The area was the quietest it had been all afternoon. Two kids played and giggled. The old panhandler approached their parents and was rewarded with a handful of change.
Jane glanced around. “I don’t believe a bonfire would go over well here.”
Mark laughed. “Ya think? But there’s got to be something we can do. Any ideas?”
“No.”
Two squirrels scampered by.
“I’ve got it,” Mark said. “A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”
“What is it?”
“What if you tell Samantha how you felt? I mean, poured your heart out to her? Wouldn’t that give you closure?” Before she could answer, he continued. “Something brought us both here right now for a reason. I think that ‘something’ wants you to have peace.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“What if…” Mark leaned close. “What if you visit her grave? You can speak from the heart there, for as long as you like.”
Jane played with the neckline of her sweater. “She was cremated.”
“Oh.” Mark fell silent again. A moment later, he said, “Then, what about a quiet place in the park?”
“Here?”
“Not in this very spot, no. But she died in the park, so that makes this a sacred space. Let’s find a quiet knoll, a pretty meadow.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “Do you know where Cedar Hill is?” Again, before she could answer, he went on, “By the Glade Arch. It’s not that far, and once we settle on a location, I promise to give you privacy. Come on.” He stood, offering her his hand.
Jane leaned back. “I don’t think so.”
His face fell. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can’t go back in time, Jane, but I promise you can find closure.”
She remained seated.
“I think you should do this,” he said softly. “I believe Samantha would want you to.”
He looked down at her for a few moments before starting around the statue toward the path that lay beyond. She remained frozen for a solid count of thirty. When she finally stood, she hugged her book and whispered, “Closure.”
The old man in the overcoat perked up as she drew near. He made a feeble attempt to beg, jangling his cup of coins. She didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge him.
Mark waited for her at the path’s opening. “Good girl.”
She stopped and stared up at him. “I can do this.”
They’d walked no more than a hundred yards when she whispered, “Is that beggar following us?”
Mark turned. “Probably hoping I’ll cough up another couple bucks.”
“I guess,” she said. “Doesn’t it seem like he’s moving quicker than before?”
He laughed. “I can take him.”
“I don’t know. He makes me nervous.”
Mark veered left to cross East Drive, where he abandoned the walking path for the cover of the trees.
“Where are we going?” Jane asked. “I thought we were heading toward Cedar Hill.”
“Shortcut.”
She followed, hurrying to keep up. “Why are you walking so fast?”
“You want to lose that beggar, don’t you?”
They picked their way along the uneven terrain, sidestepping tree roots that rose from the ground like giant knuckles. Twice Jane came close to losing her footing while navigating a rocky patch. “We passed the Boathouse parking lot back there.” She jerked a thumb over her left shoulder. “Are you sure we’re going the right direction?”
“This way,” he said, leading them deeper into the trees. The ground was soft, covered in shifting layers of red and gold. Crisp-edged leaves somersaulted through patches of vivid brilliance where breaks in the canopy allowed the sun’s illumination to pass through.
“Are you sure?” she asked, keeping pace.
Rather than answer, he continued to shush and crunch through the quiet piles. “Watch out.” He indicated a fallen log, nearly obscured by the leaves in her path.
Skirting it, she tried again. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”
Mark turned. “Smell that,” he said lifting his chin high, drawing a noisy breath. “Decay and deliverance. There’s nothing sweeter.”
Jane slowed. She glanced from side to side. “We’re still headed west. Shouldn’t we be going north?”
Mark waited for her to catch up. Placing a hand on Jane’s back, he pointed deep into the trees. “There’s a lovely secluded spot not far ahead. I think it would be an ideal place for our ritual.”
Resisting the pressure of his hand, Jane stutter-stepped. “I thought we were going to the grassy hill,” she said in a small voice.
“Too many people,” Mark said. “A ritual like ours would attract attention. I know of a quiet place with a sloping rock behind a giant sycamore. A far better setting to pour out your heart.”
She stopped. “Where are you taking me?”
“If you truly long to be free, Jane,” he whispered into her ear, “then this is your only path.” Though his tone coaxed, it was the pressure of his hand on her back that propelled her through the trees. “Right through there.”
“Stop.” Her body went rigid. “Why did you bring me here?” Jane looked up, down, side to side, like a little bird caught in a surprise cage. Book tight against her chest, she stared past him, shaking her head. “No.” The refusal came out hoarse and soft. She tried again. “Please. No.”
“See?” He pointed deeper into the dense woods toward a stone outcropping just beyond a massive tree. “You can see it from here. A sacred place, don’t you agree?”
Again, Jane shook her head.
He locked a hand on her arm. “Come on, we’ll do this together.”
“Don’t make me go in there.”
“Wouldn’t Samantha want you to be brave, Jane?”
She sucked in a breath. “How do you know where Samantha died?” Wrenching out of his grip, she didn’t wait for an answer. Sprinting back the way they’d come, she’d gotten no more than twenty feet when, with a yelp, she stopped cold.
The old man in the overcoat blocked her path.
Mark shushed through the leaves to join her. “I think the better question is: How do you know?”
Clean shaven now, the old man held his missing beard in one hand and a gun in the other. He shook his head slowly but didn’t say a word.
“What’s happening?” Jane asked him. “What’s going on?”
Mark held out his hand. “Give me the book.”
“But… it’s all I have left of her,” she said.
“No,” Mark said. “It’s all we have left of her. Give it to me.”
Jane loosened her grip on the blue-bound copy and handed it to him.
Mark removed his glasses, placed them in a pocket, opened the book’s front cover and read aloud: “To Laura.” The corners of his mouth tugged downward. “May life be your Wonderland, Love, Dad.”
“I don’t know why it says that,” Jane said. “Samantha never explained that inscription.”
“How could she?” the old man asked. “She was dead when you took it from her.” He holstered his gun beneath his coat. “And her name wasn’t Samantha. It was Laura.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
He opened his collar wide enough to expose the White Rabbit necklace around his neck. “I’m her father, that’s who.”
“Samantha’s father?” Her mouth dropped open. “The police chief?”
“Laura,” he corrected again. “And only an inspector.”
“He tricked me into coming here.” She pointed at Mark. “He’s the one who killed her. Who else could have known where she died?”