Inconsistent psychic Leda Foley and Seattle detective Grady Merritt return to solve the case of a missing couple in this sequel to the “delightful” ( The New York Times Book Review ) mystery Grave Reservations . When psychic travel agent Leda Foley is approached by a man searching for his sister, she quickly agrees to help. The missing woman disappeared with a vintage orange car, a fat sack of her employer’s cash, and a grudge against her philandering husband—a man who never even reported her missing. Meanwhile, Seattle PD detective Grady Merritt has temporarily misplaced his dog. While he’s passing out bright pink “Lost” flyers at the Mount Rainier visitor’s center, the wayward pooch appears—with a human leg in his mouth. Thanks to DNA matching, Grady learns that the leg has something to do with Leda’s new client, and soon the two cases are tangled. Theories abound, but law enforcement is low on leads. Lucky for Grady, Leda has a few ideas that might just be crazy enough to work. They’ll need one yellow dog, a fair share of teamwork, and perhaps a bit of Klairvoyant Karaoke to piece the clues together in this “undeniable treat” (Gwenda Bond, New York Times bestselling author) of a mystery. Cherie Priest is the author of two dozen books and novellas, including the horror novel The Toll , acclaimed gothic Maplecroft , and the award-winning Clockwork Century series, beginning with Boneshaker . She has been nominated for the Hugo Award and the Nebula Award, and she won the Locus Award for best horror novel. Her books have been translated into nine languages in eleven countries. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and a menagerie of exceedingly photogenic pets. Chapter 1: Grady Merritt 1. GRADY MERRITT WEDNESDAY The man in the red plaid shirt fought to get away. He ducked, bobbed, and weaved, but Molly Merritt caught him regardless. She thrust herself under his nose and held up a flyer printed on bright pink paper, rattling it for emphasis. “Excuse me, sir ,” she said loudly, firmly, with an emphasis on the sir that suggested he had no one to blame but himself—and now he was trapped. Now he was going to answer some freaking questions . “Um? Hello?” “ Sir ,” she tried again, pink flyer still six inches from his face. “Have you seen this dog?” He squinted at the portrait of a smiling Lab mix. “Um. No?” “He’s yellow in real life. Our printer wasn’t working very well, so I had to do it in black-and-white.” She flipped the flyer around to look at it herself. “Black-and-pink. You know what I mean.” “Um? Still no?” Molly showed him the flyer again. “His name is Cairo. I named him after a Beanie Baby, but in my defense I was only, like, twelve years old when we found him in the Target parking lot. Obviously, I’d pick something else if we’d found him today. God, I hope we find him today.” “Um? Beanie Baby? Do people still collect those, or…?” “Focus!” she barked, as if she were a champion focuser herself. “The dog’s name is Cairo . Like the city in Egypt. We were out here hiking and he got spooked, and he took off down the trailhead over there.” She cocked her head in the direction of the trailhead at Mount Rainier’s Paradise area visitor center. “Somebody’s car backfired, I guess, and he’s scared to death of loud pops. Big noises. Fireworks, thunder. That kind of thing.” “We don’t get much thunder around here…?” “No, we don’t, so he’s usually okay. But he got scared, and he ran. We stayed out here until the park rangers made us leave, and we had to drive all the way back home to Seattle without him, and I have been losing my mind ever since, okay? One more time, take a real good look and tell me: Have you seen this dog? ” He hesitated like he expected another outburst. When none occurred, he cleared his throat. “I was just… I didn’t… I haven’t seen any loose dogs, I’m really sorry. Does he have a collar on? Is he wearing tags?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s wearing a collar and tags.” “Then maybe someone will call you when they find him.” “Well, they’ll call my dad.” She looked up, looked around, and spotted her father with his own fistful of pink flyers, talking to a short Black woman with a pug on a blue leash. His was the number on the tags. An awkward pause ensued. Finally, the guy said, “Hey, I’m sorry about your dog, and I hope you find him, but I’ve gotta go.” “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She pushed the flyer into his hand. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just want my dog back.” Her eyes were red as she walked away, and her hands were shaking. She’d hardly slept since Sunday, when the beloved dog had panicked and bolted. Grady Merritt gave the pug lady a more formal and polite goodbye than his daughter had offered the plaid-shirt man as he watched Molly seeking another person to accost and interrogate. “Molly!” he called her over. She trudged toward him. “Any luck?” her father asked. “No. One guy thought he heard a dog barking somewh