Page 13 of Dirty Valentine

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“That’s what they said about Charles Manson,” Lily called after him.

The front door closed with a decisive click, leaving Lily and me alone with the lingering scent of whatever hair product Sheldon had used and the certain knowledge that we’d probably be visiting him in jail before the week was out.

“Think he’ll listen?”I asked.

“Not a chance,” Lily said, gathering up her textbooks.“But at least when they find his body, we’ll be able to tell the police we tried to warn him.”

“I should call his mother,” I said.“Except he’s twenty-five years old.”

“Well someone needs to knock some sense into him,” Lily said angrily and then she fell back onto the carpet and put her arms over her face.“Sorry, I’m being awful.Finals are making me crazy.I haven’t slept more than three hours a night in two weeks.”

“I figured as much,” I said.“I’ve been there.And to be fair, Sheldon does need a keeper.”

“I know, I know.I really am worried about him.”Lily dropped her arms down to her side and sat up slowly.“I should get going.These organic chemistry formulas won’t memorize themselves.”

“Good luck with exams.”

“Thanks.And Jaye?Try to get some rest.You look exhausted.”

After she left, I stood there for a moment, thinking about friendship and family and the people we choose to protect.Sheldon might be making terrible decisions, but he was our terrible decision-maker, and we’d watch out for him whether he wanted us to or not.

It was just one more thing to worry about in what was shaping up to be a very complicated week.

CHAPTERFOUR

The cemetery lookeddifferent in the late afternoon light than it had that morning.What had been merely eerie in the soft dawn mist now felt actively malevolent as shadows lengthened between the weathered headstones and the sky above churned with slate-gray clouds that promised another round of Virginia’s unpredictable spring weather.

I parked behind Jack’s Tahoe and made my way through the expanded perimeter, noting how much larger the cordoned area had become since I’d left for the lab.Yellow tape now encircled nearly a quarter of the historic section, fluttering in the wind like warnings no one wanted to heed.I could see Martinez crouched beside a headstone about thirty yards from where we’d found Thomas Whitman’s body, his expensive suit somehow still immaculate despite hours of investigation work.

The scene felt heavier somehow, weighted with more than just the approaching weather.There was an anticipation in the air that made the hair on my arms stand up, as if the very ground beneath my feet was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to be revealed.

“Found something interesting?”I called out as I approached the group.

Jack looked up, his expression grim in the fading light.“More than we bargained for,” he said.“Get an ID on the victim?”

“Thomas Andrew Whitman, age fifty-two, local resident.”

“That’s an old family name in this area,” Jack said.“There are Whitmans buried all over this county going back to the early 1700s.”

I was just noticing Martinez and Cole and several other members of the forensics team stationed at different headstones throughout the section, combing through grass and searching empty stone urns for clues.No one left flowers anymore for those buried so long ago—these graves had been forgotten by everyone except whoever had chosen to desecrate them.

“Well, this looks like a nightmare,” I told Jack, taking in the scope of the expanded investigation.“What is all this?”

“Take a look,” he said, pointing to the grave he’d been studying.He handed me a pair of latex gloves and I slipped them on with the automatic efficiency that came from years in the medical field.

The carving on Jonathan Blackwood’s headstone was precise and intentional.Someone had used what appeared to be a laser to gouge the wordsTHE FIRST STONE HAS BEEN CASTinto the weathered granite below the original inscription.The cuts were fresh, white stone showing through the gray patina that had accumulated over centuries like open wounds in the ancient rock.

“Very neat, very clean,” I said, running my finger along one of the carved letters.Tiny flakes of stone dust still clung to the grooves.“Very fresh.”

“Agreed,” Cole said, stepping carefully around the evidence markers that had sprouted like metallic flowers throughout the section.“But it gets better.Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”

He gestured toward the other graves they’d been examining with the weary expression of a man who’d seen too many cases turn complicated.“We found markings on four other headstones, all from the same general time period.Come see.”

We made our way through the maze of burial sites, careful not to disturb the various pieces of evidence that were still being catalogued.The grass was damp beneath our feet, and the darkening sky had turned the air thick and electric.Every shadow seemed to shift and move, as if the dead themselves were restless.

The first marked grave belonged to someone named Ezekiel Morton, died 1726.Carved into the base of his headstone was a symbol that looked like scales—crude but unmistakably recognizable as the scales of justice, the kind a child might draw but executed with the calculated intent of an adult message.

“Morton,” Cole said, consulting his notebook.“I’ve heard that name before.”