Graveminder. Melissa Marr

so he sat at the bar and told himself that being met by an undertaker—especially me—wasn’t liable to help her mood.

      “Are you drinking or just taking up a stool, Byron?” Amity smiled to ease the bite in her words. She’d been a welcome diversion since he’d been home, never demanding, never asking for more than he could offer.

      “Byron?” she prompted, her tone a little less sure this time.

      “Drinking.” He tapped his empty glass.

      After an assessing look, Amity took his glass and scooped ice into it. She was pretty, with plenty of attitude. Skeleton-hand barrettes held back pale blond hair; thick-rimmed red glasses framed dark eyes heavily made up in purples and grays. Her curves were accented by a tight black shirt decorated with a picture of a cartoon monster and the words GOT STAKES? on the front and GOT SILVER? on the back. She was four years younger than he was, so she wasn’t old enough to notice when he was in high school, but in the few months he’d been home, he’d definitely been noticing her. Amity was uncomplicated, and he was able to give her exactly what Rebekkah had asked for from him: no strings, no hang-ups, no future talk.

      Maybe I’ve changed.

      Amity darted a glance at him, but didn’t speak as she tipped the bottle over the glass, pouring a triple shot of Scotch.

      He held out a credit card.

      She set the glass on a new coaster in front of him with one hand and took his card with the other. “It’ll be okay.”

      “What?”

      She shrugged and turned to the cash register. “Things.”

      “Things,” he repeated slowly.

      She nodded but didn’t look up. “Yeah. Things will be okay. You have to believe that … it’s what we’re all doing since she died.”

      Byron froze. Amity’s words emphasized how little they actually talked. He knew very little about her life, her interests, her. “Maylene?”

      “Yeah.” She swiped his card and while it was printing slid the Scotch into the empty space on the shelf. “Maylene was good people.”

      Byron paused, took a drink, and then asked, “Did she come in here? I didn’t see her around.”

      “She came in, but not much.” Amity leaned on the counter for a moment and leveled her gaze on him. “I mostly know her through my sister. Maylene went to council meetings, and Bonnie Jean took a seat on the council last year. So …”

      Byron looked at the clock again. Rebekkah’s flight should’ve landed.

      “Hey.” A soft touch drew his attention: Amity covered his hand with hers. He glanced at it, and then his gaze flickered between her hand and her eyes.

      “Things will be okay. You need to believe that,” Amity assured him.

      “Why does it seem like you know something I don’t?”

      “Most folks don’t get to leave like you did. Sometimes a person who stays around here knows things … different things than those who were able to go.” She squeezed his hand. “But I’m guessing you know things I don’t.”

      Byron didn’t pull away, but he did pause. Amity usually kept the conversation light—if they even talked at all. He took a long drink to stall.

      “Relax.” She laughed. “No strings, right? You think I’m changing the rules on you or something?”

      He felt his tension drain away as she laughed.

      “No,” he lied.

      “So … after I close …” She let the offer hang in the air.

      Most nights he stayed until closing only if he intended to accept that offer. Tonight he couldn’t. It was foolish to feel guilty, but he did. He couldn’t be with Amity when Rebekkah was in town. He also couldn’t say that to Amity. Instead he smiled and said, “Rain check?”

      “Maybe.” Amity leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Go see her.”

      He gripped his glass tightly, but tried to keep his expression neutral. “Who?”

      Amity shook her head. “Rebekkah.”

      “Rebek—”

      “You’ll feel better if you make sure she’s home safe.” Amity slid the credit-card slip and a pen over to him.

      “How did you—”

      “People talk, Byron, especially about you two.” Amity’s expression was unchanged. “Just so you know, though, she doesn’t talk about you ever. When you were away and she visited, Maylene introduced us and we got to know each other, but she’s never once mentioned you.”

      Byron stared at the credit-card slip for a moment. He wanted to ask if Amity still talked to Rebekkah, to ask if Rebekkah knew that he and Amity … Not that it matters. He shook his head. Rebekkah had made herself perfectly clear years ago, and they hadn’t spoken since that night. Byron signed the slip and shoved his copy of the receipt into his pocket.

      He looked at Amity. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

      “You and I don’t exactly talk much, Byron.” She grinned.

      “I’m s—”

      “No, you’re not,” she said firmly. “I don’t want words, Byron, especially empty ones. I want the same things you usually offer. Don’t stop coming to see me just ’cause Rebekkah’s home.”

      “Rebekkah and I … We’re not—”

      “Come see me,” Amity interrupted. “But not tonight. I already told Bonnie Jean I might need a ride. Go on.”

      Byron stepped up to the bar, reached out, and pulled her close. He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

      “Your aim’s off.” Amity tapped her lips.

      He leaned in and kissed her. “Better?”

      She tilted her head and gave him a look that, most nights, would’ve meant that they didn’t make it to her place after they locked the door. “Closer. Definitely closer to better.”

      “Next time, Ms. Blue.” He picked up his helmet.

      He was at the door when she answered, “I hope so, Byron.”

      8

      REBEKKAH STOOD AT THE BAGGAGE CAROUSEL. THE AIRPORT WAS MOSTLY empty at this hour, shops closed and gates vacant. She wasn’t quite alert, despite several cups of the nastiness the airline passed off as coffee, but she was upright, awake, and moving. At this point, that was about as much of a victory as could be hoped for.

      Cherub, unhappy to be in her kitty carrier, mewed plaintively.

      “Just a little longer, baby,” Rebekkah promised. “I’ll let you out when we get …” The words dried up as she imagined going home and finding it empty. Tonight there would be no rose-scented embrace to make everything less bleak: Maylene was gone. The tears that Rebekkah had kept in check the past few hours slipped down her cheeks as she watched the baggage carousel. Maylene is gone. My home is gone. The few short years Rebekkah had lived with Maylene, and the next nine years of visiting her, had made Claysville home, but without Maylene, there was no reason to come back here.

      Rebekkah leaned against the faded green wall and stared blindly while the rest of the passengers got their bags and left. Eventually hers was the only bag circling. The carousel stopped.

      “Do you need help?”

      Rebekkah looked up at a man in an airport uniform. She blinked.

      “Is that your bag?” He pointed.

      “It is.” She stood up. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

      He stared