Chapter 8: The Grave That Should Have Stayed Closed
Robert arrived twenty-five minutes later with an investigator named Michael Reeves.
Michael was in his late forties, with tired eyes and a plain brown jacket. He introduced himself without shaking my hand, then asked everyone to remain in the living room while he photographed the contents of the blue box.
When he saw the picture of the man reflected in Emily's hospital window, he stopped.
“Where did you get this?””
“My sister hid it beneath the floorboards.””
He studied the photograph under a small magnifying glass.
“Has anyone altered it?””
“Not that I know of.””
Michael placed it in a protective sleeve.
“I'll need the original examined. But if the reflection is genuine, it could be significant.””
My mother sat rigidly beside the window.
“Are you saying my husband might still be alive?””
Michael looked at her carefully.
“I'm saying we need to establish who this man is.””
“He has my husband's face.””
“I understand.””
Mom leaned forward.
“You don't understand anything. I buried that man.””
Michael didn't argue.
Instead, he asked for the date of my father's funeral, the name of the funeral home, and the location of his grave.
I gave him the details.
He wrote them down.
Then he turned to Robert.
“Do we have authority to obtain the relevant cemetery records?””
Robert nodded.
“We can request them through the appropriate channels. If there's evidence of unauthorized activity, we'll involve the authorities.””
I stood.
“I'm coming with you.””
Michael shook his head.
“Not yet. We need to verify the records first.””
“My sister is dead, and someone may have tampered with her treatment. I'm not sitting at home while everyone else decides what I can know.””
He studied me for a moment.
“Then you can accompany us to the cemetery office. But you won't enter any restricted area or interfere with an examination.””
I agreed.
Before we left, Lily caught my hand.
“Please find out what happened to Mom.””
I squeezed her fingers.
“I promise.””
At the cemetery office, a clerk named Mrs. Donnelly looked increasingly uncomfortable as Michael explained what we needed.
“Records from twelve years ago are archived,” she said.
“I'll have to contact our administrator.””
“Please do,” Michael replied.
While she made the call, I sat beside Robert in a room filled with old filing cabinets and faded photographs of the cemetery grounds.
My father had been buried in a family plot beneath a maple tree. I remembered standing there as a teenager, clutching Mom's arm while the casket was lowered into the ground.
I remembered the priest's voice.
I remembered the rain.
I remembered seeing the earth cover the coffin.
There was no possibility that I had misunderstood his death.
Unless someone had lied to us about what was inside that coffin.
Mrs. Donnelly returned with a thick folder.
“The grave was inspected nine days ago,” she said.
“The request came from someone claiming to represent the family.””
Michael opened the folder.
“Who authorized it?””
“The paperwork lists Daniel Parker as the requesting party.””
I stared at her.
“Daniel? Why would my brother-in-law request access to my father's grave?””
She looked at the page.
“He claimed there was a legal dispute involving the burial plot.””
Michael examined the signature.
“Was the inspection completed?””
“Yes. But the report indicates the grave was never opened.””
I exhaled.
“Then what was the payment for?””
Mrs. Donnelly turned another page.
“The cemetery employee who handled the request reported an attempted unauthorized entry near the family plot. He notified management, but no one was apprehended.””
Michael's expression hardened.
“Do you have a name?””
She checked the report.
“Thomas Bell. He was working the overnight shift.””
Michael wrote it down.
“Can we speak with him?””
“He's on leave today. I can give you his contact information.””
As we left the office, my phone rang.
An unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A man's voice came through, low and hurried.
“Sarah Mitchell?””
“Yes. Who is this?””
“My name is Thomas Bell. Someone told me you were asking about your father's grave.””
Michael immediately signaled for me to put the call on speaker.
“That's right,” I said.
“What do you know?””
“I shouldn't be calling you. I could lose my job.””
“Then why are you calling?””
There was a pause.
“Because I saw the man who came to the cemetery.””
My heart began to race.
“What man?””
“The one who tried to get access to your father's grave. He wasn't Daniel Parker.””
“Who was he?””
Thomas lowered his voice.
“He looked like your father.””
I gripped the phone.
“Are you certain?””
“I've worked around cemeteries for twenty-two years. I know people can resemble one another, but this man knew things about your father that weren't in the paperwork. He knew the location of the plot, the date of the burial, and a detail about the casket that wasn't on the public records.””
“What detail?””
“He asked whether the lining had been replaced before burial. He said the original had a tear near the headrest.””
My knees weakened.
I remembered that detail.
My father had been buried in a dark wooden casket. The funeral director had explained that a tear in the lining had been repaired before the service.
It had never appeared in the newspaper or any public record.
“Did you see his face clearly?”” Michael asked.
“Yes. He looked older, but it was him.””
“Did he leave a name?””
“No. But he left something behind.””
Thomas took a breath.
“A photograph of your sister in the hospital. On the back, he wrote, 'Tell Sarah to stop looking before Daniel finishes what he started.''”
The call ended.
I stood motionless beside the car.
Robert took the phone from my hand.
“Michael, we need to preserve that photograph and locate Mr. Bell.””
Michael was already making a call.
I stared at the cemetery gates.
My father had been dead for twelve years. Yet someone who looked exactly like him had appeared near his grave days before Emily died.
And that person knew about Daniel.
That person knew about Emily's hospitalization.
That person knew my name.
My phone vibrated again.
This time, it was a message from an unfamiliar number.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed the front of my house, taken from across the street.
Beneath it were eight words.
*Stop searching, Sarah. Your mother is next.*
I turned toward Robert.
He read the message, and the color drained from his face.
“Sarah,” he said quietly, “we need to get your mother and the children somewhere safe.””
May you like
Then another message arrived.
*Ask Margaret what happened the night your father died.*
