Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
One I’ve never searched for their graves.
It’s too late for anyone to be in the little building where I might inquire as to whether the Wright family is buried here, so I walk row after row of headstones. It’s well-kept, soft, green grass beneath my feet. Fresh flowers planted here and there. Some stones are older, but most are new—from the 2000s.
When my gaze happens across two identical stones, I pause. Not just identical, like husband and wife, but both polished to a sheen. New. As though they were placed at the same time, and that time was not so long ago.
Ellen Wright.
Rose Wright.
I’ve found them. Air rushes from my lungs as I sink to my knees in front of their names.
Gabriel’s family. The grass has grown in over their graves. But the date of death is right. It’s a day I’ll never forget. I open my mouth as though I’ll say something to them—I’m so sorry or maybe He misses you.
But they don’t need to hear that from me. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks. Of course he’s been here. Roses placed atop each headstone that are just starting to wilt show that much. He’s surely visited and said what he’s needed to say to them, probably a hundred times over. They lie here because of you. Because of me.
A sob tears its way out of my throat. My hands tremble as I reach out and touch the headstones, wishing I could somehow change this. Make this better.
I stay there a long time. The world grows dark around me. I should be concerned for my safety, but I’m not. It would serve me right to suffer at the hands of someone else. A shadow walking across the graveyard toward me, silhouetted against a single streetlamp, finally makes me move. I take one last look at the graves, noting that the stones say Beloved Daughter and Beloved Mother, but there is no mention of wife—strange—and I’m on my feet.
Across the cemetery is a road, and I walk that way, not looking back until I’m a safe distance. When I stop and glance over my shoulder, the visitor is standing where I was. At Ellen’s and Rose’s graves. Even in the darkness, I can feel the penetration of their gaze. I wish I could see who they are—or even if they’re male or female. Maybe it’s the groundskeeper, and they were coming to tell me to clear out now that it’s dark.
I wave for a cab, and seconds later, one comes to a stop. Pulse racing, I climb in—but I can’t stop myself from looking back again. Chills run up my spine when I find the person still hasn’t moved. It feels like they’re watching me.
“Where to?” the cabdriver asks.
I give him my address, and the cab pulls away from the curb.
But the dark figure remains in the graveyard… watching.
CHAPTER 24 Now
I’ve counted the days, so it’s difficult to pretend I’m not anxious when Gabriel walks in the following week. Yet somehow I manage to maintain my composure. Crossing my legs and settling my notebook on my lap, I offer a tempered smile.
“How was your week?” I ask.
He blows out a breath. “It was tough. I finally wrote that letter you suggested I write to my wife.” Gabriel shakes his head. “It was a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
I nod. “It’s often a cathartic experience, but it also stirs up a lot of emotions to get there. How did you feel while writing it?”
“Angry mostly.”
“Because of the cheating?”
He looks me straight in the eyes. “Angry because some selfish bastard decided he was above the law and got behind the wheel and killed my wife.”
I swallow and my hands begin to shake. I need to hold something to keep them steady before he notices. So I stand somewhat abruptly and point to my neck. “Excuse me. I’m just going to grab my water. My throat feels scratchy. Allergies.”
He nods but stays quiet.
I take my time walking to my desk and make a production out of twisting the cap off a bottle of water, then guzzling half of it down. When I return to my seat, I hold the bottle with two hands to keep them occupied.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
He’s watching me closely. Does he always watch me this closely? Why does it feel like he can see into my heart and read the black lies? Or am I imagining it?
I take a deep breath and sit up taller. “So, you were talking about the letter. You said you were angry while writing it, but how do you feel now?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure it will help overnight, but I guess it made me remember the positive things about our marriage. I wasn’t sure how to start the letter, so I wrote about the night we met. I sort of crashed her blind date.”