Page 49 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

GWEN

The first thing I do is book a ticket to Wichita, leaving in a few hours.

Sam, of course, wants to come with me. “I have to do this alone,” I tell him.

I’m not sure I can explain why, except that dealing directly with Melvin always makes me feel tainted and gross.

I don’t want to bring any of that into my current life if at all possible.

He drops a kiss on my cheek. “I understand. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it.”

“I need to know the kids are safe.” And the reality is, I know my kids are safe with him. I am too. Even if he did murder all those sickos and Leonard Varrus, it would have been to protect us.

“I’ve already talked to Javi. I’m going to take them out there, and we’re all going to spend the night—Florida too.”

Relief washes through me. Of course, he’s already handled it.

Of course, he knew without asking what I needed.

It’s one of the reasons I love this man so fiercely.

I want to fall against him, sink into him, and let his strong arms encircle and hold me.

I want him to tell me I’m doing the right thing—that we’ll figure out who is behind all of this and finally move on from this chapter of our lives .

Unfortunately, I know Sam will never make promises he can’t keep, and no one can promise us a normal life.

It doesn’t take me long to pack, and after I’ve hugged the kids goodbye, I make the drive to the Knoxville airport.

Once the plane takes off, I stare out at the world passing by below.

It’s hard not to think about a similar trip I took four years ago.

It had been the first time I’d trusted Sam with my kids.

I’d gone to visit Melvin then as well. I had hopes I would be able to put an end to everything.

I failed that time. This time, I won’t.

After we land, I pick up my rental car, put the address in the GPS, and drive.

After an hour and a half, I pull through the gates of Shady Grove Cemetery.

It’s an unassuming place, the kind of graveyard you’d expect to see if you did an image search online.

There’s a wrought iron arch over the entrance and a series of paved roads stretching out through acres of green lawn dotted with trees and a few benches.

The grounds are decently maintained, though there’s nothing particularly special about them.

Most of the graves have standing stones, though none are overly ornamental.

A few have flowers here and there, but nothing that shows a tremendous amount of care or effort.

This isn’t the kind of place mourners come to sit for hours, talking to their dead loved ones.

I’ve only been here once before so that I could lay eyes on the grave and make sure the bastard was buried. That’s when I took the photo that hangs on my office wall. I make the turns automatically, stopping when I’m close to the section bearing his grave.

Until he died, I hadn’t been aware that Melvin had already purchased a funeral package.

I was shocked when I saw the price he’d paid.

He’d gone all out: full cremation, a high-end urn for his ashes, a beautiful plot in an old cemetery tucked under an ancient, graceful oak.

No accommodations made for me and, eventually, our kids.

Apparently, he’d preferred the idea of his ashes being interred alone.

I’d asked for a refund. The funeral home balked until I told them who the package had been for.

Once they realized that honoring the pre-paid package would mean having a serial killer buried within their hallowed grounds, they immediately agreed to terminate the contract.

They’d taken a hefty cut of the fees in exchange, but I didn’t care.

It left enough to cover a casket and buy a plot here, in this generic cemetery far enough outside the city that it’s mostly forgotten.

I used the leftover funds to purchase a tiny tombstone with nothing but a number on it.

It would have been cheaper if I’d cremated him, but Melvin was incredibly claustrophobic and terrified of being buried alive. He’d been very strident about his desire to be cremated for that reason. So, of course, I did the opposite. One last fuck-you to the man who fucked up our lives.

I’d gone to great lengths to ensure Melvin’s grave was anonymous and forgotten. Except, somehow, someone had found it.

I slip out of the car and weave my way through the clusters of other graves and brittle yellow grass until I’m standing in front of his. The FBI told me they reburied the empty casket once they’d taken whatever evidence they could. It’s weird to stand here, knowing there’s nothing of him here.

I notice there’s dirt caked in the carved numbers of his tombstone and I do nothing to remove it. If I weren’t worried that it might be disrespectful to the dead around me, I would have spit on Melvin’s grave.

I stand for a moment, reliving it all. The horror of that afternoon when I arrived home to find the dead body hanging in our garage.

The year in jail, separated from my kids.

The trial and having to face—in detail—the horror Melvin had inflicted on those women.

The years after, constantly on the run, changing our names, schools, towns. Never putting down roots .

The fear of being hunted, of having my kids taken, our lives constantly threatened.

All of it because of Melvin fucking Royal.

And it’s not even just our past he’s robbed us of. It’s also our future: Lanny’s fear of going to college because she’ll always be known as that serial killer’s daughter. Connor’s terror that he’ll grow up to be a man like Melvin. My inability to let go of Sicko Patrol.

“I’m not letting you win,” I tell him. “I’m done with you playing a role in my life.

Here’s the thing: we’re fine without you.

We’re amazing without you. Connor is this incredible kid—smart, sensitive, caring.

You always worried about him growing up soft, but he’s a badass.

More so than you ever were. He wants to be an architect, or a therapist, maybe an author.

And he would be great at any of those things.

That kid has been through more than any child should ever have to deal with and he’s come out stronger for it.

“And Lanny…you would be enraged if you saw her now. Her hair color changes from week to week. She wears baggy clothes and black nail polish. She’s a proud feminist. And guess what else—she dates girls.

She’s smart too. She’s gotten into colleges that would blow your mind, and she’s going to go, and she’s going to live an incredible life.

“You wanted to raise her to be meek and mild and afraid like I used to be. Well, guess what? She’s loud. She’s got strong opinions and loves to share them. She’s fiercely loyal—to her brother, to her friends, to me and Sam.

“Speaking of Sam, he’s a wonderful father.

He’s their real dad, not you. He adopted them, did you know that?

He listens to them, he supports them, he challenges them.

He loves them. He truly does—not the way you claimed to.

They’re not some prop he uses to make himself look good.

Also? He’s pretty damn amazing in bed. I never get tired of feeling that man’s hands on me. ”

I realize I’m crying, but they’re happy tears. Relieved tears. The kind you let loose when you’re reaching the end of something momentous.

“So, you know what, Melvin? We’re doing pretty fucking well without you. We don’t need you. We never did. I’d say I hope you rot in hell, but I don’t care. I don’t care about you at all. I’m done with you taking up space in our lives.”

With that, I turn on my heel and leave.

I recall the maintenance building being on the back edge of the property and decide to walk rather than drive.

I use the opportunity to breathe in the fresh, frigid air, letting it sear my lungs.

When I reach the building, I find an older man unloading bags of mulch from a truck.

He’s wearing a beat-up tan jacket and a plaid hat, and his face is weathered and wrinkled from decades spent outside.

“Excuse me, hello,” I call out as I approach.

He pauses and looks up, then straightens, taking his time with it and arching his back to stretch it a little in the process.

“Do you work here?” I ask, even though it’s obvious from the badge on his jacket that he does.

He nods. “I do. Name’s Callum.” He holds out a hand.

“Hi, Callum, I’m Gwen,” I say, shaking it. I note that his palms are rough and calloused. Unsurprising, given his job. “Can I ask you a couple of questions about one of the graves?”

His forehead wrinkles in concern. “There a problem?”

“Oh, no, not like that. I’m not here to complain or raise a fuss.” I try to figure out the best way to explain the situation without giving too much away. “I’m just curious about something. Grave marker 820724, you know where that one is?”

He thinks for a moment. “Over in section seven. Barre gray, single upright.”

I remember the woman at the funeral home poring through the options, trying to upsell me at every turn. My answer was always the same: whatever is cheapest. I’d have thrown his body out to rot in a garbage dump if it had been allowed .

I nod. “That’s the one. I’m surprised you remember it off the top of your head.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been mowing around these graves since before you were born. I remember when they put that one in because most anonymous folk end up in the pauper graves. Not that I care much. Don’t change the job none.”

He’s got a point. “Do you have any idea who’s buried there?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I sure don’t.”

“You sure? His name wasn’t in any records?”

He shakes his head again. “They keep those up at the office.”

“You’ve never been curious?”

“It’s not my job to be curious. It’s my job to take care of the graves and the grounds. We all belong to God, no matter who you are or what you’ve done.”