Page 6 of Dirty Valentine
The irony wasn’t lost on me as Jack’s Tahoe led the way through countryside that had witnessed three centuries of Virginia history.I followed behind him in the Suburban, past weathered tobacco barns that had sheltered Confederate deserters and around curves where Colonial militias had once marched toward uncertain battles.The past seemed to breathe in every shadow, whisper in every stand of trees.
Maybe that’s why someone had chosen Bridget Ashworth’s grave for their display.In King George County, the past wasn’t just history—it was family.
I turned onto Catherine of Aragon Street, and the familiar sight of Graves Funeral Home came into view.The red-brick Colonial sat on its corner lot like a dowager empress holding court, its white columns welcoming the living while sheltering the dead.Two ancient oaks stood sentinel in the front yard, their massive canopies filtering the afternoon sunlight into dancing patterns across the grass.
The funeral home was comfort for me—though it hadn’t always been.It was the place where I’d learned that death was just another part of life’s rhythm, where I’d discovered my calling among the silent and the lost.
The Suburban’s engine settled into silence under the portico, metal contracting with soft pings in the afternoon heat.Jack moved around to help me maneuver our victim onto the hydraulic lift, and I found myself watching the fluid grace of his movements—economical and sure, born from years of experience with the darker corners of human nature.
I’d known this man my entire life, had loved him in one form or another for just as long.First when we were children, then as teenagers navigating the treacherous waters of friendship, hormones, and questionable decisions.Through college we’d gone our separate ways, each seeking paths that would lead us far from Bloody Mary and the futures that somehow kept calling us back home.But loving Jack now as a man—my husband, my partner, my anchor in a world that often felt unmoored—was something else entirely.
Time had been kind to him, refining the sharp edges of youth into something deeper, more compelling.The boy’s handsomeness had matured into the kind of masculine beauty that turned heads on the street and made other women look at me with barely concealed envy.The occasional strand of silver glinted through his dark hair, though he kept it cut close to his scalp, and lines fanned out from his eyes—evidence of laughter shared, sorrows weathered, a life lived fully.
But it was more than his looks that still made my pulse quicken after all these years.It was the way he moved with unconscious confidence, the quiet authority that made people instinctively turn to him in crisis.The gentle strength in his hands as he helped me guide the gurney, mindful of both the weight we carried and the dignity we owed the dead.
Sometimes I still couldn’t quite believe he was mine.That this man who could have had anyone had chosen me, again and again, through all the years and changes between us.
“You okay?”he asked.“You’re not going to throw up again are you?”
My lips twitched.Morning sickness had become part of our routine.One I wasn’t afraid to admit I was ready to move past.I’ve been told the second trimester is better.I’m skeptical.
“No,” I said, arching a brow.“I was just admiring the view.”
He grinned and the blue of his eyes deepened to the color of a summer lake.“That kind of talk will get you in trouble.”
“I sure hope so,” I said.“It’s not like you can get me pregnant again.”
He laughed and we rolled the gurney into the oversized mudroom and toward the pressure-sealed door that led to my lab.
“You know what’s bothering me?”Jack said.
“The fact that our killer knew enough local history to stage an execution from 1725?”I suggested, punching in the security code for the lab door.We maneuvered the gurney into the elevator.
“Anyone who’s spent much time in King George would know the history.It’s part of the reason people come to this area.”Jack’s eyes were thoughtful as he hit the button to take us down a level.“But it’s more than that.If it was about the killing, the victim would have died by the method in which he was found.But the more I think about it, this murder was about sending a message.”
“The question is whether the message was meant for us or for someone else entirely,” I said.
Lights came on automatically as we descended, blindingly white and showcasing the sterile white walls and floor.My parents had built this lab as part of their smuggling ring.The main area held an embalming table—stainless and sterile with drains to keep the area clean—since preparing bodies for burial was the main function of a funeral home.
But there had been another area built with state-of-the-art autopsy table and lab equipment where they’d Frankensteined bodies to transport weapons, drugs, cash…whatever had fetched the highest price.The crazy part was it had all been funded by the government.Everything they’d done had been part of covert government operations.Of course, it hadn’t always been the United States government.
Jack helped me transfer the body to the examination table.“Could be a warning,” he mused, stepping back to let me work.“Someone holding a grudge or letting the community know they haven’t forgotten old grievances.”
“Maybe it’s revenge,” I said.“Three hundred years in the making.”
“I’ve always admired people who future plan that well.”
I snorted out a laugh.
But the thought sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the lab’s temperature.In King George County, some families had been nursing grudges since before the Revolution.If someone had decided to settle an old score, we might be looking at the kind of case that tore small communities apart.
“That’s it for me,” Jack said, already backing toward the elevator.The formaldehyde and antiseptic smell was getting to him—it always did.“You need anything else before I head back to the station?I need to make some calls.”
“I’ll come upstairs with you.I could use some coffee.I’ve been too sick in the mornings to drink anything but water.”
“Coffee sounds good,” he said, pressing the elevator button with obvious relief.“As long as I make it.”
I followed him back upstairs to the kitchen and went to wash my hands while he made the coffee.He leaned against the counter while we waited.The afternoon light streamed through the windows and caught the strong line of his jaw, and I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
