I was intentionally late to Respite Meadows cemetery. Sweat trickled over my neck and I peeled off my hoodie, tying it loosely around my waist. Kylie Rutherford’s funeral had ended hours ago, but the air was still heavy with grief. I weaved carefully between the angel-topped stones and mausoleums, inscriptions obscured by colorful arrangements. Loving mother. Adored father. Beloved brothers and sons.
The rows narrowed until the perfectly level landscape felt less like Astroturf and more like the crabgrass that thrived in Sunny View. It was neatly trimmed, but bare in spots and smelled of onion weed. I slowed and raised my head in a grove of less ostentatious memorials. Some only headmarkers, devoid of color and ordered in neat, tight rows. I stopped by a mound of soft brown soil. The small temporary plaque read Kylie M. Rutherford. 1998–2014.
Damp grass had been crushed into the earth a few brief yards in either direction, bearing footprints of those who’d come to pay respects. I studied them, kicking at the ruts and feeling like an intruder on their grief, because it had been my name etched in her skin. I fought back a deepening sadness, tripping my way backward over shallow stones, regretting my decision to come.
I gasped as I backed into something hard, too tall to be a headstone. A hand clamped down on my shoulder. The fingers were covered in tattoos. I turned slowly and swallowed hard, looking into the dark and shining eyes of Lonny Johnson.
I put two quick steps between us. “What are you doing here?” Wind blew my hair across my face, and I left it there like a curtain, hating the way he looked at me.
He grinned, as though amused by my discomfort. His steel-toed shoes stepped forward until they almost touched mine. He squeezed my shoulder, brushing a thumb over my collarbone until I tasted metal and blood, anger and violence, and the saltwater burn of his grief. Beneath it all was a barely perceptible sting of regret. It hardly felt like enough.
“Came to pay my respects. She was a good girl.” He tipped his head. “Like you.” His cool smile disintegrated as he took in the fresh dirt on her grave. “This should never have happened.”
My face twisted, anger welling up from some dark place inside me. It wasn’t fair that I should feel so guilty when Lonny was the one dealing the drugs. He’d sold the ketamine that was at least partly to blame for her death.
“Don’t you feel even the least bit responsible?” My hair stuck in the corners of my mouth, muffling my words. I swatted at it, feeling clumsy and childish.
Lonny’s face lit with something I could almost mistake for affection, his own sinister brand of warmth. “I like you, Boswell. You’ve got guts. A lot of people wouldn’t talk to me like you do. Even fewer while threatening me with a baseball bat.” Lonny lowered his head to mine, brushing back the stubborn wet lock of hair. My flinch didn’t faze him as he tucked it behind my ear.
“Because I like you,” he said, “I’ll tell you a secret.” His goatee tickled my cheek when he leaned in close. I shivered, completely aware that we were alone. His confession was a whisper in my ear. “I do feel responsible. And someone’s going to pay for that.”
Lonny pulled back slowly and reached behind himself. A voice inside me screamed “Run!” but it was too late.
? ? ?
Lonny retrieved a single black rose from his back pocket and held it delicately poised between his fingers. I fell hard on my knees, legs numb with fear. Lonny strode past me, stopping just short of Kylie’s grave.
He tossed the rose onto the clump of dirt, near where her headstone should’ve been. It could have been mistaken for such a callous gesture, but his shoulders sagged. He paused a moment, lowered his head. His arm moved almost imperceptibly in an up-down-side-to-side motion. Blessing himself, I realized, stunned that he might recognize a power higher than himself.
“Be careful, Boswell,” he said, head bent over the grave. “It might have been a game before, but now it’s gone too far.”
“What do you mean?” Knees still watery, I pulled myself up and followed him through a winding maze of headstones, stubbing my toes on the low plaques that Lonny seemed to float over like a ghost.
“Think about it,” he said without slowing. “Steckler? Washington? Marshall? . . . Kylie? . . . They only had one thing in common.”
Like I needed to be reminded.
I gritted my teeth and scrambled after him. “I didn’t do this.”
His laugh rumbled through him. “Don’t have to be a genius to have figured that out.” He paused beside a gleaming white stone. Slipping his hands in his pockets, he eased back against it, leg stretched out to the side like he was leaning on a barstool. He pushed and pulled the barbell through his lip while he studied me, a catlike curiosity behind his eyes. “You didn’t do this, but you know who did. Someone’s trying to frame you. It’s personal.”