He shrugged, as if the message was of no consequence to him, but a brief flicker of irritation made me even more curious about his relationship with Camille Ashby. They referred to one another by their given names, which seemed to indicate more than a passing acquaintance, as did the overheard conversation and the way she’d touched his arm. She was older than Devlin, but not by much, and age didn’t seem to matter for a woman as attractive as Camille.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“What? No…sorry. Just daydreaming.”
I wondered if he realized the power of his stare. If he had any idea the effect it had on me. Perhaps that should have been another warning—the fact that I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. It was as if he had some sort of hold over me, but I couldn’t put the blame on him. I was solely responsible for my actions. I hadn’t made the trek to the cemetery to see Camille Ashby. She’d just made things convenient for me. I’d come here in pursuit of the forbidden, though I had never done anything remotely reckless in my whole life.
Some of the searchers were moving toward us and I tried to quell my nerves by refocusing my attention on them. “Must be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” I murmured. “Won’t the rain have washed away any physical evidence like footprints and bloodstains?” All those years of self-discipline normalized my voice even though my heart thumped erratically.
“Not all of it. Something always gets left behind. We just have to keep looking until we find it.”
“And if you don’t?”
Devlin’s gaze met mine again and I felt a deep shudder go through me. “Then we’ll have to let her lead us to the killer.”
“Her?”
“The victim. The dead have a lot to say if you’re willing to listen.”
The irony of his statement stunned me. I had a sudden image of the ghost child, tugging on his pants, patting his leg, trying her best to get his attention. What was she trying to tell him? And why wasn’t he listening?
She’d come to me, too, but I had good reason to rebuff her. Papa was right. I knew only too well the consequences of breaking the rules. To acknowledge the ghost child was to invite her into my life, offer her the sustenance of my warmth and energy until I became nothing more than a walking, breathing shell. No matter what she wanted from me, I had to protect myself at any cost. To remain safe, I had to distance myself from Devlin and his ghosts.
Yet there I stood, enthralled by his very nearness.
He turned to look out over the cemetery, so lost in concentration for a moment that he seemed to have forgotten my presence. I took the opportunity to study his profile, following the line of his jaw and chin, lingering in that shadowy, sensual place beneath his full bottom lip where that indented scar marred an otherwise flawless profile. For some reason, that one imperfection mesmerized me. The harder I tried to avert my eyes, the stronger I felt its pull.
“I have a confession to make,” I said.
I didn’t think he’d heard me at first, but then he turned, one brow lifting ever so slightly as he waited for my admission.
“When I first came up, I overheard you and Dr. Ashby talking about another body that was found here.”
His expression never changed, but I sensed his wariness, like an animal catching wind of a possible threat. “What about it?”
“When did it happen?”
“Years ago,” he said vaguely.
His reluctance to elaborate only whetted my curiosity. He couldn’t know it yet, but my persistence could sometimes border on obsession when I set my mind to something.
“Was the killer caught?”
“No.”
“Is there any chance the two murders could be connected? I only ask,” I hastened to add, “because I’ll be spending a lot of time here alone. This is all a little unnerving, to say the least.”
His expression was shuttered, his whole demeanor guarded as he stared down at me. “After fifteen years, I’d say a connection is a long shot, but I still wouldn’t recommend coming out here alone. Even though it’s within the city limits, this place is pretty remote.”
“And metropolitan cemeteries, particularly those off the beaten path, can be magnets for the criminal element,” I said.
“Yes, exactly. Don’t you have someone who works with you? An assistant or something?”
“I’ll have plenty of help for the cleanup stage. Until then, I’ll be careful.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but instead he turned away with a brief nod.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes?” That hesitation again. That same veiled wariness.
“I’ve spent hours and hours researching Oak Grove, and yet this is the first mention I’ve heard of another murder. How is that possible?”
“Maybe you weren’t looking in the right places.”
“I doubt that. I always read everything I can get my hands on about each cemetery I restore. Not just county records and church books. I also spend a lot of time scanning newspaper archives.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“It’s hard to explain, but immersing myself in the history gives me a unique perspective. Restoration isn’t just about whacking weeds and scrubbing headstones. It’s about
“You sound pretty passionate about it.”
“I’d find another line of work if I wasn’t. Wouldn’t you?”
His gaze whisked over me, straying to places that made me grow a little warm. “I suppose I would,” he murmured, his voice like cool silk.
“About that body…” I prompted.
He returned to the subject with reluctance. “There’s a reason you didn’t find anything in the newspapers.”
“What reason?”
“There was a concentrated effort by certain parties, including the girl’s family, to keep the investigation quiet.”
“How did they manage that?”
“In this city, it’s all about who you know. Especially among the upper class. People in positions of power and influence tend to close rank.” His voice betrayed an old contempt, and I remembered my aunt’s remarks about the South of Broad Devlins, a wealthy, aristocratic family who could trace their roots back to the city’s founding. If Devlin was a cousin from the wrong side of the tracks, that might explain his scorn.
“At the time of the murder, the police chief, the mayor and the editor of the largest local daily newspaper were all Emerson alumni,” he said. “A murder on school property would have done a lot of damage to the school’s reputation.”
I rubbed the inside of my elbow where a mosquito had vectored in on the one area I’d missed with bug spray. “But why would the victim’s family participate in a cover-up?”
“The Delacourts are Charleston royalty. If you’re at all familiar with this city’s mansion class, you’ll know that scandal is to be avoided at any cost. I’ve pretty much seen it all, and yet I can still be shocked at the lengths those people will go to in order to protect the family name.”
“Even hush up a murder?”
“If that murder brings humiliation and disgrace, yes. Afton Delacourt was a seventeen-year-old party girl. A promiscuous thrill-seeker who abused drugs and alcohol and, according to the rumor mill, dabbled in the occult. That’s pretty sensational stuff.”
Something in his voice, in that careful gaze accelerated my pulse. “What do you mean, she dabbled in the occult? Like Ouija boards?”
“It was a little darker than that.”
“Darker…how?”
He didn’t answer.
