Graveminder. Melissa Marr

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      “No. Maybe. I’m not really sure.” She took a deep breath. “I expect that the cupboards … that food isn’t an issue.”

      “No.” Byron tore his gaze from the dark road only long enough to glance her way. A hesitant look flickered over his shadowed face. “They haven’t started bringing too many covered dishes, but there’s sure to be a few in the fridge.”

      “Nothing changes here, does it?” she murmured.

      “Not really.” He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “It’s like the world outside stops at the town line.”

      “Is your dad okay?”

      “He’s pretending to be.” Byron paused as if weighing his words and then settled on, “You know he loved her?”

      “I do.”

      Rebekkah rested her head against the passenger-door window. “I feel like I’ve come untethered. She is—was…”

      When her voice faltered, he reached over and laced his fingers with hers.

      “She was my rock. No matter how often I moved, how many jobs I failed at, how much I fucked up everything. She was my home, my whole family—not that Mom’s not great, she is, but she’s … I don’t know, after Ella, then Jimmy … Sometimes, I don’t think Mom ever recovered from losing them. Maylene believed in me. She thought I was better than I am, better than I could ever be. Her love wasn’t choking, but it wasn’t something I had to feel guilty asking for either.” Rebekkah felt the tears well up again and blinked against blurred vision. “I feel like everything’s just gone. They’re all gone. The whole Barrow family. All I have left is Mom.”

      Technically, Rebekkah wasn’t a Barrow: she’d taken the name as her own when her mother had married Jimmy. She kept it because it was Maylene’s name, Ella’s name, Jimmy’s name. They were her family, not by blood, but by choice. The only Barrows left—other than me—were the ones who hated her: Jimmy’s sister, Cissy, and her daughters.

      Briefly, Rebekkah wished her mother had come with her, but she wasn’t even sure where Julia was right now. Like Rebekkah, her mother had serious wanderlust. Unlike Rebekkah, Julia didn’t ever return to Claysville; she hadn’t even come to Jimmy’s funeral. Sometimes Julia talked about him, and it was clear that she still loved him, but whatever had happened between them was enough to keep her from ever setting foot in Claysville again.

      Rebekkah pulled her hand away from Byron. “I’m sorry.”

      “For what?”

      She shrugged. “You get enough people weeping on your shoulder at work.”

      “Don’t. Please?” His voice was harsh, but he held his hand out, palm up. “Don’t use my job as an excuse.”

      She wanted to be stronger, to not let him in again, to not open a door that she’d need to close again in a few days, but she couldn’t. At the best of times, it was a challenge to resist the pull she felt to him, and right now was far from the best of times. She slid her hand back into his.

      For the next forty minutes, he drove silently while she stared out the window and watched for Claysville to come into view. The stretch of road between the airport and the town limits was desolate. For miles, there was nothing but shadowed trees and the occasional road that seemed to lead into deeper darkness. Then, she saw it ahead of them: the sign that said WELCOME TO CLAYSVILLE. She always felt a pressure that she hadn’t even realized she was carrying ease when she passed that line. She’d used to think that it was because she was going to see Maylene, but tonight, with Byron beside her, the feeling of relief was stronger than it had ever been. Before she’d even realized she’d done it, her hand tightened on his—or maybe his grip tightened first.

      She pulled her hand away from his as he turned into the drive in front of Maylene’s house and cut off the engine.

      Silently, he got out and carried her bag and Cherub’s carrier to the porch. When he started to walk back over to the car, Rebekkah opened the side door and a sob escaped her. She refused to lean on him, but for a moment, the thought of going into the house was too much. She stopped at the door, unable to cross the threshold.

      Maylene isn’t here.

      Byron didn’t touch her, and she wasn’t sure if she was grateful for that or not. If he did, she’d fall apart, and some part of her needed to stay in control. Another, less stable part wanted nothing more than to crumble.

      Quietly he said, “If you need to stay somewhere else, I can take you over to the Baptistes’ B and B, or you can stay at my apartment and I can stay somewhere else. It’s okay if you need time to get your feet under you.”

      “No.” She took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked inside. Byron followed her in. Once the door was closed, she set Cherub free.

      And then she just stood there. Byron waited in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and for a moment, it was as if time had wound backward.

      She looked helplessly at him. “I don’t know what to do. It seems like I should be doing something. She’s dead, B, and I don’t know what I’m to do.”

      “Honestly? You should get some sleep.” He took a step toward her and then stopped. Time hadn’t wound backward: they had years of distance and words they couldn’t undo. “You’re jet-lagged and in shock. Why don’t we get you settled in, and—”

      “No.” She walked past him and snatched an afghan from the rocker. “I will. Just … I can’t. Not yet … I’m going out front to watch the stars. You can join me, or you can go. I’ll be on the swing.”

      The look of surprise on Byron’s face vanished before it was even fully there, and she didn’t wait to see what he decided. It was selfish of her to want him to stay, but she wasn’t going to try to convince him. He came to pick me up. It’s not like he hates me. She slipped off her shoes, opened the front door, and went out to the porch that stretched the length of the house. The weathered wood was familiar under her feet. As always, one of boards, not quite halfway between the door and the swing, moaned as she stepped on it.

      Maybe it was foolish, but she wanted to at least pretend something was normal. Going out to watch the stars was normal, even if Maylene’s absence wasn’t. She wanted—needed—some part of coming home to be like it always was.

      Rebekkah sat down on the porch swing. The chains creaked as she set it to swaying, and she smiled a little. This was right. It was home. She wrapped the afghan around her, looked up at the flickers of light in the sky, and whispered, “What am I going to do without you?”

      “You all right?”

      The voice in the darkness drew Rebekkah’s attention. A girl of no more than seventeen—older than Ella ever was—stood on the front lawn. Her features were drawn tight with tension, and her posture was wary.

      “No, not so much.” Rebekkah looked past her, seeking the girl’s friends, but she seemed to be alone.

      “You’re Maylene’s kin, right? The one not from here?”

      Rebekkah put her feet down, stopping the movement of the swing. “Do I know you?”

      “Nope.”

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