Twin Oaks Cemetery was located several miles out of town, nestled between a clapboard Methodist church and a cornfield. The grounds were well kept, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and manicured shrubbery. The skeletons of maples and oaks and a variety of evergreens dotted the property within.
The gate stood open. Addison turned the car onto the smooth asphalt drive and passed through the entrance. Even if she didn't find Agnes Beckett's grave, this trip to the cemetery was something she needed to do. It was a step she needed to take, one that would help her grieve, to accept, and to go on. Though she hadn't known, or had the chance to love Agnes Beckett, she had over the last months of searching for her developed a sort of bond with her. She knew there was a part of herself that was mourning.
To her surprise, among the dozens of graves she had no trouble spotting the mound of freshly turned earth. Her throat constricted at the sight of it, and Addison knew that in a town the size of Siloam Springs, burials were probably infrequent.
Leaving the warmth of the car, she slowly made her way toward the plot. Around her the wind had calmed, but the air possessed a sharpness that cut to the bone. Sleet continued to fall, mostly snow now, filling the silence with the high-pitched tinkle of ice particles striking the frozen earth.
A single spray of plastic flowers lay against a small granite headstone. Addison faced the monument, wondering who had left the flowers. As she read the simple inscription, a sense of loss pierced her. The familiar sadness began to flow.
Before she realized it, before she could make herself stop, she felt tears on her cheeks. She cried for the birth mother she had lost. She cried for the parents fate had stolen from her earlier in the year. For the first time in months, she allowed the sadness to completely overwhelm her, to take her to a place she didn't often go, and she let her emotions run free. She dropped to her knees and cried openly, her sobs lost among the graves of strangers, the naked trees, and the dry, brittle corn.
Chapter 5
Randall parked in front of The Coffee Cup and sat there for five minutes trying to get his courage up. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why the hell he felt so damn compelled to go inside and apologize. Apologizing wasn't his usual modus operandi, particularly when it came to women. But in light of the fact that he'd made a complete ass of himself, he was going to bite the bullet and make amends. It didn't matter that she'd lodged a formal complaint with the Better Business Bureau against Talbot Investigations. It didn't matter that his brother's professional reputation was on the line and that Jack had, in no uncertain terms, threatened to put him out on the street if he didn't make things right.
It didn't matter that for the better part of the past month, Randall hadn't been able to get Addison Fox off his mind.
An array of colorful Christmas lights flashed in the front window as he approached, reminding him that it was the holiday season. A fact he could just as well live without since he couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered celebrating. The first couple of years he'd lived in D.C. he'd socialized with his coworkers at the NTSB. Back before the darkness of his profession had sent him crashing and burning.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, Randall opened the front door and stepped inside. The robust smell of coffee and the more delicate aromas of fresh-baked pastries and chocolate flowed over him, filling him with the vaguely pleasant memories of a childhood he hadn't remembered in years. Soft yellow light rained down from overhead tulip lamps, casting circular shadows onto a long, marble-topped bar. A row of old-fashioned stools ran the length of the bar. Several bistro tables were scattered near the front window. Tony Bennett's smooth-as-silk voice filled the shop with music from a simpler era.
The Coffee Cup was upscale and small, like many of the businesses, restaurants, and microbreweries that were revitalizing Denver's lower downtown.
It was closing time and the place was nearly empty. A man in a trench coat sat at the bar sipping coffee and browsing through the morning edition of the The Denver Post. A young couple shared a cappuccino at a comer bistro table.
Randall spotted Addison behind the bar and felt his mouth go dry. It was an odd reaction for a man who hadn't felt much of anything in the last six months. The company shrink had slapped a technical name on his emotional isolation, but Randall didn't put much weight in doctors, especially the nonmedical type.
He knew it wasn't wise for him to be there. He didn't like the responses this woman evoked. It had been a long time since he'd cared what somebody thought of him. He wondered how she would react if she knew he was a mental case. Of course, she probably already thought he was one.