66

So far, so good. Jane drove in, creeping along, gripping the steering wheel, shoulders tensed for the blare of alarm bells. But nothing happened. She did a quick scan for security cameras, saw nothing. It was easy to check the locator. Easy to see the diagrams in the dimly warm lights tucked into trees and staked along the paths. Easy to find the name Katharine Lassiter. Section D, Row 23.

When she arrived at the right place, one frustrating glitch. She couldn’t see the headstone from her car. But this would take only two seconds.

Leaving her car running and door open, Jane crunched through fallen leaves and gooshed through mud, glad she’d kept her rubber wellies stashed in the backseat, a leftover-from-TV habit.

Row 23. Up two rows, then down three headstones, picturing the map at the entrance. She carried the flashlight from her console, all powered up and batteries fine. Her cell phone, not so much, still charging in the car. You can’t win them all.

The night air hit, hazy and sodden with leftover rain. Clammy. She pulled her coat closer. Tree branches bowed and bent in the light wind; wisps of clouds scudded across the navy sky. Alone in a cemetery. On Halloween. Shut up. She wouldn’t think about scary stuff; that would be stupid. She could still hear occasional cars on the road. Her own, ready to roll, was right there.

She mentally whistled a happy tune. Not afraid. She’d be here only two seconds.

*   *   *

If he drove in right behind her, she’d hear the car. Matt watched Jane’s brake lights go on, then off, saw her Audi pull in through the arched gateway, stop at the locator. Watched her get out, check the diagrams, get back in the car.

Where was she going? It was an incredible coincidence that whoever’s grave she was visiting was in the same cemetery as his mother’s. Still, that could leave Matt alone with her. He hoped his mother would understand what he needed to do. He needed his life back. Damn Holly, he thought again. But family came first. Time to prove he was a real Lassiter.

He watched Jane turn left, toward his angel, then head slowly up the rise. Matt shifted, touched the gas pedal, eased into the cemetery driveway.

Her car was a couple hundred yards up the access road, still heading toward the angel. Where the hell is she going? Will she get out of the car? If he followed in his car, she’d hear it. He stopped, backed up, pointed his car’s nose toward the exit. Turned off the ignition and opened the door. Closed it as quietly as he could.

*   *   *

What was that? Jane stopped at the end of Row 23. Stood absolutely still, muscles taut across her shoulders. She didn’t want to use her flashlight—what if someone saw the beam? Plenty of light without it. The flashlight was merely backup, in case she needed to read something. The moon, almost full, appeared through the tips of the waving poplars as the rain clouds parted. Constellations glistened into view, Orion. The Dippers. The sound didn’t happen again. Probably a squirrel. An owl.

Three headstones to go. Jane took one step, her dark green boots barely crunching in the close-clipped brown grass. Paused. Nothing. The first headstone was for a Walter Galbraith, born … it didn’t matter. She took another step. Paused, eyes closed, listening as intently as her ears would manage. Opened her eyes. Nothing. Another step.

What was that? She stopped, one hand to her throat. For sure, that was an owl. Go.

The third headstone was the one she cared about.

It looked like marble. Polished, pink marble. Lighter than its neighbors, waist high, gracefully curved across the top, almost glowing a bit in the combination of moonlight and spotlight. One more step and she could read it. She paused. Listened. Nothing.

She took the step.

And there was the inscription. KATHARINE FLANNERY GALBRAITH LASSITER, it said, the elegant letters etched deep into the stone.

BORN OCTOBER 21, 1956

DIED APRIL 14, 2010

Smaller letters below. Jane risked the flashlight, played the thin yellow beam across the words carved into the pink stone.

BELOVED MOTHER OF SARAH (BORN 1989) AND MATTHEW (BORN 1987)

Jane stared at the names.

Then she heard the sound.

*   *   *

It can’t be. Matt took one last stride, crouched behind the big angel, sneaked his head around the curve of her alabaster wing to watch Jane take a few tentative steps toward his mother’s grave. She took one step, then stopped. Then another. She looked right at him. Didn’t she? He darted into the cover of the lofty wings, forehead pressed against the deep grooves in the sleek white stone. Had she seen him?

Jane looked away. She hadn’t. She took another step.

That reporter is visiting my mother’s grave. She knows.

This friggin’ clinched it. Ryland had Holly’s damn photos. Of course, she figured Holly was sleeping with his father. Having an affair. No one would ever believe it wasn’t true. No matter what anyone said. His father would be ruined. Ruined.

He put one hand on the angel’s cool skin, trying to stay calm.

If this woman had half a brain, she would soon know exactly who he was. But in a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter. His father’s future was at stake.

The carved pink marble of his mother’s headstone still seemed different from the other headstones, somehow. Stood out from them, always had. Secretly, he’d thought it his mother’s light shining through.

Jane was taking another step.

Matt could see her car, just down the lane, door open. Holly’s photos had to be in there. He’d seen the manila envelope under her arm when she left Lassiter headquarters, and she hadn’t gone anywhere else. Matt pursed his lips, calculating time and distance and weight.

Jane took another step.

Matt knew exactly what she was about to see. His name.

It was time.