“This is a crime scene,” the thin man says. He turns to me. I remember his name is Nicolas. “You can't be here.”
“What happened here?” I ask, ignoring his warning.
“That's what we're trying to figure out, Ms. Monroe. Now, if you'll step aside.”
I do, but not in the direction he wants. Instead, I move closer to the dug-up grave.
“I'm here for Jake. If you haven't noticed, no one is talking to him. Don't you think he has the right to know who did this to his father's grave?”
I hazard a glance down. Frozen grass and clumps of dirt lay on the splintered casket. Moisture from years below ground has discolored the satin lining and made it pull away from the corners of the lid. But in some places, there are still signs of where the body crushed down into the casket and left its permanent impression.
“Like I said, we are trying to figure that out right now. Until we know something, there's nothing for us to tell him. But this really shouldn't surprise him.”
Nicolas turns away, but I step up to him and grab his shoulder to stop him.
“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“You can't touch me like that,” he frowns.
“Yes, I can. You're a police officer, not the pope. As long as I don't assault you, I can touch you. What was that crack supposed to mean?”
“Ask your boyfriend. The two of you need to get out of here. We'll get in touch with Jake if we need to.”
He turns away, and I walk back to Jake.
“Come on. Let's get you home. You look like you need a shower and something to eat,” I say.
“No. I'm not leaving until they know who did this and where my father is,” he says back through gritted teeth.
“Jake, we need to go. This is an investigation now, and we're just going to be in the way.”
“I'm not in the way. My father needs me.”
“They are doing everything they can. You're not going to be any good if you don't take care of yourself. Let me take you home. I'll make you some food and tuck you into bed. You'll feel better after you get some sleep.”
Jake looks up at me like he's going to argue, but in an instant, the ferocity drains out of his eyes, and he nods. Just before we head out of the cemetery, I have a thought.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I quickly snap a few pictures of the grave. Two of the officers catch me and start to say something, but I steer Jake around, and we head back to his car. The keys are still in the ignition, and I climb behind the wheel to drive him back to his house.
Chapter Eight
I'm most of the way through my second cup of coffee, and the shower is still running down the hallway. Jake didn't say anything to me when we got to the house. He got out of the car and walked inside like he almost forgot I was there. The only sign of acknowledgement that I was still with him was the door standing open. By the time I got inside and locked it behind me, he was already in the bathroom, and I could hear the water. I take the last swallow of my coffee as I stare through the kitchen window at the snippets of the horizon visible through the trees. The vibrant colors of the sun coming up illuminate those spaces, creating patchwork against the sky.
It reminds me of the quilt my grandmother kept draped over the back of her couch when I was a little girl. It's a distant memory. Like I told Jake, I didn't get much time to spend with my grandparents when I was younger. But even with my memories of my grandmother few and far between, that quilt stands out in my mind. She called it a crazy quilt. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized that was actually the name of the pattern. Or lack of pattern. It basically just meant she kept a bag stuffed full of all the scraps and remnants of fabric from every sewing project she did. Sometimes when a dress or shirt of hers got worn out or stained, she'd cut that up and add it to the bag, too. When it was full enough, she took all those scraps and pieced them together in whatever order they came out of the bag when she reached inside. Those turned into her crazy quilts.
By the time I figured that out, she was gone, and I never got to ask her what happened to all the other quilts magically born from that scrap-stuffed bag. I only ever remember seeing that one. Most of the scraps must have come from the same project or recycled garment. Bright shades of orange and yellow interspersed with a few pale blues and white all stitched together and backed in plain black.
Thinking about the quilt makes me feel chilly. My outer layer of clothing got damp in the snow, so it's tumbling around in the dryer to warm back up. This leaves me in only the leggings and tight shirt I had on beneath. I sit my mug down, shuffling over to the closet door in the middle of the hallway. Inside I find a stack of blankets and take one out to wrap around my shoulders. Down the hallway, I hear something along with the sound of the water. I think its Jake's voice. He definitely strikes me as the type to sing in the shower in good circumstances. But these aren't good circumstances. And the voice doesn't sound like it's singing. It's more muttering, mumbling just beneath the sound of the stream coming down from the showerhead.
I take a few steps closer to the bathroom to try to see if I can understand what he's saying, then turn sharply away. He's going through a hard enough time right now without me being nosy. If that is him in the shower talking to himself, I can't really blame him. If there's anything I know, it's having to try to wrap my brain around something that seems so nonsensical, and at the same time, so horrible.
Back in the kitchen, I refill my mug and carry it with me into the living room so I can curl up on the couch. The warm recesses of the blanket take away the chill on my skin quickly, but I can't shake the feeling from what Nicolas said in the cemetery. No one in town seems to have any ill will toward Jake. In fact, he's adored. There hasn't been a single day I've spent with him when he hasn't had a dozen or more people want to stop and talk to him. It's hard to reconcile that with the horrifying desecration of his father's grave. And the way they could have talked about it as if it was somehow expected, or even justified.
A thick book with a dark green leather cover catches my eye where it's sitting on the bottom shelf of a small bookcase. Picking it up, I take it with me back to the couch and open it across my folded legs. It's a picture album, one of the old-fashioned style ones, with each picture tucked carefully into little black paper corners. Much of the open space on each page is filled with delicate gray ink. Captions and notes in ornate, tightly spaced handwriting. It makes me think of mosquitoes spread out across the paper.
“My family.”
I'm several pages into the album when Jake comes into the room. I'm so absorbed in the pictures I didn't hear the shower stop. He smiles faintly at me when I look up. The shower seems to have taken the tension out of his muscles, but there's still a dense swirl of emotions behind his eyes.
And he’s only wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. No shirt at all and the morning light reflects off the muscles in his body.
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I just noticed it and was curious,” I say.
Jake shakes his head. “It's fine. Photo albums are to be looked at, right? If people don't look at them and share the memories, maybe they don't exist at all.”
It's a strange sentiment, but I think I understand what he's trying to say.
“Let me bring you something to eat. I'll be right back.”
He leans forward and kisses me softly as I stand. There's sadness in the kiss, and a bitter sense of searching, like he's trying desperately to find some sort of answer in me. Our eyes meet for a fleeting second, and I walk away into the kitchen. The sheet of biscuits I put into the oven has just finished, and I quickly cook some eggs. Piling them onto the biscuit with a slice of cheese, I fill a glass with orange juice and bring it to him.