I was twenty-seven years old and I’d never had a best friend, never had a real confidant and had never once fallen in love. From the time I was nine years old, the dead that walk among us had isolated me from the living. With that first sighting, my life had been changed forever. Like my father, I’d learned to live with my secret, had even come to embrace the solitude, but there were times, like tonight, when I wondered if madness might not also wait for me behind the veil.
But the loneliness I lived with couldn’t compare to the desolation Devlin must face every time he entered his empty house. I didn’t want to dwell on his tragedy or my plight or why fate might be so cruel as to bring the one man who would always mourn another woman into my life. It had always been painfully clear that Devlin was not the man for me and yet I could imagine myself with no other.
I moved through the house like a ghost, floating from one room to another, endlessly searching. I told myself I wouldn’t turn on the computer. I needed to unplug for a while. I was coming to rely more and more on the company of nameless, faceless strangers. But thirty minutes later, I was all tucked in bed with my laptop propped against my knees. I went straight to my blog and checked the comments section. Someone had posted a new entry less than an hour ago:
A quiet life, a quiet death.
Sleep now, Beloved.
Our secret is safe.
I was almost certain the lines were from an old poem, but I had also seen the verse today, carved in stone, at Oak Grove.
With a quivering hand, I picked up the phone and called Devlin.
THIRTY-TWO
I
t was late and the graveyard was quiet. The army of cops had retreated from the tunnels and pathways, leaving behind two sentries at the front gate. The uniforms followed us inside and I led the way through the somber labyrinth of headstones and monuments to the north side of the cemetery, where the seven slot-and-tab box tombs gleamed in the moonlight.
Playing my flashlight over the center tomb, I highlighted the epitaph and imagery carved into the lid. Above the name and year of birth and death was a single tulip—love and passion—and a butterfly, the soul in flight.
“He’s setting them free,” I said softly.
Devlin’s head came up and he stared at me across the tomb.
“The imagery is all the same—the feather, the winged effigy and now a butterfly. The soul in flight. But he isn’t just releasing their souls—he’s freeing them from their earthly shackles.” I glanced back down at the stone. “Hannah Fischer’s mother said that her daughter had a history of abusive relationships, starting with her father. She kept the identity of her latest boyfriend a secret because she knew her mother would try to save her. Do you remember the epitaph on the headstone of the grave where she was buried? ‘The midnight stars weep upon her silent grave. Dead but dreaming, this child we could not save.’”
Devlin eyed me silently.
“The remains that were excavated yesterday… Ethan said she’d been in a terrible accident before she died. Her injuries were so severe she probably had chronic pain and months if not years of physical therapy ahead of her. ‘How soon fades this gentle rose, Freed from earthly woes, She lies in eternal repose.’ Earthly woes. Physical pain. And now we have this one.”
The four of us stared down at the tomb. Devlin and I were on either side and the officers stood at each end.
I read the epitaph aloud. “‘A quiet life, a quiet death. Sleep now, Beloved. Our secret is safe.’”
“Damn, that’s creepy,” one of the officers muttered.
I drew a long breath, my gaze still on the symbol. “The lid will have to be lifted straight up off the tabs.”
“Don’t we need a court order for that sort of thing?” the other officer asked nervously.
“Box tombs were built to fool grave robbers. The body, at least the one first interred here, is buried deep in the ground. The remains won’t be disturbed by removing the lid.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Devlin said, and I fancied I saw the flash of his silver medallion in the moonlight. “Let’s lift it up.”
The top was only a few inches up when the smell came rolling out. I stifled a gag and pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth. The officers groaned, from the weight of the cover and the putrid odor.
“A little higher,” Devlin instructed as he knelt and shined his light inside. He pressed the back of his other hand against his mouth and nose. “Jesus.”
As the lid slowly inched up the tabs, I caught sight of the pale face inside. It was Camille Ashby.
The swirl of police lights painted the darkness as Devlin walked me back to my car. He told me that he would have someone follow me home and make sure my house was watched all night. I thanked him and then we fell silent as we made our way to the road.
Once again, it appeared that the entire Charleston Police Department had descended on Oak Grove. We must have met at least half a dozen officers trudging through the tall weeds. As we emerged onto the road, the Charleston County coroner’s van pulled up to the curb and Regina Sparks got out. She walked right past us in the dark.
“What’s going to happen now?” There would have to be another search, which meant more graves and tombs would likely be defiled. I hated the thought of a mass desecration, but the sanctity of Oak Grove had been tainted a long time ago. Evil had lurked in this graveyard for years. “Why do I have the awful feeling this place will be torn apart before all is said and done?”
“We’ll do what we can to protect the graves,” Devlin said. “But my guess is we’re going to find more bodies.”
More bodies. More epitaphs. I was filled with the worst kind of dread.
Devlin stared down at me thoughtfully. “I don’t think you should come back out here tomorrow. Go home and get some rest. Put this behind you for a while.”
“Put it behind me? How would that even be possible? The killer is communicating through me. If he posts another epitaph to my blog, am I supposed to ignore it?”
“Of course not. I want you to call me. But call
me.
No one else.”
The glint of his eyes in the moonlight made me shiver. I couldn’t see the silver chain around his neck, but I knew it was there, along with the medallion. The symbol that protected him and set him above the law, at least in Charleston.
“This is a messy investigation,” he said. “A lot of politics, a lot of finger-pointing. And it’s only going to get worse with Camille’s murder. Her people have a lot of influence. They’ll want answers.”
“Good. Maybe this time there won’t be a cover-up.”
“It’s not that simple. I told you before the interest in this case goes all the way to the top. You don’t want to mess with these people. You don’t even want them to know your name.”
“Who are
these
people?”
“The power brokers. The wealthy and the privileged. The people who run things in this city.”
Does that include you?
I wanted to ask.
My mouth went suddenly dry. “They wouldn’t try to implicate me, would they?”
“That won’t happen.” He sounded dead certain. “But I still think you need to lay low for a while. Get some distance from all this.”
I started to ask how I was supposed to distance myself when for all I knew that black sedan might be waiting for me around the next corner. But then I wondered if he was even still talking about the investigation. Maybe he meant I should get some distance…from him.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate all your help.” He reached around me to open my door.
Being so near him was doing something to me. I didn’t go weak like I did when he slept in my house. It was a different feeling. A more subtle exchange of energy. I moved closer, until I could smell his cologne and that powerful essence that was his alone.
Pheromones, Regina Sparks had called it. Whatever it was, I was completely captivated.
And I had just left Camille Ashby’s tomb. What did that say about me? About my control?
Devlin drew a breath. When he spoke, I thought he sounded a little strained and I wondered what that said about
his
control. “Go home, Amelia. Get some rest.”
I loved the sound of my name on his lips. That drawl did things to me, too. I wanted him to say it again, in a whisper this time, right against my ear.
I closed my eyes and let myself fantasize about that and more.
“Call me if you need me,” he said. I felt his breath in my hair and a little thrill went through me. I looked up into his face and his eyes took me in. “Good night…Amelia.”
Not a whisper and not in my ear, but pretty darn close.
I let out a sigh. “Good night.”
It wasn’t until I was well away from the cemetery that I realized something. Where were his ghosts?
THIRTY-THREE
W
as it possible they were gone?
I thought about it all the way home. I’d never known anyone else who was haunted—though I had seen plenty of strangers trailed by ghosts—so I had no idea if anyone was ever released. Papa had always said that once an entity latched onto someone, that person’s life would never again be their own. But it seemed to me that a ghost could move on, perhaps to another host or even to another realm.
If Devlin’s guilt had kept Mariama’s and Shani’s ghosts tied to him, what would happen if that guilt started to fade? What would happen if
he
moved on?
I remembered what Essie had told me. Someday soon Devlin would have to make a choice between the living and the dead. What if he had already made that choice?
Then again, maybe all of this was just wishful thinking.
I tried to put it out of my mind, told myself I wouldn’t dwell on it. Camille Ashby had been murdered and her killer had sent me to that tomb. For whatever reason, he’d decided to communicate through me, and the idea that I was a madman’s conduit was very unsettling.
Devlin had made it clear that he no longer wanted me involved in the case, but the killer might have other ideas. I was brooding about all that when the doorbell rang a little while later. I glanced out the side window, shocked to see Devlin on my front porch. I’d assumed he would be busy at the cemetery for hours.
I led him back to my office because I didn’t know what else to do with him. Like me, he’d showered and changed since our parting at Oak Grove, no doubt trying to scrub away the putrid odor particular to human decay that lingered in the nostrils. As he followed me through the darkened house, I could smell nothing but the fresh mint of his soap and the spicier notes of his cologne. I drew it in on a sigh.
We took our usual places—I plopped down behind my desk and he sat on the chaise. I could tell something was on his mind, but he seemed in no hurry to speak. Since I’d developed an aversion to long silences in his company and could think of no other topic, I asked about Camille. “Could you tell much about her wounds?”
“She was stabbed, but the wounds were different from the others. It was a fast kill. No ligature marks, either. From the cuts on her hands, it looks like she put up a good fight.”
“Why didn’t he string her up like the others?”
“Maybe he was interrupted or ran out of time,” Devlin said. “Or maybe he’s toying with us. He establishes a pattern and then deliberately breaks it. Afton Delacourt was murdered fifteen years ago. We uncover remains in a grave that have been there five to ten years. And now two murders within days of each other.”
“And the skeleton in the chamber that was shackled at the wrists,” I said.
“Right.” Devlin ran a hand through his hair. “This guy is really starting to piss me off.”
I shared his frustration. “I wonder when he got to Camille. The last time I saw her was in the archives room at Emerson.”
“The best way to calculate time of death is to find the person who last saw her alive. It may have been you.” He looked exhausted in the lamplight. “Camille had been dead at least twenty-four hours when we found her. We’ll have a better estimate after the autopsy.”
“I remember something about that day we saw her at Oak Grove. She received a text message and left abruptly. Maybe it was from the killer. If you can find her phone, you could trace that message back to the sender.”
“We don’t even need the phone. We can check the records.”
“Of course you would have already thought of that,” I murmured.
“What I didn’t think of was the significance of those epitaphs. The symbols, yes. Once you explained the soul-in-flight imagery, it seemed pretty obvious. But he handpicked those inscriptions for each of his victims. That was all you.”
“I’m not sure where that gets us, though.”
“It’s helpful. Those epitaphs and symbols are both important elements to figuring out his motivation.”
“Does he have a motive? That device we found in the chamber and the way he tortured those women…” I trailed off on a shudder. “It seems to me he kills for pleasure.”
“I don’t think he’s strictly a thrill killer, but he undoubtedly derives a certain amount of pleasure from taking lives. Considering the symbolism and epitaphs, I think it more likely that he’s devised a persona for himself as a liberator or an angel of mercy in order to neutralize actions that he knows are wrong.”
“Aren’t mercy-killers usually women?”
“Usually, but not always. And it doesn’t explain the way Camille was killed.”
“Did you know that she was a lesbian?”
He shrugged. “I’ve heard that rumor for years, but never thought much about it one way or the other.”
“According to Temple, Camille never came out because her sexual orientation would have caused a lot of problems for her, both at Emerson and with her family.”
He gave me a pensive frown. “What’s your point? You think a female lover killed her?”