Page 66 of Grave Intentions

Inside, two detectives wait in the living room—a tall woman with cropped gray hair and a younger man taking notes. Mrs. Wilson hovers nearby, wringing her handkerchief.

“Miss Graves?” The female detective extends her hand. “I’m Detective Morris. This is Detective Chen. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Richard Wilson.”

I shake her hand, maintaining the right balance of concern and composure. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Wilson?” Detective Morris’s sharp eyes study my face.

“About two weeks ago.” I twist my hands in my lap. “He called to check how I was settling in at the new apartment. The conversation was brief—five minutes at most.”

Detective Chen’s pen scratches across his notepad. “And what was his demeanor during that call?”

“Normal, I guess.” I furrow my brow as if trying to remember. “He asked about my classes and told me to study hard. Nothing seemed off.”

“When did you last see him in person?”

“Before I left for MIT two months ago,” I say, letting my voice waver slightly. “At the goodbye dinner.”

I pick a loose thread on my sleeve, remembering that last dinner. Mr. Wilson had been drinking heavily, his face flushed as he lectured me about making the family proud at university. The bruises from his last “lesson” were still yellowing on my ribs.

“And how would you describe your relationship with your foster father?” Detective Morris leans forward, her eyes intent.

My fingers are still on the thread. I’ve rehearsed this answer countless times with Talon, crafting the perfect mix of gratitude and distance.

“The Wilsons took me in when I had nowhere else to go,” I begin, meeting Mrs. Wilson’s tearful gaze across the room. “Mr. Wilson was... strict. But he wanted us to succeed. He pushed us to excel in school, to be responsible.”

The words taste like ash in my mouth. I think of the countless nights spent trembling in my room, listening to his heavy footsteps in the hall. He’d grab my arm hard enough to leave marks when I “disappointed” him. And I try not to think of his weight crushing me into the mattress when he raped me that first time.

“Did he ever mention wanting to leave? Any problems at work or at home?” Detective Chen’s pen hovers over his notepad.

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. He was proud of his position at the bank, always talking about his latest deals.”

Mrs. Wilson dabs at her eyes again. “That’s right. Everything was fine. Perfect, even. I just don’t understand...”

I watch her performance with detached fascination. She’d always been good at playing the devoted wife who turns a blind eye to her husband’s cruelty, but now she plays the grieving spouse just as convincingly.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Detective Morris asks. “Any detail, no matter how small, could help.”

“I wish I could be more helpful,” I say softly, letting my shoulders slump. “But I’ve been so focused on starting classes, getting settled in Boston. I haven’t been home much.”

As they leave, the front door shuts behind the detectives, and Mrs. Wilson’s shoulders straighten. Her tear-stained face hardens as she turns to me, all traces of grief vanishing.

“Have you seen Talon lately?” Her voice carries an edge I remember too well.

My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral. “Talon? No, not since you kicked him out.”

She studies my face, perfectly manicured nails drumming against her silk robe. “Really? Because Jamie mentioned seeing someone who looked like him near here last month.”

“It couldn’t have been him.” I shrug, forcing myself to meet her gaze steadily. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Hmm.” She crosses to the drink cart and pours herself a generous measure of gin. “You always were close to him. As we found out, finding him defiling you that night.” She takes a long sip, ice cubes clinking against crystal. “Well, if you hear from him, you’ll let me know immediately. Won’t you, dear?”

The threat in her voice is clear—the same tone she used when covering up her husband’s abuse. I nod, playing the role of the obedient foster daughter one more time.

“Of course, Mrs. Wilson. You’ll be the first to know.”

I follow Mrs. Wilson into the kitchen, my stomach churning as she pulls containers from the fridge. The familiar space feels different now—tainted by what Talon and I did to Mr. Wilson. His favorite chair sits empty at the head of the table.

“I made too much chicken marsala last night,” Mrs. Wilson says, her voice brittle as she transfers food to plates. “I keep forgetting to cook for two.”

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