Buried Secrets. Evelyn Vaughn
loved her better.
The student—British, Zack guessed—blathered on about tombstone rubbings and epitaphs and how different cultures ensured peaceful rests for their loved ones. Egypt’s mummies. Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Burial versus cremation. Then he said, “Like that new one over there, where that poor family is.”
That new one?
“What about it?” Zack challenged, dangerous.
“That grave, Gabriella…” The student drew some battered note cards from his pocket. “Gabriella Francesca Bianca Lorenzo, buried just last Saturday. Isn’t it interesting, how people can take comfort in burying an empty casket?”
For a long moment, Zack could only stare, strangely dizzy—like part of him knew something the rest hadn’t figured out yet. The wind off Lake Michigan shook the trees and made a Mylar balloon on a nearby grave bob and struggle at its tether. Finally, he went with the obvious. “Her casket’s not empty.”
“Oh, I think it may be. My equipment…” But the young man’s face paled with comprehension. “Ah. You knew her. My apologies for intrud—”
Too easily, Zack had the student face-first against the Gallo mausoleum, skinny arms behind his back. Now he just had to decide how bad to hurt the little ghoul. “Who are you?”
“My apologies.” Marble muffled the kid’s voice. “Cecil Taylor. How do you do? I’m studying Urban Archeology, and—”
“What the hell are you doing, desecrating holy ground?”
“Pardon?” Even with his face smooshed, Taylor sounded insulted. “I’ve desecrated nothing—if anybody respects the dead, it is I! Now if you would be so good as to—”
“You said equipment.”
“Ah. Yes. That.” Taylor remained surprisingly composed. “I apologize. I was taking readings on a different grave, you see—Ugo Casale, 1914–1978. I used nothing invasive—a metal detector and a, well, a portable sonar of sorts. It’s rather like a fish-finder. I did not even stand on the grave. But as I turned away, I noticed readings from Ms. Lorenzo’s…plot…which indicated the absence of a corpse, so I made note of it. That’s all.”
“Well you’re wrong.” Belatedly, Zack released his hold on the guy’s skinny arms. “And don’t call my wife Ms. anything. Gabriella wasn’t one of those feminist types.”
She hadn’t even worked outside the home. Until a few months ago, she hadn’t even had friends who weren’t his friends, too. That’s how things worked in their neighborhood. Then she’d up and decided to attend community college. She’d begun to explore New Age crap that had made Zack’s Nona mutter under her breath.
He felt guilty for still hating those things even though she was dead.
“I am sorry for your loss,” said Taylor gently, as if Zack hadn’t just made a love connection between the student and marble. “And for intruding. But if you are indeed her husband, you should know that the casket buried in that plot is very likely empty.”
Like hell it was!
Or was it?
Once the Romanos left, Zack made the Englishman use his equipment to show him those so-called readings, both on Gabriella’s grave and others…and he half wished he hadn’t. It convinced him enough to risk the wrath of his friends and family by having Gabriella officially exhumed. Her father protested—but Zack was her husband. In this, at least, he had final say.
Nobody would stand with him for that except his elderly grandmother, the priest and Cecil Taylor, the latter as if seeing some unplanned duty to its proper conclusion. Zack set his jaw as the casket was opened, half afraid, half hopeful—for what, he still wasn’t sure. Maybe just to see her one more time.
But somehow he’d failed her again. Even before Nona began muttering under her breath, either prayers or incantations, Zack knew that much.
The silk-lined casket was empty.
And when they reburied it, all it held was the last of Zack Lorenzo’s peace of mind—and a blue beanbag bunny.
Chapter 1
West Texas—Four Years Later
Jo didn’t realize how deadened she’d become until she saw the man in her jail’s only cell—and breathed.
Not that she hadn’t been breathing all along. But this was the first breath she’d actually noticed in years. One quick, sharp inhalation, instead of just monotonous existing.
It unnerved her.
She distracted herself by getting a cup of coffee. Then she half leaned, half sat on her desk, eyeing the stranger and noticing what it felt like to breathe…and wondering why anything should seem different.
The prisoner, who’d sat up on his cot at her entrance, stared expectantly back. For a brief moment, Jo felt like she knew him. Or should. Or would. His broad chest expanded and contracted under his button-up shirt. He was breathing, too.
Then the moment passed, and she just felt silly. Everyone breathed; it was a handy habit. If the air suddenly felt sharper than usual in her lungs, that was probably just spring coming.
“Well, Mr….” She glanced down at the desk, hoping her deputy had left a note. He had. Fred loved filling out reports. Speeding…city boy…smarty-pants. “Mr. Lorenzo.”
She met his dark, intense eyes again, quirked her mouth into a noncommittal smile. “What brings you to Spur?”
Then she took a deliberately casual sip of coffee, which was a mistake because she choked on his answer.
Lorenzo said, “Zombies.”
Jo put her mug down so quickly that hot liquid sloshed over her fingers and onto Deputy Fred’s report. You misunderstood, screamed the logical part of her brain as she bent over, coughing. He’s using some Yankee slang. Or maybe he meant drinking; weren’t zombies a mixed drink? That would explain the speed at which he’d been driving, even if he had passed Fred’s Breathalyzer test.
This was West Texas. The man couldn’t mean walking-dead zombies, could he?
There was no such thing.
And he couldn’t know.
“It’s pretty early for the late show,” she hedged, catching both her breath and her composure. “You came here why?”
She noted wary concern fade from his expression at her recovery—and appreciated it. Lorenzo’s solid face fit his big, rangy form. His nose wasn’t completely straight; his whisker-dusky jaw looked stubborn; and his dark eyes were unnervingly calm for a guy who’d spent the night in jail for a simple speeding violation.
Much less one who talked horror stories.
This was the sort of man who either made a woman feel threatened, or wholly safe. No in-between. And Jo didn’t feel threatened by him.
Breathing and horror stories aside.
So why was she trembling?
“Forget it,” he muttered, scrubbing a splayed hand through shaggy, black-brown hair that licked his collar, a bit longer than her own. “Look, you got any more coffee? That yokel who left me here has been gone for over an hour.”
Jo ignored the slight to her deputy and concentrated on getting a second mug of coffee without her hands shaking. Nothing was different today than yesterday, last week, last month…last year? No, more. It had been years since she took refuge here, and nothing was out of the ordinary.
Certainly nothing that she’d only imagined. Nothing she’d been trying to forget ever since.
“We’ll get you some breakfast within the hour,” she promised, carrying the mug over to him.
She somehow breathed deeper,