Page 48 of Grave Stone

“Thank fuck! I’ve been trying to figure out how to refer to myself in that context, and the best I could come up with was something’d. And yes, I did. I should’ve apologized sooner, but it never occurred to me that it might have been traumatic for the person on the other side, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

“I appreciate it, but I wouldn’t say it was traumatic.”

“You think you unknowingly cremated your wife. Then an alive woman unexpectedly jumped out of a casket when you opened it. Shit doesn’t get much more traumatic than that,” she said and snapped her fingers. “That’s why you’re dreaming about it.”

“Fine. Your punk ass rattled me a little,” I admitted, feeling oddly comfortable with her.

“Well, tell me about the dreams.”

“It’s the same dream, over and over. Your face turns into hers, and then I wake up.”

“That sucks. Do I look like her?”

“Not at all,” I told her. “She had short, dark hair and brown eyes.”

And your eyes aren’t filled with anger and hatred like hers were.

She gasped as a look of horror washed over her face. “That’s why you walked off Monday night. Because I asked if you’d found other women besides me. I thought you were pissed because I was asking about your shady business dealings.”

“I wasn’t pissed, but I didn’t want to continue the conversation. I’d planned on going back to the table with you, but when I looked back at you at the door, your face turned into Kim’s.”

“I don’t like that my face is doing things I can’t control.”

“Earlier, you tried to apologize for scaring me when you were the one assaulted, and now you’re blaming my hallucinations on your face. None of this is your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this to happen to you.”

“Neither did you,” she said. “With her or me.”

“I’m not out here blaming myself and apologizing to people either.”

“No, but maybe you should consider getting another job. I mean, how do you think you’ll handle it if it happens a third time?”

“You’re not the first person to make that suggestion.”

“Maybe it’s something to think about after all this is over,” she said and rubbed her arms.

“You cold?”

She shrugged. “A little.”

“Sleepy?”

“Not yet.”

I shifted and raised my arm so she could move in closer. “Come here.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Better?”

“Much,” she said softly as she rested her head on my chest.

And that’s how her friends and most of the club found us the next morning—sound asleep on the swing.

20

WHITNEY

The detective knocked on the front door at exactly four o’clock. I answered with Stone standing directly behind me. “Hello. You must be Detective Yates.”