Page 16 of Dirty Valentine
“Hell of a place for a murder,” Cole said, settling his Stetson more firmly on his head as the wind tried to snatch it away.
“Make sure we’ve got two deputies assigned here overnight,” Jack said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who’d learned that active investigations attracted all kinds of unwanted attention.“I don’t want anyone else adding anything to our scene.The last thing we need is someone deciding they want to do a séance or something on our investigation site.”
The mention of séances made me think immediately of Sheldon and my earlier conversation about Leena wanting to have midnight cemetery picnics.The thought of his girlfriend dragging him to places like this for “spiritual communion” suddenly seemed a lot less harmless and a lot more dangerous.
A brilliant flash illuminated the entire cemetery, followed immediately by a crack that made us all flinch.The tempest was no longer approaching—it was here.
We made a dash for our vehicles, but not before I took one last look at the scene we were leaving behind.Even through the rain that had begun in earnest, fat drops that quickly turned into a steady downpour, I could see the yellow tape fluttering in the wind like prayer flags marking some unholy shrine.
“We’ve still got another hour or so of daylight,” Jack said once we were safely inside the Tahoe, cranking up the heat against the sudden chill.“Now that you’ve got an ID on our victim, we can notify next of kin.”
I was cold despite the heater, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me.“That would be the wife.Their place isn’t far from here.”
As we drove through the downpour toward the Whitman house to deliver the worst news any family could receive, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were racing against more than just time.
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the deluge, and through the rain-streaked glass, the countryside looked wild and untamed despite generations of civilization.It was easy to imagine how this same landscape had looked to Colonial settlers, how it had witnessed the fear and superstition that led to Bridget Ashworth’s death, and how it was now witnessing the consequences of secrets that had been buried for centuries.
CHAPTERFIVE
Rain hammeredthe Tahoe’s windshield as we turned onto Whitman Lane, where crushed oyster shell popped and hissed beneath the tires like bones breaking.The headlights caught ancient oaks that leaned over the drive, their branches twisted into shapes that belonged in nightmares, Spanish moss hanging like shrouds.
The air tasted metallic, electric—that particular flavor of Virginia storm that made your teeth ache and your skin prickle.Lightning split the sky, illuminating a house that rose from the darkness like something that had been waiting three centuries for us to arrive.
“Jesus,” Jack breathed.
The Whitman house was Georgian perfection, all hand-laid brick and towering columns that had weathered revolution, civil war, and countless storms.But perfection had an edge to it—like a beautiful woman with secrets, it drew you in while warning you to keep your distance.
Jack parked behind a mud-splattered Jeep that looked like it had been driven through hell and hadn’t bothered to stop for a car wash.Field equipment crowded the back—shovels, brushes, collection bags.Tools for digging up the past.
We ran for the porch, rain slicing through the humid air like cold knives.My boots splashed through puddles that reflected lightning, and the smell of wet earth and old wood filled my lungs.The front door was massive oak with iron hinges that belonged in a museum, and when Jack’s knock echoed through the house, it sounded like we were summoning ghosts.
The woman who opened the door looked like she’d been wrestling with the dead for days and hadn’t quite won.Patricia Whitman stood tall in the doorway—late forties, athletic build going soft at the edges, auburn hair shot with gray and yanked back in a ponytail that had given up hours ago.Red clay caked her boots, dirt crescented her fingernails, and her field clothes carried the earthy smell of excavation sites.
But it was her eyes that made my pulse kick.Green as bottle glass and sharp enough to cut, they locked on to Jack’s badge with the intensity of a predator recognizing another predator.
“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said.“This is Dr.Graves.I’m afraid?—”
“He’s dead.”Her voice was flat as old champagne.Not a question.A statement of fact, delivered with all the emotion of a weather report.
“Yes, ma’am.We found your husband’s body this morning.We’re treating it as a homicide.”
I waited for the collapse.The tears.The denial.Hell, even anger would have been normal.
Patricia Whitman did none of those things.
Instead, she stepped back with the controlled precision of a woman who’d been expecting us, her jaw tight enough to crack teeth.“Come in.”
The foyer smelled of beeswax and old paper, leather and whiskey—the particular cocktail of scents that came with old money and older secrets.She led us to a living room where Colonial furniture mixed with modern chaos.Research materials covered every surface like she and Thomas had been trying to solve a puzzle with pieces scattered across three centuries.
Patricia went straight to a crystal decanter and poured three fingers of bourbon, neat.The amber liquid didn’t tremble in the glass.Her hand was steady as a surgeon’s.
“Where?”One word, sharp as a scalpel.
“Olde Towne Cemetery.”
She laughed—a sound like glass breaking.“Of course.They couldn’t resist the symbolism, could they?”She took a long pull of bourbon, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed.“The threats started three weeks ago.”
I caught Jack’s eye.In all my years working with the dead and their grieving families, I’d seen every possible reaction to death notifications.Collapse.Hysteria.Denial.Rage.But this cold, controlled fury?This was something else entirely.Jack’s subtle nod told me his cop instincts were screaming the same warnings as mine.
