Cemetery Girl

“If you think you can come in here and mess with me, toy with my emotions-”

She moved quickly and was up out of the chair, reaching for her bag and brushing her hair back out of her face. She didn’t even look at me, but turned for the door.

“Tracy, wait.”

My hand went to my back pocket. I never carried much cash. I dug around and found forty-two dollars. I held it out to her.

She turned and looked at me, looked at my hand and the money, but didn’t make a move to take it. I tossed it onto the desk.

“Take it,” I said. “I don’t care.”

She still didn’t move. Her top teeth rested on her lower lip.

“Buy diapers or something. But if you know anything else. .”

She took two steps forward and picked up the money. She looked at it for a moment, then folded the bills in half and slipped them into the front pocket of her shorts.

“That man is very bad,” she said.

“Do you know him from somewhere? Have you seen him before?”

She backed away, her eyes averted from mine.

I started around the desk. “Tracy, if you know something and you don’t tell-”

She held her hand up between us, telling me to stop. I did.

“Tell Liann,” I said.

“I told the truth already,” she said. “I told my story.”

“Is there more?”

She nodded toward my desk. It took a moment for me to understand what she meant. Then I saw it-the card. Volunteer Victim Services.

“Think about calling Susan,” she said.

Then she slipped through the door and closed it behind her almost soundlessly.

Chapter Sixteen

Abby’s car sat in the driveway. It was filled with more boxes, more clothes, the remains of what she needed from the house.

Three boxes sat on the kitchen table with clothes on hangers draped over them. The clothes were from the winter-heavy coats and sweaters. I stood beneath the overhead fluorescents, a light fixture we’d always planned to replace but never did. I ran my hand over the fabric of her sweaters. I brought the sleeve of one up to my nose and took a deep breath. I always used to enjoy Abby’s scents-the fruity shampoos, the sweet soaps, even the smell of her sweat when she exercised or worked on something around the house. But this sweater smelled musty, the product of a closed closet.

“You’re home.”

I dropped the sleeve. Abby stood in the doorway, holding a canvas bag full of clothes.

“I was in the office most of the day,” I said.

“Good.” Abby came farther into the room and put down the bag. “This is the last of it,” she said. “I’ll take it out to the car.”

“Do you want me to help?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s my stuff. I’ll take it.”

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “It’s not that heavy.”

She picked up one of the boxes and elbowed the screen door open, letting it slam behind her. I went out into the other room and sorted through the mail. Bills mostly. A newsmagazine.I leafed through it, scanning the headlines about war and political crises. While I did that, the back door opened and closed a couple more times. I finally gave up on the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. I went back to the kitchen and saw just the canvas bag remaining on the floor. I looked outside and saw Abby bent into the backseat of her car, the dome light a tiny white spot in the darkening evening. She and I hadn’t even talked about the property, about the cars and the bank accounts and the credit cards we still owed money on. Friends of ours who had been down the same road spent weeks working out every detail.

But then another thought occurred to me: those people all had children. They had to plan and hash things out. Abby and I were breaking up like young marrieds, like a boyfriend and girlfriend who’d shacked up and then simply grew bored with each other.

She came back in and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need some water,” she said.

“Did you read the news stories?” I asked. “I’m just wondering.”

She took a deep breath. She stood at the sink, her back to me. “I did. I saw all the news coverage. People would have told me about it anyway.”

“You don’t believe any of it?”

She put down her glass but didn’t turn around. “Tom, I think you should see someone. A professional.”

“A shrink?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I raised my hands in an exaggerated shrug.

She turned around. She folded her arms across her chest but didn’t answer. In the harsh light from above she looked older but still beautiful, not all that different from when we first met.

I stepped closer. “Is it because of what I said in the paper? About the girl in the cemetery?”

“That’s part of it.”

“You’re the one who has so much faith. Why don’t you believe me?”

She shook her head. “Because God doesn’t work that way.”

“How do you know? Did Pastor Chris tell you?”

“When Caitlin disappeared, I said we should go to counseling. Remember that? Not marriage counseling but counseling to help us deal with the loss. Remember?”

She wanted an answer, so I gave her one. “I remember.”