Larry thought of her dad, who had called him after Larry and Amanda had talked earlier. The man had a high-pitched, imperious voice, but under the academic pretense, Larry could hear his worry. Amanda’s parents loved her. It was clear from the first moment the man spoke.
Larry had told him he would do his best to protect their daughter, but no, he could not make her return home. The conversation had ended on a sour note.
Amanda looked at Dwight Bowman, who was parking in the lot.
“I really don’t want to talk to him, Larry.”
“Then you don’t have to,” Larry said. “It’s probably better for the constable at this point if we don’t. Open case and all.”
“Yeah,” Constable Roberts said, putting his own notebook away. “Though at this point, I feel like enough of a fuckup to not judge anything you do.”
Larry was surprised to hear that.
“You didn’t know we would open a can of worms,” he said.
“It makes you think, doesn’t it?” the constable asked. “How many graves are there across the world, holding secrets?”
“Empty graves, full of secrets,” Amanda said.
Larry glanced at her. Sometimes Amanda said things that astonished him.
“Yes,” Larry said. “Empty graves, full of secrets.”
Amanda poured a cup of the awful coffee, sniffed it, then dumped in a bunch of the old creamer powder. It was so old, it made greasy globules on the surface. She gave Charlie a polite smile so she wouldn’t hurt his feelings.
“I’m going to head out,” she said. “I’m late for a trip I’m going to take.”
“You’re still leaving?” Larry looked surprised.
“Why not?” She looked at Larry. “Do you need me? My car is still working. I’m going to Seaside. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“We’ll be fine,” Larry said. “Big-boy pants and all that.”
“I mean, for the investigation.” She looked pointedly at the constable.
“I can get your statement later,” Constable Roberts said. He dumped the last of his own coffee in the trash and zipped up his rain jacket. They watched Dwight approach the office. “I’m going to get to work. I’ll be in touch.”
“You’ll be okay?” Larry asked Amanda, worried.
She smiled at him, her blond hair damp at the tips. “Just a trip up the coast, with someone I know is safe.”
“Leave his number, at least.”
“I’ll text you.”
Amanda passed Dwight as she left. When he spoke, she shook her head. Larry, too, declined to be interviewed, so all Dwight had in the end was grinning Charlie, trying to interest him in an article about the hotel.
The constable walked through the burnt woods by the cabin. He had strung up police tape earlier, and the wind had already blown it down. He stopped to lift up a section, then dropped it.
Between the rain and the fire trucks, he didn’t expect to find much. That’s what made arson so hard to solve. Fire burned evidence, and then the firefighters poured water on it, turning everything into sludge.
What he was looking for was the trail that began where the fire damage ended. He walked back down the dune road, where a local might have come from—the fire trucks had taken the main road—and inspected the steep sandy road. There were no tracks he could see. At the cemetery, he stopped to wander among the graves a bit, just thinking. Where the memorial to Dennis stood, a fine view of the ocean unfolded, from cape to cape. He looked at the cliff where Brett Jarvis had taken his life years before.
There were shells piled around the memorial. He knew of the sea tradition. The shells were for warding off angry ghosts, left for eternity in the sea. He knelt, picking one up. It was a mussel shell. A recent addition. He could tell by the fresh barnacles. All the sand dollars were whole. That was important. Broken sand dollars were bad luck. Whoever had left these shells had taken care to find just the right ones.
“Someone is afraid of you coming back, buddy,” the constable said, feeling the memorial stone with his hand. It was warm to the touch, despite the cold weather. At least the rain had stopped.
“I failed you before,” he said. “I’m not going to fail you again.”
