Page 80 of Evil Bones
“Au contraire,” Meloy said. “Did you know there’s a network of passageways under this city?”
“Really?”
“Yep. They’re old mining tunnels.”
“Can someone just, like, explore them?” Ruthie’s tone suggested a mix of horror and excitement.
“Theoretically, yeah. Why? You thinking of taking a peek?”
“No way.” With a head shake so vehement it bounced the braids sprouting from high on her scalp. “You know how psychologists say every person is afraid of something? My phobia is closed dark spaces. A subterranean tunnel would freak me out.”
“It’s a reasonable fear,” Meloy said. “Bad things happen to people underground. That’s why the city tries to keep the access locations hush-hush. But serious urban spelunkers know where they are.”
“Urban spelunkers?”
“Some prefer the term building hackers. Or urbex. They’re people who find and explore deserted sites.”
“Sounds illegal.” I was playing the naggy old granny again. “And dangerous.”
“Right on both counts,” Meloy agreed.
Ruthie continued her grilling as though I hadn’t interrupted. “What kind of sites?”
“Could be anything. An abandoned amusement park, hospital, school, insane asylum.”
“How do urbexers find these places?”
“Mostly online. Websites like Forbidden Places, for example.”
“Definitely not for me, but this is too totally rad.” Ruthie’s eyes were Frisbees. “Have you explored any sites here in Charlotte?”
“Several.”
“What was your fave?”
“An abandoned boys’ prison out in Cabarrus County.”
“No way.”
Meloy nodded. “The Stonewall Jackson Manual Training and Industrial School. The facility opened in 1909 and was in use until not that long ago. The place is one grim mother.”
As Ruthie started to ask another question, the waiter appeared with our check. Before I could dig out my wallet, Meloy produced a credit card and handed it to him.
“I’m happy to—” I said, trying to rush in.
“My treat, Dr. Brennan. It’s a privilege to dine with you and your niece.”
The three of us left the restaurant together. Wishing us a good evening, Meloy veered off toward the parking lot.
I offered Ruthie a ride home to Katy’s house. Again. She refused, again, saying she was a big girl and could find her own way.
I waited until Ruthie’s Uber arrived and she was safely inside. The driver made a U-turn, a right onto the street, then a left one block south.
Crossing to my Mazda, I noticed a vehicle leave the curb a few yards down from where we’d been standing. The silhouette behind the wheel wore a ball cap, so I couldn’t tell if the driver was male or female. The car’s head and taillights were off.
I followed Ball Cap’s progress, hoping he or she would realize the vehicle was dark. When the car passed under a streetlamp, I could make out its color and model.
A black Honda Accord.
