Graveminder. Melissa Marr
week, he’d thought she was happy.
What happened?
He’d hardly thought about anything else since she’d told him she was done with him. She hadn’t been angry, just sad. He didn’t tell Rebekkah any of that, not yet. In the span of a few days, he’d gone from having a girlfriend and a good friend, to being afraid he’d lose both of them because he and Rebekkah had kissed, to holding Rebekkah as they both tried to make sense of Ella’s death.
Was it our fault?
“Don’t leave me. Promise.” Rebekkah pushed away from him, but kept her hand fisted in his shirt as she stared at him. “She left us, and now … She could’ve told us what was wrong. She could’ve told me anything. Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I don’t know, Bek.”
“Promise me, Byron.” Rebekkah wiped her cheeks angrily. “Promise you won’t keep secrets or leave or—”
“I promise.” He felt a guilty twinge at how right it felt to make that promise to Rebekkah. Her sister, his girlfriend, was dead. Byron shouldn’t think of Rebekkah as anything but a friend—except that he had been thinking of her like that long before Ella had died.
And Ella had known.
“I promise,” he repeated. “No secrets, no leaving you. Ever.”
It was Rebekkah who had left, not quite a year later. She’d left Claysville and left him.
“How do I tell her you were killed, Maylene?” he asked the empty room.
He opened the doors to the other rooms. The third bedroom, Ella’s old room, wasn’t made up. The bed sat in an anonymous room that was overfilled with clutter. Maylene hadn’t built a shrine to her dead granddaughter—nor had she done so with her dead son. The room that had been Jimmy’s was a storage room now. In it, there were more boxes and plenty of clutter, but no bed at all. Both Ella’s room and Jimmy’s room looked untouched by the murderer and by the townsfolk who’d cleaned the house.
Byron went downstairs and grabbed the bottle of water. He let himself out, checked that the door was locked behind him—and then stopped.
A teenage girl sat astride his bike, kicking her foot back and forth.
“Hey!”
She cocked her head. “Yeah?”
“Off my bike.” He leaped off the porch and crossed the lawn, but when he reached her, he hesitated. Grabbing hold of a girl—regardless of the reason—wasn’t something to do lightly.
She hopped up so her feet were tucked under her and then sprang backward, putting the bike between them. For a moment she stared at him. Her forehead furrowed in apparent confusion. “She’s dead. The woman that lives here.”
“Do you know her?” Byron tried to place the girl, but he’d been back in Claysville only a few months, and he didn’t recall seeing her anywhere. She didn’t look like anyone he knew either, so he couldn’t peg her as someone’s daughter or sister.
“They stopped bringing her milk.” The girl’s expression turned wistful as she stared past him to the porch. “Yesterday there was milk, and today there’s not. I’m hungry.”
“I see.” Byron took in her frayed jeans and dirty face. There weren’t any homeless shelters in Claysville. He wasn’t sure if there was even a foster-care system. Relatives took in those that needed taking in, and neighbors handed over whatever extra they had to the folks who lacked.
He opened his jacket and pulled out his phone. “Do you have a home? Relatives here in town? I can call someone to come for you.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere. Not now,” she whispered.
The skin at the back of Byron’s neck prickled, but when he lifted his gaze from his phone to look at her, she was already gone.
6
CHRISTOPHER HAD DRIVEN FROM MAYLENE’S HOUSE DIRECTLY TO RABBI Wolffe’s. The young rabbi was on the duty roster this week.
From what Christopher had read in books and seen on the television, he knew that Claysville was peculiar in the way they ran things. Their mayor was joined in his governance by a joint secular and spiritual town council; any resigning council members picked their own replacements—as did the mayor. Between the town proper and the outskirts there were fewer than four thousand living citizens, but under the leadership of Mayor Whittaker and the council, Claysville had next to no serious crime. Hardly anyone moved away, and those few who did always came back. It was a safe, predictable town, and to assure that it stayed that way, the town leaders had policies in place for anomalies. The sheriff had only to follow protocol.
“I hate this part.” Christopher cut off his engine, but he stayed in the car for an extra minute. The rabbi was relatively new to town, so he tended to forget that there were topics that most of the town couldn’t discuss. He, and the rest of the council, never got the headaches that everyone not on the councils got when forbidden subjects were broached.
The door to the well-kept Craftsman house opened, and the rabbi stepped out onto the wide front porch. He’d obviously been working: a pencil was tucked behind his ear, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back. For the rabbi, book work was as distracting as the carpentry projects he had started up in town: both sorts of activities required folding up his sleeves.
Christopher got out of the car and closed the door.
“Everything in order, Sheriff?” Rabbi Wolffe called. The question wasn’t said in any alarming way, but they both knew Christopher wouldn’t be stopping by if things were in order.
“I thought we might talk a minute, if you have the time.” Christopher made his way up the flagstone walk.
“Always.” The rabbi stepped aside and motioned Christopher into the house.
“I’d just as soon stay outside, Rabbi.” Christopher smiled. He liked the young rabbi, and he was glad the man had chosen to come to Claysville, but longer talks with him always made the headaches come.
“What can I do for you?”
“There are a few odd details about Mrs. Barrow’s passing.” Christopher kept his voice bland. “Not that I think the whole town needs to know, but I thought you might mention it to the council. Maybe one of you all could pay a visit to William.”
“Is there something in particular that we should tell him?”
Christopher lifted his shoulder in a small shrug. “Suspect he knows. He’s seen her body.”
Rabbi Wolffe nodded. “I’ll call the council to a meeting tonight, then. Do you know—”
“No. I don’t know a thing,” Christopher interrupted. “I don’t want to either.”
“Right.” The rabbi’s features were unreadable. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
Christopher shrugged again. “Just doing my job, Rabbi.”
Then he turned and got back in his car as quickly as he could. He didn’t run from fights or anything like that, but he didn’t want to know what he didn’t need to know. Anyone who paid attention understood that there were plenty of times that avoiding questions was the best way for things to work out.
7
AFTER TAKING CARE OF ERRANDS AND GOING FOR A LONG RIDE TO CLEAR his head, Byron settled in at Gallagher’s, his regular evening hideaway. Gallagher’s was the best sort of tavern: wooden floor and wooden bar, pool tables and dartboards, cold beer and good liquor. Here, he could believe he was in one of any number of neighborhood bars in any town or city, and usually he could relax—both during open hours and after the bar was closed.
Not tonight.
He did all right at first, but as the night