She couldn’t stop staring. Her father’s grave consumed her world, which was probably a metaphor for . . . something. “Jesus. And you don’t think it’s random.”
“No. I don’t think it’s random. I think it was specifically targeted.”
Her father’s grave had been—there was no other way to put it—brutalized. Someone had come along and smeared black paint over the name. Then they’d hit and gouged the hell out of it with a hammer or hatchet or something—and had shoved it off the base so it was off-center but hadn’t fallen over.
“Any other graves? Or just my dad’s?”
“Just his. As I said, I think it was targeted.” He pointed at the scrawls, the signs of violence. “They weren’t just after any random gravestone—we had to walk past, what? A few hundred others?”
“At least.”
“There are hundreds of graves closer to the entrance, or concealed better so the vandals wouldn’t be as exposed. But they walked past all those for this one. And see the name? Completely and deliberately obliterated, but they left the dates alone. And when they’d made as much of a mess as they could with the paint, they started kicking it—see the tread marks? Kicking the name over and over? That’s focused negative emotion, not ‘Jeepers I feel destructive, let’s go trash a random tomb.’”
“Okay, first: ‘jeepers’? And second, good point. And third, what the hell?”
“That was my literal thought when I saw it: What the hell.”
“And you just happened to be here and found it like this.”
“Yes.” She saw his shoulders stiffen. “I understand why you might wonder if I have anything to do with it, but if you’ll notice the soles of my shoes—” He hiked up one pant leg and she grinned to see Mona Lisa staring back at her from his ankle. “There’s no paint. Of course, I could have changed shoes, but if you check with the dispatcher, I can prove I was on duty—”
“I like your Monet ones the best, but these are pretty good, too.”
He froze in the act of rolling his pant leg back down. “You noticed. My socks?”
“Yeah.” Busted. “It’s unsettling, right? Me noticing them and then creepily commenting about how I stare at your legs a lot? Yeah, it is. Forget I said anything. Your socks are boring and even if they weren’t, I sure didn’t notice them.”
“The Monets are your favorite?” He had an odd expression; part surprise, part hopeful.
“Well. Yeah. He’s my favorite artist, though, so that follows. Right? But listen, I don’t think you did it. I certainly don’t think you did it on purpose so you’d have an excuse to call me because you’re secretly a stalker.” It’s wrong that I would have no problem with that. Very, very wrong.
“I would— I would never do something like that to you. To anyone,” he corrected. And yep, he was blushing. No question this time. Eh. It’s a warm day and he’s in a suit.
“I know.” Wasn’t that strange? She barely knew the guy, but she would have bet five figures he had nothing to do with blacking out her father’s name. “But the timing is interesting, don’t you think? Dad’s case is back in storage. You’re turning your attention back to your regular workload and buying weird socks. And I’m only working Dad’s case part-time.”
“So why do this now?” he finished. “Yes. Those were my thoughts also.”
“Well, thank God you found it first. I’d have hated for Jack or Jordan or any of the others to see it like this. And we’re gonna have to clean this up, I’m not sure the cheapie package covers it. I’ll check with the office.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t understand why the office didn’t call you. The paint’s dry, it doesn’t even smell. This happened at least two days ago.”
“I can tell you why—my mother. She told Graceland years ago that she was paying for minimum coverage and didn’t want updates and don’t call her, she’d call them.” Which, again, Angela had chalked up to the pain of widowhood. How it had hit her so hard she couldn’t bear to be reminded of it by anyone, and certainly not the boneyard where her husband rested.
Again, she wondered if she hadn’t been reading Emma Drake completely wrong all this time.
Stop it. Your mother did not murder your father. Okay?
Okay?
“Are you going to notify your mother?”
That brought her back. “No. And she’ll never find out, either. She’s never been here.”
“Your mother strikes me as a rather vengeful mourner.”
Angela laughed, a short humorless bark. “That is the perfect phrase.”
“I think it might be time to visit your uncle again.”
“You think he knows who did it?”
“He might. Or he’d know why it was done.”
“And if you know ‘why,’ you know ‘who’?”
“Yes. Or he might be able to point us in a new direction. It’s worth a discussion.”
“In the loop” is a glorious place to be. “Agreed. I’m going to tell Archer what happened, see if he and Leah want to come with us—when?”
“Tomorrow, late afternoon,” was the prompt reply. “I’ll have to put in the request and take care of a few other things first. Can you keep your family away from the grave for thirty-six hours?”
She sighed. “That won’t be a problem at all.”
Which was, in itself, a problem. One she was ill-quipped to solve. But then, that had always been the case.
THIRTY-ONE
They’re terrifying but likeable, Leah decided. Which was pretty fine for a family motto. Certainly better than the Nazir motto: Quid de mi residuals?*
It was late. Angela had come back from her mysterious errand with Detective Chambers, pulled her and Archer aside, and in a low voice explained what Detective Chambers had shown her at the cemetery.
“Are you fucking kidding?” Archer hissed, mindful that the house was full of ears, even in the guest bathroom they’d crammed all three of themselves into (one of the few rooms in the house that locked). A toilet, a tiny sink, and three adults in a three-by-five bathroom made Leah grateful Jack had taken it easy on the garlic for dinner. “They wrecked your dad’s grave?”
“I’m so sorry,” Leah added. “That must have been a horrible sight.”
“Why didn’t you call us, cuz? We’d have come to help. We’ll go right now if you want.”
“Archer, it just happened. And I don’t want your pregnant fiancée scrubbing paint off a gravestone and helping us shove a two-hundred-pound stone back on its base. Jesus.”
“Okay, good point. I didn’t mean to jump on you, I was just surprised. So what’d you say? What’d you do? Are you going to tell Aunt Emma? Do you want me to?”
“Are you kidding? It’s all Mom can do to handle the mail.”
Leah had been unsurprised when the answer was nothing, nothing, no, and no. Emma Drake had a Ph.D. in a peculiar kind of grief that was, at times, more selfish than suffering.
There was a selfish side to grief, but no one talked about it because it was such tricky ground. It sounded heartless: I’m mourning. I’m suffering without him/her/it. How can you say that’s selfish?
That was true as far as it went. But when are you finished? Well, it’s different for everyone. It’s grief! You can’t put a time limit on it! Sure you can. Six months, a year? Five years, ten? When will you come back to life? When does mourning become hiding? And for how long?
I didn’t get to say good-bye! was a common theme. And it was understandable—but what they were really saying was, I wanted them awake and aware—and yes, given the injuries, he/she/it would have been in tremendous pain but I needed this, dammit! Sure, he/she/it would have been racked with pain and terrified to know death was coming, but I wanted my good-bye!
I deserve closure!* was another one. An understandable instinct, but ultimately futile, since there really was no such thing. Not even in a world where you could meet up with your loved ones in another life.