Page 50 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

I wonder if he’d change his mind if I told him the grave belonged to a man who’d tortured and brutally murdered over a dozen young women. “Have you noticed anyone paying special attention to that grave?”

He grabs a water bottle from a nearby table and takes a long sip as he considers. “There was a woman who used to come by every now and again, but she stopped a while back.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Did you tell the FBI agents when they were here before?”

He frowns, clearly confused. “FBI agents?”

I nod. “They came out a couple of months ago.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t here. My daughter had a kid near a year ago. He came early—was in the NICU for a long time. I took an extended leave to help her take care of her other kids. Just came back a few weeks ago.”

“How’re they doing—your daughter and her son?”

He instantly softens. “Cutest kid you’ve ever seen. Of course, I feel that way about all my grandkids. He gave us a scare, but he pulled through. He’ll be one next month. ”

“Your daughter is lucky you were there for her,” I tell him.

He smiles. “There isn’t much I won’t do for my kids.”

“I have two of my own. I know exactly what you mean.”

“How old?” he asks.

“Seventeen and fifteen. Girl and a boy.”

He smiles. “Almost an empty nest.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“It’s like an eagle teaching her young to fly. When they soar off, you know you’ve done your job well.”

The analogy brings unexpected tears to my eyes. “Thank you for that,” I say softly.

He laughs. “Then you just have to hope they bring home little eaglets of their own one day. I’ll tell you this much: nothing better than being a grandparent.”

I’ve barely thought past Lanny getting her GED and going to college.

I haven’t even considered beyond that, to the day she or Connor might bring home kids of their own.

But somehow, in that moment, I know it’s a real possibility.

They can both have that future if they want it.

They can have any other future they want as well.

Something shifts in my heart, something fundamental and foundational. Because I can see it now. Their futures. Not exactly, nothing specific, just the existence of them, bright and brimming with possibility.

Regardless of what happened yesterday, or eight years ago, or what will happen tomorrow or in a decade, my kids will be okay. Not just okay, they’re going to thrive.

They’re going to soar.

Callum clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. “Sorry, you weren’t asking about me; you were asking about 820724.”

“Oh, right. Do you recall anything about the woman who used to visit? Her age or what she looked like. ”

“I don’t, no. When people are visiting, I try to keep my distance. I know that’s a private time between them and their loved one. I don’t want to interfere or interrupt.”

I pull my phone from my pocket and navigate to the professional profile pic of Rowan I’d found earlier. I show it to him. “Any chance she looks familiar?”

He studies the photograph, then reluctantly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. Like I said, I keep my distance.”

Damn. I’d been hoping he might recognize her, which would be the proof I needed to tie Rowan to Melvin’s grave. “Is there anything else about the grave? Anything that stands out?”

“Other than the incident with the salt, no.”

I blink, taken aback. “The incident with the salt?”

“A while back, someone salted the grass. Killed it straight out. Made quite the eyesore.”

“Is that something that happens often?”

“Never happened in any cemetery I’ve been tending.”

“So, what happened?”

“We had to pull out the grass and at least a foot of dirt to make sure we got rid of it all before replacing the sod.”

I can’t believe I never heard about this. “When was this?”

He considers a moment. “You know, it was the Fourth of July year before last. I remember because we pulled up the grass before I left for vacation—I always take my grandbabies to the beach that week to give their parents a bit of a break. It wasn’t until I came back that we were able to lay the new sod. ”

My heart gallops in my chest as the implication of what he’s saying becomes clear. “So, the grave was left unattended with the sod pulled back for a week?”

He lifts a shoulder. “More or less, yeah. We didn’t have any other burials that week, so it wasn’t a problem. Usually, something like that would be an eyesore, but we don’t get a lot of visitors out here. ”

“When you came back, did you notice anything different about the grave?”

He frowns. “Different how?”

“Like, had the ground been disturbed in any way?”

“I mean, the ground had been churned, but that was just Mike prepping the dirt for the sod.”

“Is Mike around anywhere so I can ask him about it?”

He shrugs. “He works in the office now. You’d have to look for him there.”

I hold out my hand again. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for taking the time to answer my questions.”

He nods, and we shake. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Me too , I think as I start back toward my car.

Though I think I’ve at least narrowed down the window for when Melvin’s bones were stolen.

If someone salted the gravesite, it makes sense the cemetery would have to dig up the ground and go deep enough to remove the affected dirt.

At that point, the grass would be removed, along with about a foot of earth.

Which would make it that much easier for someone to dig up a grave without drawing too much attention.

Once at my car, I drive back to the cemetery gates and park in the lot by a small office.

There’s only one person inside, a middle-aged man wearing navy pants and a slightly yellowed shirt with a short green tie.

He smooths his hand over the tie and stands when I enter.

“Welcome to Shady Grove Cemetery,” he says.

His eyes carry the desperate hopefulness of a salesman trying to close a deal.

I start to introduce myself but then remember that I purchased Melvin’s lot under my former name. I hadn’t wanted it to be attached to Gwen Proctor. I swallow down my revulsion and force myself to say, “Hi, my name is Gina Royal. I have some questions about a grave.”

His eyes flare. “Royal?” He seems confused at first, though it’s obvious from the slight quaver to his voice that he knows my connection to the celebrity who was once buried in their midst. He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my understanding that my ex-husband’s grave was robbed. I’m here to find out who did it and when.”

“Um…” He glances around, and I note the panic in his eyes. “Okay. Sure. I should probably call my manager, though. She’ll probably be able to help more than I can.”

“Are you Mike?”

He nods but seems surprised and a little panicked that I know his name.

“My understanding is that my ex-husband’s grave was vandalized a year and a half ago—the ground was salted, and you helped fix it.”

“Um…” It’s obvious he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“You tilled the ground to loosen the dirt for laying down sod,” I prompt.

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. I didn’t have anything to do with—I just do what I’m told, and no one told me to do that.” He’s on the verge of panicking. I’d feel sorry for him if I didn’t think he had information that might be helpful.

“I heard there was a woman who’d been visiting the grave before that incident.”

He nods again.

I pull up the photo of Rowan I showed to Callum just a few minutes ago. “Is this her?”

He studies the picture. “Maybe?” I can’t decide if he’s trying to be evasive or genuinely isn’t sure.

“When I came in here, you recognized my name instantly.” He seems relieved that I don’t press him on the picture.

“Sure. Of course I recognized your name.”

“Because you know Melvin Royal is buried here.”

“Riiight,” he admits, reluctantly drawing out the word .

“How did you know that?”

He freezes. “Um.”

“His grave is supposed to be anonymous. That’s why there’s no name on the marker.”

He swallows but doesn’t have an answer.

“The woman who used to visit that grave, are you the one who told her where Melvin Royal was buried?”

He glances past me toward the door, and I’m sure he’s calculating an escape. I shift slightly, blocking his exit.

“I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble,” I tell him. “I’m just looking for answers.”

He seems to think about it for a moment, then deflates entirely. “I only talked to her on the phone a few times. When she visited, she always wore a large sun hat and avoided interacting with anyone. I assumed…” His cheeks color slightly.

“What did you assume?” I press.

He lets out a breath. “She told me her name was Gina Royal.”

I wasn’t expecting that. “Did she ever show you any kind of identification?”

He counters with, “Can I see your ID?”

Touché. I can’t show him any because my license and all my credit cards are under Gwen Proctor. I have nothing officially tying me to my old identity. That’s how I prefer it.

“Can you describe her?”

He shrugs. “Dark hair. Good looking.”

As far as descriptions go, it’s pretty useless. I try to keep the exasperation from my voice when I prod, “Older? Younger? Tall? Short?”

“Average?” He guesses.

I bite back my impatience and move on. “Callum said she stopped visiting at some point,” I say, trying to pull the interview back on track. “Do you remember when that was?”

“Summer about a year and a half ago. Around the Fourth of July. I remember because Callum was out on his yearly beach trip, and I had to cover for him. Had to cancel my own plans.”

“So, after that week, you never saw her again? And that didn’t surprise you?”

“It happens more often than you think. People don’t come here for the dead, they come for the living. They come because they need closure, or to work something through, or just to say things out loud, even though no one is listening. I figured she got what she needed and was done.”

She did get what she needed , I think to myself. Melvin’s body .