Page 73 of The Fall Back Plan
He doesn’t answer, and I slip out of the door without looking back.
I meet Lucas at 7:30 at the station like we agreed. He texted me to meet him near the Elm Street exit, which is where department employees park, and when I drive up, he’s waiting beside the electronic gate to buzz me in.
As it closes behind me, I roll down my truck window and look down at him. He looks all business, a lawman who was definitely not making out with his old high school tutor in his office that afternoon. His face is serious, his jaw tight.
“How are we doing this?” I ask.
“I ran home and got my truck,” he says. “I’ll park on Odell and stay by the Oakley family vault.”
Green Oaks is a modest cemetery. It holds maybe only two or three other statues besides the weeping mother one the note’s author specified, all smaller. The Oakley vault is the only grand thing in it, and these days, Oakleys are cremated and interred in the columbarium that was added to the side of the vault when Wayne Oakley’s grandfather passed a while back. It’s for only their family remains; a larger columbarium for everyone else was built a while ago to accommodate the rise in cremations versus burials.
I know, because the director told me all about it when I called to make arrangements for my father’s body.
“I can see straight to the weeping mother from beside the vault,” Lucas continues. “It’s only thirty yards, and I can run it fast if I need to. When you park at the cemetery, call me as soon as you get out of the truck and keep your phone somewhere I can easily hear you.”
I pick up the coat next to me and hold it up. “Deep front pocket. I’ll put my phone in there.”
“Ready?” he asks.
“For this to be over? Past ready.”
His eyes soften. “I hope this actually does get you answers and it’s not a hoax.”
I can’t accept any other outcome. I want to step into all the ideas and plans that Ry and Sophie are percolating without any reservations. “I’ll see you over there.”
He presses the button to open the gate and watches as I back out then straighten the truck and wave before heading down Elm and northwest toward Green Oaks.
Ten minutes later, I pull into the cemetery parking lot and wait until my dashboard clock says 7:55. Then I cut the engine and call Lucas.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m by the vault. Go ahead and put your phone in your pocket. Tell me why you’re here.”
I put on my coat, a well-lined wool topcoat that had worked well with my suits in the frigid Chicago winters. I slide the phone into the pocket. “Hey, it’s me. I’m here to solve the dumbest crime spree to ever hit Harvest Hollow.” I pull the phone back out. “Did that work?”
“Heard you loud and clear. Head for the statue whenever you’re ready.”
I put the phone back and climb down from the truck, deciding not to lock it in case I need to jump in it fast. I try not to dwell on why I would need to do that. The night air is chilly, and I slip my hands into my side pockets. I follow the paved road that divides the cemetery into the older and newer graves until I reach a point where I can cross the grass and walk straight to the statue.
Whoever I’m meeting, they will most likely be coming from one of two directions, and since I didn’t hear anyone behind me, I turn toward the east gate, the one that opens from the sidewalk on Dunn for pedestrians. That’s the older part of the cemetery, and it has mature trees shading the sidewalk path that leads toward me. It’s nearly impossible to make out anything in the dark.
I huddle and wait, trying not to flinch at the rustle of every tree branch or soft owl call. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say quietly, hoping Lucas will hear me. “I still would have done this by myself, but I feel better knowing you’re out there spying on me like a weirdo.” A few seconds later, my phone vibrates with a text, no doubt Lucas responding. I’ll check it later. I don’t want to take my eyes off the east path.
After about two more minutes, I hear the scrape of soft footsteps from that direction. I can’t tell much from the sound. “I hear someone coming,” I say very quietly. “I don’t think they’re very heavy. That’s all I can tell.”
A few seconds later, the lamps lighting the cemetery road illuminate a small figure emerging from the darkness. Technically, these grounds are closed after dark, so it’s hard to see the graves once you leave the road. But these lamps are intended for safe road navigation, and it’s enough for me to see that this small figure is female.
She draws closer, slowly, like she doesn’t want to be walking this way at all. I straighten and step farther from the statue so she can see me.
“Jolie McGraw?” she calls.
“Yes. Who are you?”
She takes a few more steps into the west side of the road and stops about ten feet away. “Hello, dear.”
And the lamp reveals a face I’ve known and resented for years.
It’s Janice Sullivan.
Chapter Thirty-One
