An entry from several years ago, a digital headstone in a forgotten corner of the Internet. Cold dread coils in my stomach.
Corbin, Elizabeth “Liza” (née Shaw)
Elizabeth Corbin, 53, of Lee, MA, passed away last Thursday, in Las Vegas Nevada.
She is survived by her daughter, Emery.
Private arrangements to be held at a later date.
That’s it.
The text on the screen is a monument to nothing. Lee to Las Vegas. A world of distance between a life lived and a life ended.
I’ve seen enough death to read between the lines. This kind of emptiness points to a death that can’t be sanitized. A death that came with too much shame, shock, and pain to be named.
Under my skin, the tack stirs again, irritation tangling with something too close to sympathy.
Does she chase ghosts to disprove them—or because she’s at war with them?
I dig deeper, my compulsion to unravel the mystery of Emery Corbin tightening its grip around my throat. She’s older than I thought. College and grad school in Massachusetts. No mention of Vegas. No other family.
She’s alone in the world.
I snap the laptop closed, jaw tight. Not my business.
She’s not my business.
Except she’s making herself my business by poking around.
Agitated and restless, I finish my beer and stand.
Outside, a bobbing light cuts through the fog, drawing me to the wide window overlooking the town’s cemetery. Half park, half graveyard, it rolls over the hills in a sprawl of crooked headstones, twisted trees, mausoleums, marble angels, andtarnished bronze statues. Kids mess around in the cemetery all the time. One just went missing earlier this week. You’d think they’d stay away, at least for a little while.
I edge closer, peering through the fog. Jeans, a hoodie—not the dress from earlier—but I’d stake my life that’s Emery, hell-bent on “investigating.” Bag bouncing at her side, hair catching stray beams of lamplight. Marching straight up the hill toward the Widow.
And beyond that, my family’s plot.
A cold spike of pain lances across my ribs. Air hisses through my teeth as the tattoos there—the braided iron tack, the symbols—burn and crawl under my skin like angry ants. The horse on my shoulder twists as if spooked.
The Rider senses an opening.
“Stubborn woman.” My voice is raw.
I lurch from the window, heart pounding. No time to think. I have to protect her from the story she’s so determined to dig into. I grab my jacket, fingers brushing the iron rivets in the lining, then stuff my feet into a battered pair of running shoes and slam the door behind me.
No way in hell I’m letting Emery Corbin visit the Widow alone.
Not while I’m still breathing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emery
It’sremarkable how much the Crowsbridge Cemetery resembles a gothic Pinterest board come to life. It’d be charming if I wasn’t the only idiot walking through the gates after midnight with a camera and a stubborn streak.
Isn’t it tourist season? Where is everyone?
No one said investigating was easy. I nudge the iron gate open and slip through the narrow space. The hinges give a long, unhappy groan that vibrates in my teeth. My breath puffs white, then vanishes, eaten by the cold. I click on my small, black metal flashlight. The bright beam cuts a tunnel through the gray night.
