Page 2 of What Happens at Nightfall

“Show-off,” said Kimmy. “Père. I think. But you’re missing the point. Think of all the ambition, all the stories, all the talent.”

“This sounds like the prologue of one of your books.” In between raising her four precocious children, Kimmy wrote popular nonfiction. Very popular nonfiction. Her paperbacks had become a staple of airport bookstores. “Is it the prologue of the new book?”

Kimmy ignored her. “And what about the artists? There’s Tiffany—you know, that Tiffany, the glass one. Basquiat is buried here.”

“My mother is the one who likes the moderns. I’m more of a Gustave Moreau girl.” Another reason, among many, that Jess had applied to business school instead of art school. Symbolist paintings had gone out with horse-drawn cabs. “I don’t suppose he’s buried here.”

“I don’t know where he’s buried. Probably Paris.” Kimmy gave Jess a quick, one-armed squeeze, engulfing her in ruffles. “Stop sulking. It’s a beautiful night, I’ve got a babysitter, and we’re in a massive park in the center of the city. Did you know that Green-Wood was one of the city’s major tourist attractions in the nineteenth century?”

“That was because they didn’t have TV.” The rest of the group shuffled forward, Kimmy and Jess in the back.

“The TV can wait. This is an experience. You’ve had nine months to get through your Netflix queue. It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for you at home.” Kimmy stopped short, an expression of sheer horror on her face. “I didn’t mean—”

“Uh-huh,” said Jess. “You said the quiet part out loud.”

This was why she hadn’t wanted to come out with Kimmy tonight. Not because it was a graveyard—she’d never been superstitious—but because when she was with Kimmy, she couldn’t hide from the fact that she was thirty-seven, her career had imploded, and the only thing waiting for her at home was a dead plant. And possibly a mouse, but she and the mouse weren’t on calling terms yet. Jess had left peanut butter, but the mouse was playing hard to get.

“Jess . . .”

Jess tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “It’s not like you’re wrong.”

“I want to be wrong.”

“I know.” Jess’s throat was a little scratchy. Clearly from all the random flowering stuff around them. Pollen. Or something. Never mind that she’d never had even the slightest trace of hay fever. “Did we just miss something? Your guide is glaring at us.”

“Everyone!” By everyone, the guide meant Jess and Kimmy. She jabbed her parasol at them, jet jangling. “No lagging behind! It is imperative that the group stay together!”

One of the twentysomethings giggled. “Why? So the ghosts won’t get us?”

Glass smashed in the distance. A cold wind swirled past them, yanking at the veil on the guide’s hat and making Kimmy’s flounces dance.

The twentysomething’s mouth dropped. “Was that—”

That was when the screaming started. Not a movie starlet scream, but uninhibited howls of pure terror.

Out of the darkness barreled three boys, tripping and bumping into one another, shouting their heads off in a pitch that ululated between bass and soprano. One kid grabbed the other, yanking him in the direction of the main gate; the third charged straight ahead, tripped over Mustache Man’s foot, and careened into Jess, knocking her giant satchel off her shoulder. He bolted into the shrubbery while Jess staggered and her belongings ping-ponged over a six-foot radius.

“Oh dear,” said Kimmy.

Jess’s bag gaped open on the road, having spewed its contents halfway to Queens.

Mustache Man ostentatiously flexed his foot. “Was that part of the show?”

“No,” said the guide curtly. She rose on her tiptoes, her head swiveling this way and that. With her high net collar and tiny hat, the effect was eerie, like a puppet being pulled by strings. “Just . . . kids. Time to move. No dawdling. The gates close at seven.”

The breathless quality was gone. There was something hard and strange about her voice as she steamed forward, her bemused tour group trailing in her wake.

“I’ll just collect my stuff,” Jess called after her.

The tour guide didn’t pause. Her voice was raised in rapid-fire patter. “Here-lies-the-last-resting-place-of—”

Kimmy hovered awkwardly. “Do you need help?”

“No. You go ahead.” Jess bent down, snagging one of the flip-flops that lived in her bag. She never actually wore them. She just liked to know they were there. She could see the other a yard away, the gold-dyed leather glimmering faintly in the gloaming. “I’ll catch up.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone . . . by night . . . in a graveyard.” Kimmy’s Transylvanian accent skewed somewhere between Italian and the Swedish Chef.

“Ha,” said Jess. The skin on her bare arms was prickling. The temperature had dropped. Well, it was September. It did that. Days started out warm and turned cold. She shook gravel off her fallen sweater. “Go. Don’t miss your what’s-her-name.”