Graveminder

here.”

Byron tossed his jacket on the bed and looked around the room briefly. At the foot of the bed was a dark wooden chest. It looked like something that had been passed down from generation to generation. The brass latch was dented and scratched, and several spots looked like they’d seen water damage over the years. He knelt in front of the chest, lifted the latch, and opened the lid.

Inside was an old black leather physician’s satchel. Alongside it was a small wooden box that, when opened, revealed two old derringers. Several wicked-looking knives rested in sheaths.

“Well ...” Byron opened a strongbox filled with ID tags from various hospitals. As he sifted through them, there was a note that read: “Ask Chris when you need new ones.”

Tentatively, Rebekkah sat next to him on the floor. “I don’t understand.”

“In case I need to retrieve a body that has to be brought home and don’t have time for paperwork,” Byron told her. “There are other ways, too.”

Then he told her about the woman he’d met in the land of the dead, Alicia, and the vials she had given him that caused temporary death. As he spoke, Rebekkah started shivering.

If they failed to find Daisha, people would die; if residents of Claysville died elsewhere and were left unminded, they would wake—and more people would die. The staggering list of things that could go wrong made her shoulders feel heavy. She had to keep the dead in their graves, and she had to stop them if they awoke. People who had no idea of the contract, people who had no idea Claysville existed, people who had no idea that the dead could wake: all of them were depending on her not to fail them.

And I am depending on Byron.

Byron was the one person in all the world whom she could trust; he was the only man she’d ever loved. That was the truth she shouldn’t say: she did love him. In a few short—albeit intense—days, years of running from him had been negated. She wasn’t sure if laughing or crying would be more fitting at this moment: she’d finally faced the fact that she’d been in love with Byron Montgomery her whole life.

Because of what we are.

She realized then that Byron was staring at her, waiting for something, waiting for her. He’d been waiting for her for nearly a decade. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “How did they do it?”

“The same way we will.” Rebekkah squeezed his hand.

They both looked at the physician’s bag and then at each other again. With obvious trepidation, Byron opened it and looked inside. An old box of syringes, bandages, various antibiotics, sterile gauze, a small scalpel, antibiotic ointment, peroxide, and myriad other emergency aid equipment filled the bag. It wasn’t all modern, but most of it was.

Also inside the satchel was an envelope. She held it out.

“Open it,” Byron said.

She did so, pulled out a small sheet of paper, unfolded it, and read the words aloud: “ ‘You can also pay Alicia with medicinal supplies.’ Does that make sense?”

“It does,” he said.

Rebekkah flipped the paper over. “On the back it says, ‘The syringes will stop them . Save for emergencies.’ ”

He snorted. “Which means what? When aren’t dead people who are trying to kill us an emergency?”

She shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Byron took the paper and stared at it. He lifted it up to the light and peered at it closely. As he did so, Rebekkah could make out a faint watermark.

“That’s not Dad’s handwriting,” Byron said. “Which one was it? His grandfather? Someone else?”

He held out the paper, and Rebekkah took it. She refolded it and tucked it back in the envelope.

Byron reached in the trunk for one last item: an accordion file labeled MISTER D . He opened it. Inside were two plain brown journals, letters, news clippings, and some papers.

“We may have just found some answers.” He held up a carefully clipped article with the headline MOUNTAIN LION ATTACK CLAIMS THREE . Setting it aside, he opened an envelope. He looked at each item it contained and then handed them one by one to Rebekkah. There were receipts for handguns, ammunition, and one pair of women’s size-seven boots.

Byron continued passing items to her, and Rebekkah read the mishmash of notes. One slip of paper read: “for Alicia.” Another piece of paper listed questions and answers: “Human? No. Age? Not what is visible or what era his clothes are from.” After it was a scrawled note that read “Alicia has ulterior motives.” Some would take longer to read. Letters and news clippings mixed with nearly illegible notes; going through all of it would take time.

Time we don’t have.

When she yawned, Byron stopped passing her the papers. Silently, he collected those he had given her, slipped them all back into the file, and placed it and various other items from the trunk into the duffel he’d brought from the land of the dead.

“I’m good,” she protested.

“You’re exhausted,” he corrected gently. He stared at her for a moment until she nodded.

Rebekkah stood and stretched. “Let’s go home.”

His look of surprise was masked almost immediately, and she was grateful that he didn’t comment. Even when they’d been lovers over the years, she didn’t use “we-speak,” and she certainly didn’t refer to the space where she was residing as “home.”

She drifted off during the short drive from the funeral home to her house and woke as Byron turned off the engine. Instead of getting out of the hearse, she stayed with her head resting against the passenger-side window for a moment.

“You all right?” he asked.

She looked at him. “I am. Overwhelmed. Confused. Exhausted ... but I’m not going to run screaming into the night. You?”

He opened his door. “I’ve never been much for screaming.”

“I don’t know. I remember a few movie nights—”

“I never screamed.” Byron went around back and grabbed the duffel bag.

“Yelled, screamed, whatever.” She got out, gathered her skirt in her hand, and climbed the steps to her front porch. She unlocked the front door and went inside. “I’m glad you’re here with me. Maybe it’s fear or partnership or grief or—”

“Or friendship. Let’s not skip that one, Bek.” He closed the door behind him. “This other stuff is going on, but we were friends before all of it. If you won’t admit that you love me, at least admit that we’re friends.”

“We are, but we’re friends who hadn’t spoken in several years,” she corrected.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say whatever he’d thought. Instead, he carefully lowered the duffel bag to the coffee table. “Did you ask me to stay the night before last because of any of this?”

“Maybe,” she admitted. That was the thing she hadn’t spoken, the other fear that had lingered at the edges of her mind. “What makes you think that our ... friendship is real?”

“A couple years of putting up with you, listening to you and Ella talk boys and hair and music and books, watching movies you two outvoted me on.” Looking more frustrated by the moment, he ticked each item off on his fingers. “A lot more years of hoping you’d come home, watching in every crowd for you, years of hoping every brunette that could possibly bear even the slightest resemblance to you would turn and say my name.”

“But how much of that was out of your control?” She flopped on the sofa. “Was any of it real or was it just instinct? You are meant to protect the Graveminder— me —so maybe you were responding to that.”

He stood in the middle of the room and stared at her. “Does it matter?”

She paused. Does it matter? The question wasn’t one she was considering. The hows, the whens, the whys, the what-nexts, those she had been trying to ignore, but unfortunately those were things she couldn’t overlook. Does it matter? If all of the things they’d shared were merely happenstance, if the fact that he was in the room right now trying to help her—if everything was a result of