Someone handed me a handful of dirt, still cold from the pile. I looked down at it in my palm, the dark earth broken into clods. Ryan's mother went first, her handful falling with a soft patter. Then his sister. Then me.
I let it fall. The sound was quiet, almost private. Nothing like what came after, the shovel biting into the mound, the heavy thud as the first load hit the lid like a knock on a door.
Chloe, Ryan’s sister, stood across the grave with her arms wrapped around herself, lavender hair catching the gray light. She was crying quietly. I hadn't seen her cry yet.
Ben Walsh stood at the far corner with his hands clasped, head bowed. He looked thinner than I remembered. Worn down. When he lifted his eyes, they didn't meet mine. They slid past, toward the trees beyond the tent.
I looked away. Whatever had happened between them, Ben was here. At least there was that.
More dirt fell. The sound softened as the casket disappeared beneath it.
I stood there, staring at the fresh earth, and I knew I should have been thinking about Ryan. About our wedding, or the honeymoon in Maui, or the way he kissed my forehead before leaving for work. I should have been drowning in memory.
But I wasn't.
My mind was stuck on a map.
Route 9, past the reservoir. A road that led to nowhere we went.
I had spent eight years memorizing his routines. I knew which exit he took off the highway. I knew what time he'd walk through the door. I knew his coffee order, his dry cleaner, the route he jogged on Sunday mornings.
I knew everything.
Except where he was going that night.
Chapter 2
Olivia
Iwas scrubbing casserole dishes when the police called.
The Millers wanted their Pyrex back. The Hendersons had left a note about their Corningware, blue painter's tape on the lid with a phone number I was supposed to call. I was grateful for that.
Clean and return. It was a sequence I could follow. I couldn't fix the silence in the house, but I could scrub a Pyrex dish until it looked new.
Most of the food had gone untouched. I'd managed half a serving of something—lasagna, maybe, or one of the tuna casseroles that all tasted the same. Everything else had congealed into a solid mass, tomato sauce forming a skin, cheese hardening into plastic. I scraped it into the trash, running the disposal until the sink belched and groaned.
I should have been hungry. Five days without eating more than a few bites. But grief had filled me up, packed itself into every corner where appetite used to live. I was running on fumes and the momentum of tasks: wash this, return that, sign here, initial there. The water ran too hot and I didn't adjust it, just stood there letting it steam while I stared out the window at nothing.
Ryan's stone sat on the sill. We'd found them on the beach in Maui: two pieces of smooth black lava, nearly identical. His idea. He'd pressed one into each of our hands like it was a ceremony, said we each needed something to keep. His had lived on his desk ever since. Mine had ended up here, watching me do dishes.
The phone rang while I was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing baked-on cheese from someone's casserole dish. I dried my hands on a towel and reached for it, expecting Ryan's mother, or the funeral home with another bill.
"Mrs. Hartley?" A man's voice. "This is Detective Park with the state police."
My stomach dropped.
"Yes," I managed, gripping the edge of the counter.
"I'm calling about your husband's personal effects. We've finished processing the vehicle, and his belongings are ready for pickup whenever it's convenient for you."
Personal effects. The phrase took a moment to land. His phone. Of course they'd have his phone. I hadn't thought about it, hadn't wondered where it was in the chaos of arrangements and services and casserole returns.
"Oh," I said. Then, because he seemed to be waiting: "When should I come?"
"We're here until six today. Tomorrow works too, if that's easier. No rush."
No rush. But suddenly it felt urgent… the wedding ring on his finger, the phone in his pocket. The last pieces of him I'd ever hold.
