Graveminder

with vague words of “never knowing what a body might crave.” Nowhere in the morass of belongings in the house did Rebekkah see anything resembling journals. What she did see were reminders of the amazing woman whose life had been ended before Rebekkah had a chance to say good-bye. Death of a loved one hurt, that was a constant, but the suddenness and the violence made this death seem worse.

Jimmy’s was sudden. So was Ella’s. Rebekkah could picture them all here in the house. Never again. She looked around her, and suddenly the memories were too much —and the memory that wasn’t hers, Maylene’s last memory, felt like it tainted everything.

Maylene was killed here.

The walls felt too close, and every sound made her skittish. The place she’d felt safe, the place she ran to when the world was too much, suddenly had shadows in it that stretched like threats looming around her. The fear wasn’t logical, but she couldn’t say it was foolishness either. Someone had murdered Maylene in their home.

Is it someone I know?

Is it someone who stood there at the grave?

Did he—or she—offer me words of comfort?

The wind set the swing to creaking on the porch. When she was a girl, that sound used to comfort her. As a grown woman alone in the house where her grandmother had been murdered, she found it a lot less comforting.

Rebekkah picked up Cherub, who was winding around her ankles, and went to the window. She pulled the sheer curtains aside and looked out. It was getting toward late afternoon, but the sun hadn’t set yet. The porch was empty.

Nothing but shadows and air.

“I’m going walking,” Rebekkah announced.

Cherub meowed.

“Shush, you. I’ll be back soon.” She kissed his head and lowered him to the floor.

She changed into something slightly less funereal—jeans, a dark gray pullover, boots, and a black jacket. Then she gathered up her wallet, keys, and a canister of pepper spray. Pepper spray wouldn’t be ideal against an animal, but it would buy her a moment if the person who’d hurt— killed— Maylene tried to hurt her. A gun would be a lot better. She’d grown up around guns, but the only one she knew of in the house was a shotgun, and even in Claysville, someone walking around town with a shotgun in hand would seem downright odd. Pepper spray it is. She shoved everything into her jacket pockets and slammed the door.

She had no destination in mind, other than being out of the house. Too much was changing too fast. She’d thought Cissy would inherit something. Like she needed another reason to hate me. Despite feeling slightly guilty that Cissy and the twins hadn’t been left anything, Rebekkah felt a relief that the house she’d come to think of as home was still hers.

Several times, Rebekkah thought she’d heard someone behind her, but when she turned, no one was there. She walked faster, staying along the well-lit sidewalks. Thoughts of the little girl’s injured arm made her pause: well-lit paths might be a deterrent to human “animals,” but she wasn’t sure that they’d be a concern to a wild animal. If there was someone or something following her, turning back seemed unwise.

Now what?

She started running; the thud of pavement under her boots had the illusion of echoing louder with each step. By the time she’d reached the familiar neon lights of Gallagher’s, her legs ached and sweat trickled down her spine. No one and nothing had grabbed her, and the run had made her feel better than she’d felt since she’d gotten the call yesterday.

That was only yesterday. Rebekkah shook her head. Too much change too soon. She pulled open the door and stepped into the dim bar.

Faces, familiar and not, turned toward her. No one looked hostile, but their scrutiny wasn’t comfortable. People there knew her, knew more than she wanted them to know. She’d remembered that objectively, but the reality of being watched, being studied, was more unnerving than the memory had allowed her to expect—or maybe the pity rankled more than the studious stares.

“Beks?” Amity called. “Come sit up here.”

Rebekkah could’ve hugged Amity for the invitation. It was the bartender’s job to be friendly, but Rebekkah didn’t care. She smiled and went toward the bar.

Amity stood with her hands on her hips; a bar rag dangled from one hand. The look on her face wasn’t one of pity. “You looking for someone?”

Rebekkah shook her head. “Air and a drink. I ... I needed to be out.”

Amity gestured at a stool. “You want to talk?”

“No.” Rebekkah pulled the stool out and sat. “I’ve had more than enough talk.”

“Got it. No talking.” Amity slid a bowl of bar mix to her. “So ... beer, wine, or liquor?”

“Just wine. House white. Whatever.”

“We have—”

“I don’t care,” Rebekkah interrupted. “I just need to hold a glass of something so I can sit here not looking quite as pitiful.”

Amity stared at her for a moment, turned, and pulled a partially empty bottle of white wine out of a cooler. She twisted the cork out of the bottle. “You don’t want to drink or talk.”

“Nope.”

Amity poured the pale liquid into a glass, shoved the cork back into the mouth of the bottle, and brought the wine to the bar. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.” Rebekkah wrapped her fingers around the glass. It felt fragile in her hands, enough so that for a moment she considered squeezing hard, driving shards of glass into her skin. She lifted the glass and drank half of it.

“A little space, boys?” Amity uncorked the bottle and refilled the glass. “Should I have asked, ‘Who are you looking for?’ ”

“No.” Behind her, Rebekkah could hear the door opening and closing. Footsteps clomped across the room. The door opened and closed. More footsteps sounded. The door opened again. It clicked.

“Bek?” Amity’s hand came down on Rebekkah’s. “You can handle this.”

Rebekkah nodded.

After a couple of silent minutes had passed, Rebekkah looked around. The room was empty. Bar rag in hand, Amity came out from behind the bar. From the way she was dressed, the bartender looked like she had been expecting a half-decent crowd: her short skirt and tall boots were look-at-me fare. On slow nights, Amity wore jeans—not that she looked slouchy even then—but a generous glimpse of skin helped part patrons from more of their money, so busy nights meant skirts.

“You kicked them out,” Rebekkah said.

“They didn’t have to obey me.” Amity tossed a bottle toward the trash bin as if it were a ball through a hoop.

Rebekkah left her drink behind and walked over to stand beside Amity, who was now singing softly to herself while she tossed bottles, emptied ashtrays, and swished crumbs onto the floor. Rebekkah gathered up several half- full glasses that patrons had left behind and carried them over to the bar. “Nothing shakes you, does it?”

For a moment, Amity stilled. A flicker of fear crossed her face. Then she lobbed another bottle. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Rebekkah wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask or let it go. She paused, and the moment stretched. “Maybe some night you can tell me what frightens the invincible Amity Blue.”

“Maybe,” Amity murmured. “Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.” Rebekkah walked over to the bar. She put her hand on the pass-through. “May I?”

“Sure. Hell, if you want, you can have a few shifts for as long as you’re here ... It might help keep your mind off the claustrophobia of being in Claysville,” Amity said.

“I don’t know about all of that.” Rebekkah lifted the bar flap and went behind the counter. Then she flipped it back, once more making the bartender’s domain separate from the rest of the main room. She and Amity were now on opposite sides of where they’d started the evening.