Graveminder. Melissa Marr

sometimes; it made me want to stay away more. But Maylene is—was everything. I’d see her and sometimes I could forget that Ella was …”

      “Gone.”

      “Right. Gone,” she whispered. “Now Maylene and Jimmy are both gone, too. My family is gone, so why does it still feel right coming home? It feels right the moment I cross that line. All those prickling feelings that I feel everywhere else I go vanish when I pass that stupid sign.”

      “I know.” He pushed the swing again; the chains creaked from the force of it. “I don’t have any answers … at least not the ones you want.”

      “Do you have other ones?”

      For several moments, he was silent. Then he said, “At least one, but you never like that one when I bring it up.”

      9

      NICOLAS WHITTAKER WASN’T THE SORT OF MAN TO PATROL THE STREETS; HE had people who handled that, people who were out doing it while he waited in the comfort of the mayoral office. It’s the natural order of things. He’d grown up secure in the fact that his hometown was a place where a person could grow up healthy and together. His children, when he was selected to have some, would be safe. They wouldn’t move to some city and get mugged. They wouldn’t have any of those childhood diseases that killed other people’s children. They would be protected. The town founders had made sure of it. Only one real threat to the family he intended to have someday ever existed in Claysville— and only when the Graveminder failed to keep that threat in check.

      Mayor Whittaker paced to the small mahogany bar that his father had added to the mayoral office during his tenure. The soft clink of ice in his glass seemed loud in the empty office. At this hour, his secretary was long gone. He poured himself another bourbon, absently thinking he was lucky that alcoholism didn’t strike the townsfolk either.

      A tap at the door was followed by the entrance of two of the councilors, Bonnie Jean and Daniel. At twenty-six, Bonnie Jean was the youngest of the council members. Her youth made her fearless in a way the other members weren’t, but then again, she hadn’t been on the council the last time they’d had a problem.

      Now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were widened. “We didn’t see anything, you know, weird while we were out.”

      Behind her, Daniel shook his head.

      “We put out the mountain-lion flyers,” Bonnie Jean added.

      “Good.” Nicolas smiled at her. He couldn’t help himself—or see any reason to—she was a lovely girl, albeit not necessarily breeding material. He held up an empty glass. “Would you like a drink to warm up a bit?”

      The young councilwoman flashed a smile at him, even as Daniel caught Nicolas’ gaze and scowled. “It’s getting late, Mayor.”

      Nicolas arched a brow. “Well then, I’ll see you later, Mr. Greeley.”

      “Bonnie Jean doesn’t need to be walking alone with a murderer out there, sir.” Daniel stepped forward so he was standing beside Bonnie Jean. “A young woman doesn’t need—”

      “Um, right here, guys.” Bonnie Jean slipped her hand into her handbag and showed them a .38 gripped in her manicured hand.

      “I see,” Nicolas murmured. “Maybe we should be asking the lady to escort us, Daniel.”

      Bonnie Jean grinned. “Dan’s driving, and he’s more than able to handle himself. What about you, Mayor?”

      With the same showmanship he relied on in meetings, Nicolas patted his trouser pockets and then opened his suit jacket. “Actually, I’m afraid I’m unarmed, my dear. Perhaps I do need an escort.” He smiled at her. “Unfortunately, I’m not quite ready to leave the office. Could I impose upon you to wait?”

      “You could.” She turned to Daniel. “I’m perfectly able to handle whatever’s out there”—she flashed Nicolas a smile—“or in here.”

      After a pointed look at Bonnie Jean, which she ignored, Daniel shook his head and left. She followed him to the door, kissed him on the cheek, and closed the door.

      Nicolas poured Bonnie Jean a glass of Scotch and held it out to her.

      10

      BYRON THOUGHT ABOUT THE THINGS HE OUGHT TO TELL REBEKKAH, about the things he wanted to tell her, and the fact that none of what he had to say was what she needed to hear tonight. They sat in the dark, listening to the insects and frogs and being as careful as they always were when they were trying not to talk. Even sitting beside her made him realize that he’d lied to himself when he’d said he had changed.

      Almost three years had passed since she asked him not to call her anymore. He’d tried several relationships, and then he’d told himself that he wasn’t meant to fall in love. He’d pretended that— like his need to return to Claysville—his need to be with Rebekkah was something he could outrun. The difference, of course, was that when he gave in and went to Claysville, it hadn’t run from him. Rebekkah would run by morning if she wasn’t grieving. She still might.

      Tonight she’d let down her defenses, though. She leaned her head on his shoulder. The adrenaline and grief that had held her upright seemed to fail her all at once. She slouched down—shoulders drooped, one hand falling limp into her lap—like a marionette with cut strings. The dim porch light hid the pallor of her skin, and the messy knot she’d twisted her hair into hid how long it was these days. In all, though, she didn’t look much different than she had three years ago when she’d walked away from him: she was fit enough that he figured she still ran or swam regularly. Or both. Rebekkah had always buried stress with exercise and emotion with flight. Among other things.

      “Byron?” she said sleepily.

      “I’m right here.” He didn’t add that he always would be if she wasn’t so damn difficult or that he hadn’t ever pushed her away when she wanted him there. That was Rebekkah’s area of expertise, pulling him to her and then shoving him away when she realized that she actually wanted him there. He sighed, feeling guilty contemplating those things when she was feeling vulnerable but knowing full well that once she wasn’t feeling lost, she’d be off and running.

      “Bek?”

      “I wish it was a bad dream, B,” she whispered. “Why do they all keep dying and leaving me?”

      “I’m sorry,” he said. Even with a lifetime of being surrounded by the grieving he hadn’t found any better answer. There wasn’t one: people died, and it hurt. No words could truly ease that ache. Byron wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her while tears slid down her cheeks.

      She didn’t pull away, but she did turn her head to look at the slowly lightening sky.

      They sat there for several minutes watching the night end. She had her feet curled up under her, and one hand clutched the chain of the swing as if she were a small child afraid of falling. The afghan was tucked around her, adding to her vulnerable appearance.

      And he felt like a jackass for wanting to tell her the things that she always tried to keep unspoken between them. The problem with Rebekkah was that there wasn’t ever a good time to talk. She only let her walls down when she was hurt, and when she wasn’t hurt she ran—either literally or by chasing emotions away with sex. He used to think that there would be a time when the sex wasn’t an excuse to run from intimacy, but she’d disabused him of that notion the last time he’d seen her. Carefully keeping his own emotions in check, he said, “You’ll sleep better in a bed than out here on the swing. Come on.”

      For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but instead she said, “I know.”

      As she stood, he wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, and she whispered, “Will you stay?”

      When he frowned, she hastily added, “Not like … not with me, just in the house. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want to be alone here.