Strange.
Passing Bay View Cemetery, Sarah braked.
The big iron gates yawned open, but that wasn’t what attracted her attention.
That dumb crow on the headstone.
“Freezing your ass off, huh?”
She shook her head, told herself to drive on.
But she didn’t.
She turned onto the narrow strip of pavement that cut through the middle of the cemetery. Snow encroached on either side of the asphalt, narrowing it even more. She shut off the engine and got out. Snow immediately poked up her pants legs and slithered into her Converses.
Massive oak trees stood like sentinels, their gnarled roots reaching out to the sleeping residents. A few newer headstones were interspersed here and there—near ancestors, she supposed. Woods bordered the back of the cemetery, while streets flanked the other three sides.
Sarah walked along the rows of headstones until she reached the last one. Beyond that final row, at the very back of the property, sitting next to two stone cross markers, was the witch’s headstone. The crow perched there eyed Sarah before flapping its wings indignantly and taking off. It lit on a naked branch high above her head.
“So where are your friends?” Sarah scanned the nearby trees. Maybe he was a loner. Like her.
“Don’t worry,” she said aloud. “I won’t be here long.”
Sarah started forward again.
Then froze.
A girl stood on the other side of the headstone. Long black hair. Hooded sweatshirt and jeans, all black—goth-style. She lifted her gaze to Sarah’s.
For two stuttering heartbeats they looked at each other without moving or speaking.
Where had she come from? Sarah started to say hello, but the girl spoke.
“You’re Sarah Newton, aren’t you?”
Didn’t take a crystal ball to guess her identity. There weren’t that many strangers around outside the two or three lingering reporters who appeared to prefer their lodging accommodations to trudging through the snow.
“Yes.” Sarah took another step in the girl’s direction. “And you are?”
Teenager, Sarah decided. Seventeen or eighteen. The girl watched as Sarah lessened the distance between them one step at a time, but she didn’t answer the question.
Sarah stopped a few feet away, on the same side of the marker. Worn by time and the elements, the name on the headstone was barely visible.
Matilda Calder. Mattie.
Oddly, all three headstones on this final short row faced the back of the cemetery, whereas all the rest faced the street. A way of indicating they were outcasts, maybe?
“Do you visit her often?” Sarah asked. No need to wait for her name to ask questions.
“I’m the only one who comes,” the girl said.
If she was around eighteen, she’d be the same age as the missing girl.
“Some people don’t like visiting their deceased loved ones. Too sad.” Sarah hadn’t been to her mother’s grave since the pallbearers lowered her coffin into the ground. She’d never been to her father’s. In her case, it didn’t have a whole lot to do with sadness. That sickening emptiness she knew far too well sucked at her insides. She forced it away.
“You should visit.”
Sarah’s attention snapped back to the girl. “What’s your name?” She still hadn’t answered that question. And definitely shouldn’t know that about Sarah. What was she? Psychic? The day someone proved ESP to her, Sarah would maybe consider the possibility. Then again, the kidcould have meant you should visit, as in people in general should visit their deceased loved ones.
