna tell me or something-" Alton stopped when they all heard a subtle but quiet sound.
    "Did you hear that? One of those mugs moved!"
    "Which one?" Shells asked.
    "I don't know," Sam said, realizing that she should have marked the mugs' locations in some way. Not having done so, she had no way to prove any of them had moved. "We need to mark where these mugs are, and I want a picture of the bar as it is currently arranged. Take it from a place where you can easily recreate your angle." For the first time in a long time, Sam felt as if she were in control. She was a trained investigator, and if only she would put her mind and attention to it, she would find answers. She reminded herself that nothing mattered more than answers backed up by physical evidence. Nothing else would do, nothing else would stitch her life back together. In that moment, she wished Greg were there. His