Page 64 of Into the Dark, We Go
"Excuse us. We’re leaving," I muttered, trying to drag Mitch away, but it was like trying to move a solid pillar—he was all muscle.
"So you come here, accusin’ good people of some shit," the man spat.
Mitch tried to lunge at him, but I was holding him back with all my strength.
"We’re not accusing anyone of anything," I pleaded. I thought of June clinging to Mitch’s elbow, trying to stop him from hurting the cemetery caretaker. I hoped our earlier conversation had calmed him down, but now—this.
The few mourners began closing in on us, all men. They were cutting off our way out, and it was getting harder to breathe.
"What’s going on here?" Reverend Carver’s voice thundered through the room as he stepped inside.
Everyone fell silent and drew back, as though on command.
"These two have no business bein’ here," someone said.
"Got no respect for the dead!" another chimed in.
The Reverend’s eyes landed on us. "You came by the other day," he said.
I gave a meek little tilt of my head.
"I figured you were after something else. But this isn’t the time or place for prying. The Whitmans’ and the Conleys’ need space to grieve. It’s best if you respect that and leave now. Unless you’d prefer the Sheriff escort you out."
No one at the funeral looked like they were grieving, or even related to Duane, but the Reverend made it clear: we’d crossed a line just by showing up.
Mitch’s arm slowly relaxed under my grip, and I eased my hand away, careful not to make any sudden move that might set him off again.
"We didn’t mean to cause any trouble," he mumbled, the fight draining out of him.
The circle of onlookers begrudgingly parted, clearing a tense path to the exit. Outside, the Sheriff was climbing out of his cruiser. He gave us a grim look, and something in me flinched.
"That went well," I murmured, getting into the Dodge.
"That’s an understatement," Mitchell muttered, starting the car. "And everyone seems to know why we’re here."
I saw the Reverend and the Sheriff in the rearview mirror, exchanging words and glancing our way. They seemed to know each other. Mitchell turned the corner, and they disappeared from view.
"Do you think he meant Mathilda?" I asked, mostly using the question as an excuse to talk to Mitch and make sure he wasn’t about to explode on me again.
"Seems like it." Mitch was still tense, but not as wound up as he had been at the cemetery.
"We should have another chat with her."
"We will. But I want to check on June first."
That made sense to me. Now that people around town knew who we were and, more importantly, what we were doing, it was safer to stick together. The Sheriff’s warning, combined with the Reverend’s tight-lipped tension, did not bode well for us.
Mitchell continued, "You saw how the Sheriff and the Reverend were all buddy-buddy? Doesn’t sit right with me."
Didn’t sit right with me either.
It wasn’t even noon,but the store greeted us with a "closed" sign. We knocked anyway.
"Closed, closed, I’m closed today!" Mathilda announced from behind the curtained door.
Mitchell took the lead, knocking again, more persistently this time.
"We need to talk."
