Page 7 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

Neither one of them makes any moves to stand, which means they have more questions.

I can already guess what they are. “To save you the trouble, I can also tell you that Sam was flying cargo that week. The FAA will have records of all his flights. Though I’m sure you’re already aware of that or you wouldn’t be here talking to me. ”

This time, Indiri actually smiles. “That is also true.”

I nod. “Now that we have the matter of my involvement—or lack thereof—settled, how about you fill me in on the real reason you’re here?

If this were simply a murder investigation, the local cops would be handling it, not the FBI.

Plus, you mentioned that Melvin Royal was involved.

So far, I don’t see any connection, other than this Cooper Kuntz guy was obviously not a fan of his. ”

“Right again,” Indiri says. “We found something of Melvin’s at the crime scene.”

I frown. Not long after he was found guilty, some of Melvin’s possessions ended up on the black market—items of clothing, letters he’d written, even strands of his hair at one point.

Why anyone found value in that kind of thing, I had no idea.

It disgusted me to even think about. “What was it?” I ask, not really sure I want to know.

“A shard of bone,” he says evenly.

“Bone?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly. “Like human bones? His bone?”

Indiri gestures at Wren, who slides a photo out of the folder and passes it to me. It’s a forensic picture of a piece of bone lying on a blue cloth. The rulers beside it indicate it’s about an inch long and narrow.

“It’s the middle phalange of his index finger,” she tells me. “From his hand. Specifically, his left hand.”

I stare at it. Disgust roils in my stomach when I think about how this used to be a part of Melvin—that it was inside him. A part of his hand that he used to torture women before slipping into bed with me at night and sliding it down my body.

I shove the photo away, bile burning the back of my throat. “How the hell did this guy end up with one of Melvin’s bones?” It’s not like Melvin could have cut off his finger and sold it. If he had, I would have noticed when he kidnapped me with the intent to torture me on a live broadcast.

“That’s something we’re still trying to determine,” Wren says.

There’s suspicion in her voice. I can’t imagine they still think I had anything to do with this. “I can say with absolute certainty that when I shot and killed Melvin Royal, he was in possession of all of his fingers.”

Indiri almost smiles again. “I appreciate the confirmation, though it’s unnecessary. We know where the bone came from. Someone dug up his grave.”

The news lands like a punch in the gut. I sit back in my chair, head spinning.

I’d heard of this happening before: people so obsessed with celebrities that they dig up their graves, then sell off the contents as souvenirs.

It’s gruesome and sick, but it doesn’t surprise me.

At the time of his death, Melvin had fans who were loyal enough to him that they’d do anything, including kidnap his kids and kill his ex-wife.

They were more akin to acolytes than fans.

I’d worried one of them might try to track Melvin down and dig him up, which is why I’d gone to great lengths to prevent that from happening. He’d been buried in an anonymous grave, in a cemetery with zero connection to his life.

I have a photo of that grave hanging in my office. It’s nondescript. One more numbered headstone among a sea of others. A reminder that he’s dead and gone.

“How did they even find him?” I realize I’m angry.

No one was ever supposed to find that grave.

That someone did means I missed something—left some sort of clue to his whereabouts I was unaware of.

Which makes me wonder: what else have I missed?

What other vulnerabilities exist that I’m oblivious to?

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Indiri says.

I run a hand down my face. “When did it happen? Why wasn’t I notified earlier?” There’s a note on file with the cemetery that I’m to be contacted in the event anyone asks about the grave or anything happens to it.

“We don’t know.”

My eyes go wide. “What do you mean? How can you not know? You can’t just dig up a grave without anyone knowing.”

“Trust me, we’re as frustrated as you are,” Indiri says.

I snort in response. I know they’re just bones, and it shouldn’t matter to me that they’re missing, but I took comfort in knowing where Melvin was and that I was the one who put him there .

Wren takes out a few more photos from her folder.

I recognize them instantly. Melvin’s gravesite.

It looks the same as in the picture hanging in my office.

“We spoke to the company that operates the cemetery and to all of the groundskeepers who have worked there over the past year. None of them reported anyone showing any interest in Melvin’s grave, nor do they recall any disturbances in the area.

No tread tracks from a digger, no mounds of dirt.

Nothing whatsoever to indicate something happening with his grave. ”

“I’m assuming you dug it up to verify that his body wasn’t there?” I ask.

Indiri nods. “Earlier this week. The coffin was still there, but it was empty. We’ve sent what we could off to forensics, hoping we might be able to find trace fibers or fingerprints, but…”

He doesn’t have to say the rest. In those conditions, I know how unlikely it is they’ll find anything.

Especially given that they don’t even know when the crime occurred.

I drop my head into my hands. “I can’t believe this.

What kind of sick monster robs a grave and then sells the bones off as memorabilia? ”

Special Agent Indiri shifts in his chair. “We don’t think that’s what’s going on here.”

I lift my head and eye him. “Why not? How else do you explain Cooper Kuntz ending up with one of Melvin’s bones?”

“Because we found the bone lodged in his throat. According to the forensic pathologist, whoever killed him was the one who put it there.”