Into, I determined, as a battered pickup with Illinois plates rumbled past.
Behind it were six motorcycles and two RVs. One of the RVs had speakers—blessedly silent—mounted on its roof and had been painted with a huge version of the Tracker dagger. I squinted at the license plate: Ontario. People really were coming from all over for the rally.
Two news trucks from major networks followed the caravan.
They proceeded down the hill and around a bend, heading for downtown.
As soon as the last bumper disappeared from sight, I stepped out of the shadows and walked the short distance to Fern Ridge. It was early, just past eight o’clock, but the cemetery gates were open and there was already a black Acura in the small row of parking spaces used by people who preferred to walk the tree-lined paths.
I bit my lip as I passed the car.
I was late.
The graveyard seemed oddly silent—not even the sound of birds or the noise of the breeze through the branches overhead—as I made my way to the far corner of the grounds, and I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was being watched.
I used to come here a few times a year with Tess—Fern Ridge was filled with family Hank had never told me about—but I hadn’t set foot through the gates since Amy’s funeral; I hadn’t wanted my memories of her tied to a stone slab.
I still didn’t, but I couldn’t risk going back into town, and the graveyard was one place I felt reasonably sure would be private at this time of morning.
Come and see me—that’s what Amy had said in my dream. Maybe it was right that I had chosen this place.
Like every other Walsh, Amy had been buried in the area reserved for Hemlock’s wealthiest and most powerful residents. The closer I got, the larger the tombstones became. The more important the person—the more money their family had—the bigger the marker.
It was a far cry from the small cemetery back at Thornhill. There, only numbered plaques marked final resting spots.
I stepped around a mausoleum that was half the size of my apartment and slowed as Amy’s grave came into sight.
A familiar figure stood in front of the tombstone. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of a black wool coat and his head was bowed.
Stephen.
Last night, when Kyle had thought I was trying to call my father, I had texted Amy’s brother and asked him to meet me here.
“Stephen?” My voice came out louder than I had intended, startling us both.
Amy’s brother turned, his blue eyes wide. “Mac.”
I hadn’t seen Stephen in almost a year. He looked a little older—more tired and with more shadows around his eyes—but otherwise just as I remembered. A younger version of his father with tussled blond hair, eyes the color of a winter sky, and a lean frame that I knew—from the countless times he had picked me up and tossed me into the Walsh family pool—was stronger than it looked.
His jacket gaped open, revealing a blue scarf and a gray T-shirt with an illustration from Where the Wild Things Are on the front. The shirt had been a birthday gift from Amy; I had been with her when she bought it. Stephen needs to be a little more wild, she had said.
Maybe this had been a bad idea.
The last thing I wanted was to grill Stephen over his sister’s grave, but he was the best link I had to CBP. Other kids got summer jobs at the pool or the mall, but Stephen’s family had always expected bigger things from him. From the time he was fourteen, he had spent every summer working for CutterBrown. According to the voice mail he had left me yesterday—and how was it possible that so much had happened in twenty-four hours?—he was working for them now.
I swallowed and searched for words. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s early.”
He shrugged, the gesture oddly graceful. “You said it was important. Besides,” he added. “I needed to come here.” He glanced back at Amy’s grave. “I can’t run from it forever.”
I closed the distance between us and stared down at the epitaph on the stone. AMY ADLER WALSH. BELOVED DAUGHTER. “You weren’t at the funeral,” I said, letting the words hang in the air like a question mark. I knew he hadn’t gone—I knew he had only made it as far as the gate—but it had been six months; it hadn’t occurred to me that he might not have come here in all that time.
“No,” he said, answering the part of my question that had been unspoken.
“But you came when I texted?” I couldn’t quite keep the surprise from my voice. “Why?”
Again, he shrugged. “Because you were Amy’s best friend. Because you asked. Because it was time.”
Three explanations. I was sure all of them were true, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that. “Because you were curious?”
A slight, tight grin flashed across his face. It wasn’t a real smile—I doubted Stephen would smile again until he left the cemetery—but it was still nice to see. “That, too.”
We fell into an awkward silence as he waited for me to explain why we were here. “I got your voice mail,” I said finally, not sure how else to begin. “You’re working for your dad?”
“For a little while. I needed a break from school, and I figured I could learn just as much about business working for my father as I could in a classroom.”
I couldn’t imagine Stephen ever needing a break from anything. He had always had this quiet strength that made it seem like he could tackle any challenge—at least until Amy’s death.
Her murder had been an earthquake. All these months later, we were all still trying to survive the aftershocks.
“It must be interesting,” I said, “working for a company that does so much cutting-edge stuff—like that LS detection test they were working on.” Inside, I cringed. The words felt about as subtle as a wrecking ball.
“It is interesting,” he conceded. “But I’m sure you didn’t ask me to meet you in a cemetery at eight in the morning to talk about my career plans.” His tone was mild, but something in his expression became a little more guarded.
I chewed the inside of my cheek.
How exactly did you work your way up to asking the brother of your dead best friend whether or not their father’s company had partnered with a deluded prison warden in the torture and murder of dozens of teens?
As I struggled to figure out what to say, a light breeze kicked up, stirring a scrap of color in the grass near my feet. My heart caught in my throat.