Page 10 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER FIVE

Rain hammered the Tahoe’s windshield as we turned onto Whitman Lane, where crushed oyster shell popped and hissed beneath the tires like bones breaking.

The headlights caught ancient oaks that leaned over the drive, their branches twisted into shapes that belonged in nightmares, Spanish moss hanging like shrouds.

The air tasted metallic, electric—that particular flavor of Virginia storm that made your teeth ache and your skin prickle. Lightning split the sky, illuminating a house that rose from the darkness like something that had been waiting three centuries for us to arrive.

“Jesus,” Jack breathed.

The Whitman house was Georgian perfection, all hand-laid brick and towering columns that had weathered revolution, civil war, and countless storms. But perfection had an edge to it—like a beautiful woman with secrets, it drew you in while warning you to keep your distance.

Jack parked behind a mud-splattered Jeep that looked like it had been driven through hell and hadn’t bothered to stop for a car wash. Field equipment crowded the back—shovels, brushes, collection bags. Tools for digging up the past.

We ran for the porch, rain slicing through the humid air like cold knives.

My boots splashed through puddles that reflected lightning, and the smell of wet earth and old wood filled my lungs.

The front door was massive oak with iron hinges that belonged in a museum, and when Jack’s knock echoed through the house, it sounded like we were summoning ghosts.

The woman who opened the door looked like she’d been wrestling with the dead for days and hadn’t quite won.

Patricia Whitman stood tall in the doorway—late forties, athletic build going soft at the edges, auburn hair shot with gray and yanked back in a ponytail that had given up hours ago.

Red clay caked her boots, dirt crescented her fingernails, and her field clothes carried the earthy smell of excavation sites.

But it was her eyes that made my pulse kick. Green as bottle glass and sharp enough to cut, they locked on to Jack’s badge with the intensity of a predator recognizing another predator.

“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said. “This is Dr. Graves. I’m afraid?—”

“He’s dead.” Her voice was flat as old champagne. Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with all the emotion of a weather report.

“Yes, ma’am. We found your husband’s body this morning. We’re treating it as a homicide.”

I waited for the collapse. The tears. The denial. Hell, even anger would have been normal.

Patricia Whitman did none of those things.

Instead, she stepped back with the controlled precision of a woman who’d been expecting us, her jaw tight enough to crack teeth. “Come in.”

The foyer smelled of beeswax and old paper, leather and whiskey—the particular cocktail of scents that came with old money and older secrets.

She led us to a living room where Colonial furniture mixed with modern chaos.

Research materials covered every surface like she and Thomas had been trying to solve a puzzle with pieces scattered across three centuries.

Patricia went straight to a crystal decanter and poured three fingers of bourbon, neat. The amber liquid didn’t tremble in the glass. Her hand was steady as a surgeon’s.

“Where?” One word, sharp as a scalpel.

“Olde Towne Cemetery.”

She laughed—a sound like glass breaking. “Of course. They couldn’t resist the symbolism, could they?” She took a long pull of bourbon, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed. “The threats started three weeks ago.”

I caught Jack’s eye. In all my years working with the dead and their grieving families, I’d seen every possible reaction to death notifications.

Collapse. Hysteria. Denial. Rage. But this cold, controlled fury?

This was something else entirely. Jack’s subtle nod told me his cop instincts were screaming the same warnings as mine.

“What kind of threats?” Jack pulled out his notebook, but his eyes never left Patricia’s face.

“Anonymous at first. Notes on Thomas’s car. Emails from dummy accounts saying he should stop digging.” Another swallow of bourbon. “Then two weeks ago, he presented our findings to the historical society board. That’s when things got specific.”

“What findings?”

Patricia moved to a table buried under maps and photographs, her movements fluid despite the bourbon. “We’ve been documenting unmarked graves throughout the county. Bodies that shouldn’t exist. People who were erased from history after being murdered for their land.”

She spread out photographs. Excavation sites. Skeletal remains. Personal effects that whispered of wealth and position—gold buttons, silver buckles, jewelry that had outlasted the flesh that wore it.

“Three centuries of murder and theft, Sheriff. And certain families have been protecting those secrets ever since.” Her finger traced property lines on an old map. “Including what really happened to Bridget Ashworth’s land.”

“Tell me about the board meeting,” Jack said.

“Richard Blackwood went volcanic. Screamed about libel, about destroying family reputations.” Patricia’s knuckles went white around her glass. “But Margaret Randolph was the one who scared Thomas.”

“How so?”

“He said she went pale as death when he showed the evidence. After the meeting, she cornered him in the parking lot.” Patricia’s voice dropped, cold as winter stone.

“Told him that some sleeping dogs should stay sleeping. That terrible accidents happened to people who went digging in the wrong places.”

The rain lashed the windows, and thunder rolled through the house like a warning.

“When Thomas tried to argue, she said his expertise in finding bodies might serve him well when he became one.”

“Did he report it?”

“He wanted evidence first. Real evidence.” Patricia moved to a secretary desk, pulled out a folder.

“Yesterday, he was supposed to meet with the state archaeological commission. He’d found original surveyor’s notes from 1725 in the courthouse basement.

Documents that proved everything—that Bridget Ashworth’s thousand acres of riverfront property was stolen using forged documents. ”

She handed Jack the folder, and I saw his jaw tighten as he scanned the photocopies.

“Mrs. Whitman,” Jack said carefully, “we’ll need Thomas’s phone records, appointment calendar, any notes from recent meetings.”

“I’ll pull it all together.” She set down her empty glass with a soft click.

“Sheriff, my husband knew the risks. He went anyway because he believed the truth mattered more than his safety.” For the first time, something flickered in her eyes—not grief, but rage.

“Don’t let them bury this along with him. ”

“We won’t. Is there someone you can call?”

“My sister in Richmond.” Patricia’s spine straightened like she was preparing for battle. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

The words hung in the air like a confession.

Outside, we ran through the rain to the Tahoe, water streaming off our jackets, the smell of ozone sharp in the air.

“That was interesting,” Jack said once we were inside, his tone deceptively mild.

“No tears. No shock. No questions about how he died.” I watched Patricia’s silhouette appear in the window, backlit and motionless. “Just straight to who and why.”

“Could be shock.”

“Could be.” I turned to face him. “Or could be she’s been expecting this. Could be she already knew.”

Jack’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel—his tell when his mind was racing. “Phone records. Alibi. Financial records. The works.”

“She didn’t kill him,” I said, surprising myself with my certainty. “But she knows more than she’s saying.”

“Agreed.” Jack started the engine. “The question is whether what she’s hiding is relevant to his murder or just to their marriage.”

Lightning illuminated the world in stark relief—the house, the trees, the rain—before plunging us back into darkness. In that brief moment of clarity, I saw Patricia still standing at the window, watching us leave.

A woman carved from stone, waiting for her moment to strike back.