Page 33 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

Jack pulled out his phone, scrolling to crime-scene photos that showed the carved markings on the cemetery headstones. “Since you claim to understand what these mean, can you explain them to us?”

Leena studied the images with the focused attention of a scholar examining primary sources. Her fingers traced the air above Jack’s phone screen, following the lines of the carved symbols with precision that suggested genuine expertise.

“These aren’t random,” she said finally. “Someone who understands ritual magic created these. The scales of justice represent divine judgment—the belief that cosmic forces will balance wrongs that human courts failed to address. But look at the way they’re positioned.”

She gestured to the image of Ezekiel Morton’s headstone. “They’re not centered on the stone. They’re placed specifically to the left, which in ceremonial magic represents the path of severity, of punishment without mercy.”

“What about these?” I asked, showing her the Roman numerals carved on Rebecca Hughes’s grave.

“VI, XII, III,” Leena read. “Six, twelve, three. Those aren’t dates—they’re a countdown. Six families were involved in the original injustice, twelve bloodlines were affected, three generations have passed. It’s a way of saying the debt is coming due.”

The hair on my arms stood up despite the warm afternoon. “And the initials around William Lawson’s headstone?”

“Binding circle,” Leena said immediately. “The initials represent the conspirators, carved in a pattern that’s designed to trap their spiritual essence. Someone believes these people need to be held accountable even in death.”

Evangeline had been listening quietly, but now she moved to a bookshelf and retrieved a leather-bound volume that looked genuinely ancient.

“The stone circle found around Rachel Mills’s grave is more complex,” she said, opening the book to reveal pages covered in hand-drawn diagrams. “It’s called a justice circle, specifically designed to channel the energy of the wronged dead toward their persecutors. ”

“You’re saying someone believes they’re channeling the spirit of Bridget Ashworth?” Jack asked.

“I’m saying someone with significant knowledge of ceremonial magic is using these symbols to justify murder,” Evangeline corrected. “Whether they believe Bridget’s spirit is guiding them or they’re simply using her story as psychological justification, the result is the same.”

Leena was still studying the phone images, her dark eyes intense with concentration.

“There’s something else. The precision of these carvings, the specific positioning—this isn’t someone who learned about ritual magic from books or internet forums. This is someone who was taught these symbols, who understands their traditional meanings and applications. ”

“Taught by whom?” I asked.

“Someone with access to genuine grimoires, old family traditions, or formal magical training,” Leena said.

“These symbols are very specific to justice magic, which isn’t commonly practiced anymore.

Most modern practitioners focus on healing or prosperity magic.

Justice magic is considered dangerous because it’s designed to cause harm. ”

“How dangerous?” Jack asked.

Evangeline closed her book carefully. “Dangerous enough that most responsible teachers won’t pass on the knowledge. It requires absolute certainty about guilt and innocence, and humans are notoriously bad at that kind of judgment.”

“But someone taught our killer,” I said.

“Or they’re part of a family tradition that’s been passed down through generations,” Leena added. “Some bloodlines maintain magical practices for centuries, especially if they believe their ancestors were wronged.”

The implications of what they were telling us settled over me like a cold blanket.

We weren’t just looking for someone with access to historical records and crime-scene evidence.

We were looking for someone who’d been trained in a specific, dangerous form of magic designed to punish the descendants of people who’d committed injustices centuries ago.

“Have either of you heard of anyone in King George County practicing justice magic?” Jack asked.

“No,” Evangeline said immediately. “And I’ve lived here for forty years. I know most of the people who practice any form of alternative spirituality, and none of them would be involved in something like this.”

“What about someone new to the area?” I pressed. “Someone who might have moved here specifically because of the Bridget Ashworth connection?”

Leena and Evangeline exchanged glances. “There have been a few people asking about local magical history lately,” Leena admitted. “Someone called Evangeline a few weeks ago, wanting to know about sites connected to the witch trials. But they wouldn’t give their name, and the number was blocked.”

“What did they want to know specifically?” Jack asked.

“Locations where accused witches were buried, whether any of their possessions survived, if there were any living descendants,” Evangeline said. “I told them I didn’t have that information and suggested they contact the historical society. I don’t give out details about burial sites to strangers.”

“Smart policy,” Jack said. “Did they call back?”

“No. But a few days later, someone broke into my greenhouse and stole several rare herbs. Plants that are used specifically in justice magic—belladonna, mandrake root, graveyard dirt that I collected from Bridget Ashworth’s burial site years ago for research purposes.”

My blood ran cold. “You have dirt from Bridget’s grave?”

“Had,” Evangeline corrected. “Along with herbs that can be used to induce cardiac arrest if someone knows the proper preparations.”

Jack and I looked at each other, the pieces of our puzzle suddenly shifting into a new and terrifying pattern.

Thomas Whitman had died of cardiac arrest with no obvious medical cause.

If someone had used magical herbs to stop his heart, it would explain why the autopsy hadn’t revealed a clear cause of death.

“Could those herbs cause the kind of cardiac arrest we saw in our victim?” I asked.

“Belladonna and mandrake, properly prepared and administered, can definitely cause fatal arrhythmias,” Evangeline said. “They’re extremely dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“When exactly was your greenhouse broken into?” Jack asked.

“Three weeks ago. I reported it to the sheriff’s office, but honestly, I wasn’t sure anyone would take it seriously. People assume anything involving herbs and magic is just silly superstition.”

Jack was already pulling out his phone. “I need to check our incident reports. If someone’s been stealing your supplies and asking about Bridget Ashworth’s descendants, we might have a pattern.”

The afternoon light was fading as we prepared to leave, turning the marsh landscape into something that belonged in a fairy tale—beautiful but slightly ominous, full of hidden depths and secrets that whispered in the wind.

Leena walked us to our vehicle, her nervous energy finally settling into something that looked like genuine concern.

“Sheriff,” she said quietly, “whoever’s doing this isn’t just interested in historical justice. Someone with this level of magical knowledge, combined with access to your investigation—they’re not going to stop until they’ve completed whatever ritual they’ve started.”

“How do we stop them?” I asked.

“Figure out how many people are on their list,” she said simply. “Because justice magic doesn’t end until the practitioner believes perfect balance has been achieved. And given what happened three hundred years ago, that could mean a lot more people have to die.”

* * *

The drive back to town felt like emerging from another world.

Cell service returned gradually, and with it the familiar buzz of Jack’s phone with updates from the investigation.

But my mind kept circling back to what Leena and Evangeline had told us about justice magic and the herbs that had been stolen.

“We need to talk to Patricia again,” I said as we reached the outskirts of King George Proper. “If someone’s targeting descendants for a magical ritual, she might know details about the financial stakes that could help us understand the scope.”

“Agreed. And I want to check that incident report about the greenhouse break-in. If we can narrow down the timeline, we might be able to figure out when our killer started planning this.”

Jack’s phone rang as we pulled into the parking lot of a roadside diner that advertised the best fried chicken in three counties. The caller ID showed Patricia Whitman’s number.

“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack answered, putting the phone on speaker.

“Sheriff, it’s Patricia Whitman.” Her voice sounded strained, tinged with an urgency that made me sit up straighter.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation this afternoon, about Thomas’s research and who might want to stop it.

There’s something I didn’t tell you—something about the financial implications of what he’d discovered. ”

“What kind of financial implications?” Jack asked.

“The land that was stolen from Bridget Ashworth—it’s not just historically significant.

If Thomas could prove the original transfers were fraudulent, it would affect current property ownership throughout King George County.

We’re talking about millions of dollars in prime riverfront land, some of the most valuable real estate in Virginia.

The homestead and land that Bridget and her husband farmed was parceled out after she was tried for witchcraft, having deemed property ownership null and void due to her crimes. ”

“Let me guess,” Jack said. “The land that was parceled out went to the families went to the families whose names were marked on those graves.”

“Partially true,” Patricia said. “The Whitmans, Mortons, and Hughes were adjacent to the property and divided it up equally. There are records that show the Mills family was given all the livestock, as the Ashworths had one of the largest farms in the area at the time. And there is a single handwritten receipt that Blackwood took payment for his troubles in overseeing the whole affair by helping himself to gold bars that Bridget’s husband had been given by the king himself because he’d once saved the king’s life. ”

“So the Ashworths were the wealthiest family on the block and the other colonists got greedy,” Jack said, summing it up.

“Essentially,” she said. “If these records held up in court some of the biggest landowners in the county could lose everything if an heir was found.” Patricia’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“In the weeks before he died, Thomas became increasingly paranoid. He said he felt like someone was watching him, following him. He started keeping his research locked up, wouldn’t even discuss it with me at home. ”

“Did he say why he was worried?” Jack asked.

“He said the implications of what he’d found were bigger than he’d realized.

That proving the land fraud wouldn’t just be an academic exercise—it would destroy some of the most powerful families in Virginia.

” A pause, filled with static and what sounded like traffic in the background.

“Sheriff, I think someone killed my husband because his research threatened to expose the biggest land fraud in Virginia history. And I think they’re going to keep killing until everyone who knows the truth is dead. ”

“Have you received any threats?” Jack asked.

“No,” she said. “I have to go. I’ve got meetings.”

The line went dead, leaving Jack and me staring at each other across the Tahoe’s interior.

Outside, the ordinary world continued—people pumping gas, families eating dinner at picnic tables, teenagers texting on their phones.

But inside our vehicle, the weight of what we’d learned pressed down like storm clouds.

“If she’s the killer then this is an interesting strategy,” I said.

“It’s hard to know which direction is up with this case,” Jack agreed.

“But Patricia is right. This isn’t about historical justice or magical rituals. This is about money. Millions of dollars’ worth of stolen land, and someone willing to commit murder to protect their claim to it.”

Jack glanced toward the diner’s neon sign, then at me with that look that meant he was about to go into protective husband mode. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t toast or crackers?”

“I had tea this morning,” I said, already knowing where this was headed.

“Tea isn’t food.” He was already climbing out of the Tahoe. “And before you argue, the baby needs actual nutrients, not just caffeine and wishful thinking.”

“I wasn’t going to argue,” I said, though we both knew I absolutely was.

“Sure you weren’t.” He came around to open my door, that half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s get some protein in you before you pass out and I have to explain to the paramedics why my wife fainted in a diner parking lot.”

“You’re very romantic when you’re being practical,” I said, taking his offered hand.

“That’s because keeping you fed and healthy is my favorite hobby,” he said, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Well, second favorite.”