When I answer the knock on my door the next day, Nora’s standing on the front porch. The doubling thing happens again as I remember opening the door to find the old Nora, wanting to visit with my grandmother.
“Want to go for a walk in the cemetery?” she asks.
“Sure. I don’t have to be at work for nearly two hours.” Anything that will get me outside my own head sounds good. My dreams last night were an endless loop of my mom trying to escape her killer. Quinn said I would have new revelations, but I seem stuck on the old.
Despite her long legs, Nora takes tiny steps as we go down the hill and then turn onto the flat dirt road that leads to the cemetery. I make a conscious effort to slow my steps.
“I love this old cemetery.” She has to pause for breath after each word or two. “It’s my favorite place in the world.”
I hold the gate for her. To the left, a carefully tended bed of flowers catches my eye. I walk over to admire it. When I turn back, Nora is still well behind me.
“Are you all right?”
“I might just…”—a pause while she gathers another breath—“need to sit down.” She collapses more than sits on a low stone wall. I reach out to grab her in case she keeps toppling sideways. She lists but doesn’t fall.
Her breathing is too fast and too shallow. Her skin looks so white. Should I run back and get my car so I can drive her home? But what if something happens in the meantime? “Are you okay?”
“I just need to…”—another long pause—“rest.”
I pretend not to be watching her. The wall we’re sitting on surrounds a small family plot that holds three gravestones and has an empty space where a fourth grave could go. The most recent date on any of the tombstones is 1938.
“If I pass out, you have to promise,” she says between breaths, “to let me go. Make sure it’s a good long time before you call anyone.”
Shocked, I lean away from her. “You don’t mean that!”
“I’m ready. I’ve had two heart attacks. My hearing is totally shot. My cataracts are getting worse.” She pauses between sentences. “It’s like having a car that’s starting to nickel-and-dime you. At some point, it’s not worth keeping anymore. Besides, I want to see what happens next.”
“So you believe in heaven and harps and all that?”
“I don’t know if God exists. None of us can really know. But I believe he does.”
I nod. I’m not so sure about God, but I do believe in evil. But maybe if you believe in evil, you have to believe in its opposite.
Nora echoes my thoughts. “About the only thing I know is that it all comes down to love. Love is the only thing that matters. It’s all there is. But that’s plenty.” Her voice has strengthened, even if she’s still as blue-white as skim milk.
I’m not certain what I believe in. Except maybe Nora.
A woman walking a small dog crests the hill and comes toward us. She’s wearing a navy-blue business suit and tennis shoes.
“I don’t know her,” Nora says, almost to herself. She straightens up as the woman gets closer, then calls, “Hello!”
I smile awkwardly.
The woman stops, but the dog makes a beeline toward Nora. It looks like a collie, black and brown and white, only smaller. It crouches until its belly touches the ground, and then it begins crawling toward Nora, wiggling and squirming to stay flat.
The woman’s eyes go wide. “I’ve never seen her do that before.”
Meanwhile, the dog has reached Nora. Now it rolls over on its back, presenting its belly.
“Who’s a good dog?” Nora reaches out to scratch the pink skin that shows through the fine white hairs. The dog lets out a cross between a groan and a whine.
“Wow, I would have said she would never let anyone do that.” The dog’s owner watches as Nora ruffles her fingers back and forth. “Not even me. She would take my hand off for sure.”
Nora doesn’t answer. She’s got eyes and ears only for the dog.
Finally, the woman says, “Bella, we have to go, or I’ll be late for work. Come on, Bella.” She tugs the leash, and the dog, with one last reluctant whine, gets to its feet. As the lady is walking away, she calls, “You and your granddaughter have a great day.”
“We will,” Nora says. I manage a nod. Tears prick my eyes. I only wish she were my grandmother. Suddenly, I miss my real grandmother fiercely.
“Do you want to keep going?” Nora gets to her feet. She seems energized by the conversation with the woman and, more important, the woman’s dog.
“Sure.”
We start off again, Nora’s steps still more shuffle than stride. I keep one hand out, ready to grab her elbow. As we start up the low hill, I see a red splotch on my mother’s grave. A jolt of excitement races from my head to my heels. I jog toward it for a closer look. It’s a single red rose, the color of old blood. It looks fresh. Its stem sports wicked-looking thorns at least a half inch long. I don’t think it was bought at a florist’s or filched from an arrangement. The end is ragged, not snipped. The rose must have come from a garden.
I bring it back to Nora. “Frank told me he keeps finding red roses on Naomi’s grave. This must be one of them.”
“Maybe it’s from one of your mother’s old admirers,” Nora says.
I go still inside. “What did you say?”
Nora looks at me for a long time. Finally, I’m the one who has to look away.
She touches my shoulder. “Oh, honey, I’ve known for a while now.”
“Did you see me take that Halloween photo of me and my parents?” I still can’t look at her.
Her tone is colored with warmth. “I saw you.” I turn to look into her kind face. “Really saw you. Anyone with eyes in their head would see you were Terry and Naomi’s daughter. I should have spotted it the first day, no matter what you said your name was.”
“My name really is Olivia now.” Even though I’ve lied to everyone, it stings a little that she thinks I lied to her. “The lady who adopted me changed my name.”
“Does she know you’re here?”
I’m not sure Tamsin even knows I’m alive. “The adoption didn’t last. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. But I want to find out the truth about who killed my parents. I’m starting to figure things out, but people will stop talking if they know who I am.” I take a deep breath. “What was she like? Naomi, I mean?”
“She was a smart girl. Kind. A good mother. She read to you, and she loved to make you laugh. Your parents always loved you, even if they didn’t always love each other. And I think they did love each other. They were just young.”
“I never even got to know her. To know them. Talk to them.” My throat closes with tears. “Why didn’t the killer take me, too? They might as well have.” The shell I’ve built up in layers around myself over the years has developed too many cracks.
“But you’re still standing.” She takes my warm hand in her cold one.
We start down the hill. Two men are at the bottom. One is riding a kid’s bike that’s way too small for him. The other blows his nose into the dirt, which is beyond disgusting, then wipes it on the sleeve of his heavy coat. They both look homeless.
My shoulders hunch. Nora, tottering along in her knockoff Keds, looks like the perfect victim. Neither of us is carrying a purse, but that probably won’t stop them. I’m sure they’ll ask for money. Or demand it.
We haven’t seen anyone else since the woman with her dog. I scan the rest of the cemetery, but it’s empty. Even if I were to shout for help, the houses are too far away. I have to be ready to protect Nora. To put myself between them and her.
Nora’s been watching her feet, but now she lifts her head, just as the two men notice us.
This is it. I exhale and tense my muscles.
“Benjy!” Nora shouts, waving.
“Flora Nora!” The guy in the heavy coat lopes up to us and gives her a hug. He’s got a ruddy face and red hair. I recognize him from the funeral.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks him, but the other guy is already riding away from us. And Benjy doesn’t answer.
“Benjy, this is Olivia,” Nora says, undeterred. “She just moved in next door. Olivia, this is my friend Benjy.” The two of them—the age-spotted old woman and the man whose slack mouth has more holes than teeth—don’t belong together. At least not in my head. But in hers, it’s clear they do.
She still has her arm around his waist, but he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s staring at the rose in my hand. This close, his sunburned face is familiar. I flash back on the red-haired guy in the yearbook photo of my parents and their friends. Now I see the resemblance between this dirty, homeless man and that boy.
“You’re Ben Gault, aren’t you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes go wide. Pulling free from Nora, he turns and begins to run away.