Kindred Spirits by Julia Watts

the time to listen to old people.”
    “Not to old people like
him!” Adam spits as soon as we’re out the door. “I think he is the very worst
person I’ve ever met in my life.”
    “Hey, now,” I say,
nudging Adam. “He doesn’t have nothin’ against you people.”
    Adam doesn’t even crack a smile.
    “I know...he is pretty
terrible,” I say as we cross the street to the Pig.
    “So,” Adam says, “should
we go ahead and talk to the police, do you think?”
    “Why would we do that?”
    Adam looks at me like I’m
the dumbest person on earth. “To tell them that Bill Bradley killed the Jameson
sisters and blamed it on Charlie T.”
    I
stop walking and turn to face him. “But he didn’t do it.”
    “What do you mean he
didn’t do it?” Adam is yelling. This is the first time he’s ever acted mad at
me. “You heard him. You heard the way he talked about black people. Do you
think he wouldn’t have hated Charlie T enough to frame him for the murder?”
    “Sure, I think he
would’ve hated Charlie T enough.” I’m speaking softly, trying to calm Adam
down. “But what reason would he have had for killing a couple of’respectable
white ladies’ like Helen and Mildred Jameson? It doesn’t make any sense.”
    “Well,” Adam says, like
he’s stalling for time. “He probably had his reasons. We just need to find out
what those reasons were.”
    Adam starts walking
again, but I grab his arm and make him look at me. “Listen,” I say. “Bill
Bradley is probably pretty high on the list of biggest jerks of all time, but
just because he’s a jerk, that doesn’t make him a murderer. I have the Sight,
Adam. I can tell when people are lying, and when Mr. Bradley said he was on the
porch swing when the murders happened, he was telling the truth.”
    “But you said your sight
wasn’t as strong as your mom’s and granny’s. Maybe it’s not strong enough for
you to see that Bill Bradley is lying.”
    “You could be right,” I
say, even though I’m sure Mr. Bradley is telling the truth. “But don’t you
remember what Abigail said? She said when I met the killer I would know... I
would feel it.
    When I met Bill Bradley I
didn’t feel anything...except for the feeling that I didn’t like him much.”
    We’re walking again,
toward downtown. When we pass the dollar store, Adam says, “So if it’s not Bill
Bradley and it’s not Eugene Silcox, that just leaves us with two guys we don’t
know anything about’that Floyd guy, who could be anywhere if he’s even still
alive, and Harold Buchanan, whose phone has been disconnected.”
    “Maybe
we should try to find Harold Buchanan’s house and see if it looks like
anybody’s living there.”
    “Yeah,” Adam says, “but
not today. Mom’ll get suspicious if I’m home too late.”
    “Tomorrow, then,” I say.
We’re almost to Adam’s house. “You know, it’s funny. The name Harold Buchanan
sounds really familiar to me...like it’s a name I knew before we started
looking up all this stuff.”
    “It’s probably not that
weird that you’ve heard of him,” Adam says. “Your granny said he used to be a
big name in Wilder, and you’ve lived here all your life.”
    “That’s true.” We’re
standing in front of Adam’s big pink house, and I wonder if the ghosts of the
Jameson sisters are in there somewhere talking about how they wish the message
they’d left on the bathroom mirror could’ve been read by some people with
brains, unlike Adam and me.
    “What is weird, though,”
Adam says, “is that Harold Buchanan’s name sounds familiar to me, too, and I
hardly know anybody in this town. Maybe it just sounds familiar because it
reminds me of James Buchanan, the president I always forget when I try to name
all the presidents.”
    “Could be,” I say. “I’m
beginning to see why all these grownups have laughed at us for trying to figure
this thing out.”
    Adam shakes his head. “Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe you and I
need to find