Page 65 of Grave Intentions

“Lena? Oh, thank goodness.” Mrs. Wilson’s voice trembles. “Richard’s missing. He didn’t come home last night. I-I need you to come back. Please.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. Talon shifts beside me, his eyes opening to study my expression.

“He’s just... gone?” I keep my voice steady, channeling the innocent concern I’ve practiced my whole life.

“The police are here. They’re asking questions. I don’t know what to do.” She breaks into sobs. “Jamie’s too far away to get back this weekend. He got a job in Los Angeles. I need you, dear. You’re part of this family.”

Family. The word tastes bitter in my mouth after everything they put me through. But I have to play my part.

“Of course, I’ll come right away.” I glance at Talon, who nods slightly. “Give me a couple hours to drive up.”

After hanging up, I press my forehead against Talon’s chest. “I have to go back.”

“Be careful.” His fingers trace my spine. “Remember what we practiced. You’re worried and confused. You haven’t heard from him.”

“I know.” I pull away and start gathering my things. “But facing Mrs. Wilson... after what we did...”

“You can handle this,” Talon’s voice says with absolute certainty. “You’ve fooled them your whole life. One more performance.”

I pack clothes for two days, my makeup bag, and toiletries. My hands shake slightly as I zip up the overnight bag, but I force them steady. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at controlling my reactions.

“They won’t find anything.” Talon’s voice carries from the doorway, where he leans against the frame, arms crossed. “We were thorough.”

I nod, thinking of the fresh grave next to David’s. Mr. Wilson’s final resting place is marked only by disturbed earth that will soon settle and grow over with grass. No one will think to look there.

“I know.” I check my phone, watching the Uber’s arrival time tick down. “It’s just... seeing Mrs. Wilson again. After everything.”

“Remember who you are now.” Talon crosses the room and cups my face in his hands. “You’re not that scared little girl anymore.”

His touch grounds me and reminds me of my strength and what we’ve accomplished together. I lean into his palm momentarily before pulling away to grab my bag.

My phone buzzes telling me that the Uber has arrived. A black Toyota Camry idles outside our building, ready to make the hour-long drive to Salem—to the house where I endured years of abuse and control. Talon stretches his hand out to me and I pass him my cellphone.

“I’ll be watching,” Talon says as I head for the door. “Always.”

I shoulder my bag and step out into the morning sun. The Uber driver pops the trunk, and I place my bag inside. As I slide into the backseat and give the driver Mrs. Wilson’s address, I glimpse Talon in our apartment window. His presence, even from afar, steels my resolve.

Mr. Wilson won’t be coming home. His body will stay buried deep in that Boston cemetery, his sins covered by six feet of earth. And I’ll play my part as the concerned foster daughter, returning from college to comfort her grieving foster mother.

The Uber crawls to a stop in front of the Wilsons’ house. My stomach churns at the sight of the familiar white colonial with its perfect lawn and manicured hedges. A police car sits in the driveway.

Before I can grab my bag from the trunk, the front door flies open, and Mrs. Wilson rushes out, her silk robe fluttering behind her. Her face is streaked with mascara, and her hair is disheveled—a far cry from her usual polished appearance.

“Oh, Lena!” She throws her arms around me, her designer perfume choking me. “Thank God you’re here!”

Her embrace feels hollow, like every time she’s hugged me over the years. I pat her back awkwardly, noting how her shoulders shake with exaggerated sobs.

“I just don’t understand,” she wails, pulling back to dab at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Richard would never just disappear like this. He always tells me where he’s going.”

I force my features into a mask of concern, though my skin crawls at her touch. “When did you last see him?”

“Last night, before I went to my book club. He said he was staying home.” She clutches my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin. “But when I returned, he was gone, nonote, no text. The police say there’s no activity on his credit cards, and his car is still parked in the drive...”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she collapses against me again. I hold her up, playing the role of the supportive foster daughter while my mind flashes to Talon’s bloody hands, to the fresh dirt of the grave.

“Come inside, dear.” Mrs. Wilson straightens up, suddenly remembering we have an audience. She smooths her robe and attempts a watery smile. “The detective wants to speak with you.”

I follow her up the front steps, my overnight bag heavy in my hand. The house looms over us, holding years of dark secrets behind its pristine facade, just like Mrs. Wilson herself.

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