30

Friday, July 26

Boyett Farm

Good Hollow Road, Fayetteville, 5:50 a.m.

A sound hummed in Vera s head. She told herself to open her eyes, but her body wasn t cooperating. She needed to sleep . . . to stay in this warm place . . .

The buzzing sounded again.

Her eyes fluttered open.

The vibration against wood had her gaze moving toward the bedside table. The screen of her cell phone was lit up.

Someone was calling.

Pushing further out of sleep s hold, she reached toward the nuisance. She hadn t slept well last night-all week for that matter. She was fairly certain it had no longer been last night when she finally drifted off. More like some point this morning.

Phone in hand, she studied the screen. Bent s name and face stared back at her.

She accepted the call and pressed the phone to her ear. Hey. What time was it?

Several cold hard facts battered their way into her consciousness at once. Human remains. The cave. Lies. Secrets.

Her career was over.

She flopped onto her back, snatched the hair out of her eyes.

What the hell now?

I m sorry to have to wake you, Bent said.

No. She cleared her throat. I was awake. Just lying here. What a lie. Her own voice gave away that one. What s going on?

I m at the cemetery. A breath hissed across the connection. Your mama, Vee. A court order prevented me from stopping the exhumation.

Vera bolted to a sitting position. A sharp twinge in her hip reminded her of the intruder, but there was no time to worry about that now. I ll be right there.

She ended the call and grabbed her clothes from where they d landed on the floor last night. She dragged on the jeans and slid her feet into her shoes. She frowned at the wrinkled tee. Maybe there was something she could wear in her closet.

Her head ached. Her chest and hip were sore. She needed coffee. No time. She opened the door to her closet and snatched the tee on the first hanger, tugged it on, and rounded up her bag. A quick pee, then she ran the brush through her hair and headed out.

It wasn t until she was downstairs that she realized she should tell her sisters she was leaving. No time.

Vera had to get to that damned cemetery. Her sisters and coffee would have to wait.

Rose Hill Cemetery

Washington Street, Fayetteville, 6:15 a.m.

She was too late.

The lift was already drawing the coffin from the vault.

Vera slammed her SUV door and stormed in that direction. The numerous vehicles lining the narrow street had forced her to park a block up and walk back.

Reporters shouted questions at her as she marched toward the gate. Vera, why are they exhuming your mother? Vera, do they consider your father a suspect? Vera, did you know your father killed your stepmother? Did he kill your mother too? What s happening with the investigation in Memphis?

She ignored them all, no matter that they made her blood boil even hotter. She was very good at ignoring the questions that couldn t be answered at a given time.

Not to mention that if she opened her mouth to say something to one of them, there was no telling what sort of fury would lash out. Anytime your emotions were out of control, it was better to say nothing at all. A single misspoken or slipped word could cause irreparable damage.

A police officer, Fayetteville City judging by his uniform, stepped in front of her at the gate. I m sorry, ma am, but you can t come into the cemetery right now.

Vera didn t need a mirror to know her face had contorted with the rage now bubbling over. She opened her mouth to launch a tirade, but thankfully Bent appeared.

Let her through, he said to the officer.

Sorry, ma am. The officer stepped aside.

Now that she d had to stop, Vera couldn t seem to set herself back into motion. Her gaze was glued to the movements at her mother s grave . . . her mind was a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. No. No. No.

They can t do this . . . the little girl in her cried.

Except they could . . . the woman trained in law enforcement understood. Higdon wanted it, and no doubt, his son who just happened to be a judge had given him the permission he needed or had a colleague attend to it.

Bent s fingers wrapped around her upper arm and gently ushered her along. She stumbled but somehow managed to follow his lead. This should not be happening. Her mother was innocent in all this. It was wrong to disturb her.

The thoughts were emotional, childish . . . but Vera felt like that little girl right now. Oh, Mama, I m so sorry about all this.

The logical, trained part of her recognized that putting Higdon s foolish accusations to rest was a step forward. As difficult as this was, it was best to get it over with and move on. But she didn t have to make it easy or like it.

Bent pulled her to the far side of the official activity, away from the prying eyes of the reporters. A final glimpse of the line of people along the cemetery fence warned that many of those gathered were lookie-loos. People who perhaps knew one of her sisters or her father. People who would never forget-no matter the outcome of this investigation-the threads of criminal accusation that went with this official act.

Luna would be mortified.

Not that Vera wasn t, but she and Eve weren t totally innocent in all this and had no right to feel personally affronted by the ramifications of their own actions. Luna was completely innocent. Their mother was innocent.

That was a definite oversimplification, but Vera wasn t thinking straight. She needed coffee. Another life.

I know you re upset, Vee, Bent was saying.

She shifted her focus to him, and he made a surprised face. Maybe upset isn t the right word, he amended.

Vera pulled free of his hold on her arm. Where the hell is Higdon? He was the one she wanted to yell at. This wasn t Bent s doing.

Vee, he s not here. He nodded toward the two suits standing next to Fayetteville Police Chief Ray Teller. Those are FBI agents.

Like she didn t recognize an FBI agent when she saw one, but she kept the comment to herself.

This is bigger than us now.

As if someone had pulled the plug in the bathtub, all the anger and ferocity suddenly drained out of Vera. She wilted. The urge to cry was a palpable force. But she refused to give anyone in or around this damned cemetery snippets for their wagging tongues or their bylines. Damn it all to hell.

She took one last look at her mother s coffin, and her heart lurched. I need to get out of here.

Without question, Bent escorted her from the cemetery. The reporters shouted the same questions, which they both ignored.

Once she was in her SUV, he hesitated before closing her door. He glanced at her chest. Nice T-shirt.

She stared down at the tee. Her gaze zeroed in on the logo. Bon Jovi. The lyrics of the song It s My Life echoed in her brain. Bent had given her this tee. He didn t even like Bon Jovi, but he knew she did, and he bought the tee from a guy who had gone to a concert in Atlanta. He even claimed that Bon Jovi had autographed it. The evidence was faded, and who knew if it was real or a forgery, but back then Vera had been thrilled at the notion that the shirt had hung in the same air (meaning in the Philips Arena) that Jon Bon Jovi had breathed.

She stared straight ahead, drew in a breath. Keep me posted about this, will you? Her attention shifted to him. He looked worried. Tired, like her. Stressed. And too damned handsome for his or her own good. Extreme stress prompted thoughtless actions. Nothing good could come of her behaving without thought with this man. No matter how easy it would be at this pain-filled moment.

He gave her a nod. I will.

He closed her door and she drove away. In her rearview mirror, she watched as Bent plowed back through the crowd without stopping.

She appreciated that he wasn t giving them anything.

The urge to cry was back, but what she really wanted to do was scream.