yours in faith,
Darren
On the surface, his words are innocuous. A man praying for my safety. And yet, I know it was his twisted version of religion that he used to justify Sophie’s death. Some men hide behind Christianity—or other religions—as if a good and kind god would find their violence righteous.
I force myself to calmness, or a facsimile of it, and I refold the letter. I tuck it into its envelope. Later, I will give it to Henry. The police can follow up on who helped Darren. This letter, at least, we can trace.
I doubt that they had much luck with the Creeper’s letter.
It’s been almost a week since I helped lift the unnamed woman out of the grave. We still do not know her name. There is no relative to comfort. I know now that she’d been dead less than two weeks. Just last month, she was walking around. I wonder what her laughter sounded like. I wonder what her life was like. Unless we catch the Creeper, I’ll never know.
In my job, I’ve listened to the stories of innumerable people, many of whom I dressed for their final public appearance. I’ve sat with them in silence. That’s my mission, the responsibility I took on when I became a mortician. I know some people find it macabre. It’s uncomfortable work—and I’ve made my share of off-color jokes at funeral industry conventions. Sometimes we laugh to avoid crying or crawling into a bottle of gin.
That doesn’t change the core belief that drives me: I am as much a caretaker as a priest or teacher or nurse. My charges are unable to tell me what they want, but often they’ve left instructions or told loved ones. Even if I don’t have the specifics, I know that everyone wants to be treated with love and respect as they leave this world. Whether it’s a standard embalming, a natural burial, or a cremation, every last person should be given respect.
The Creeper disrespects them and me by dropping the dead in shallow graves, unwrapped, dirty, with no more care than trash. He insults them in their last journey . . . and he’s intentionally done so where I am the one to care for them. It’s disturbed my peace to the point that I’ve slept like shit. I need more coffee the way an addict needs a fix on a very bad day. Nothing like dreams of a killer to make rest elusive.
I walk into the kitchen to find Uncle Micky and Henry crammed into the tiny breakfast nook. The sight would be almost funny if it wasn’t for my sour mood. . . and the surly look on my uncle’s face.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
As I meet Henry’s eyes, he gives me a look I’ve seen far too often, vaguely amused and disappointed all at once. For all of the slack we cut each other, he is still an officer of the law, and I am still a stubborn bitch. Those two things mean we reach conflict regularly—at least that's how I explain it to myself or anyone who asks. I don't mention that the way we spark once led to the kind of kisses and touches that defy words.
My uncle lifts his gaze from his floral tea pot. “Were you going to tell me?”
Both men are holding their delicate white china cups. Uncle Micky looks natural. He has an entire routine to his tea. It’s soothing to him, and at this point in my life, I find it comforting more often than not, too. Henry looks unnatural, not because of the cup or the coffee. It is simply wrong for him to be at my table with my uncle at all.
“Coffee first,” I mutter.
I skip the pretty cups in favor of an enormous mug with “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” written on it. It’s not one I’d ever use in the business part of the house, where mourners might see it, but it’s the right size for mornings.
“Juliana . . .” Henry starts.
Mutely, I shoot him the sort of look I wouldn’t dare in the field or in public. He’s a detective. He’s entitled to respect—or he is usually. He’s come into my home telling tales. That changes things. Sure, I told Andrew I was going to talk to Henry. I meant it too. I just wasn’t ready to do it just yet.
“Coffee first,” I repeat more sternly.
“She's still like this in the morning?” Henry smiles at me. "Here, I thought she'd get sweeter with age."
I flip my middle finger up without looking. My right hand is busy holding the carafe of happiness that pours into my mug. I don’t bother with cream. Or sugar. I just need coffee.
“Henry brought scones.”
“Bribery? Isn’t that illegal?”
Henry grins. “Pretty sure scones aren’t considered bribes, Jules. They were a friendly gesture to a colleague who’s had a rough week.”
I snort, lifting both middle fingers from my cup.
“Micky deserved to know.” Henry slides a cranberry orange scone my way.
I pull out a chair and sit. “These are homemade.”
He shrugs.
“Definitely a bribe.” I can’t resist though. Henry may be pissing me off, but the man is an exemplary baker. “This is your grandmama’s recipe, isn’t it?”
Henry shrugs again, but once I take a bite, he doesn’t need to confirm anything.
“Are we going to talk about this?” Uncle Micky asks. It’s not truly a question. They were waiting for me. Henry gave me a couple days to settle myself and admit that I needed to deal with being in the gaze of a killer.
I just don’t know what it means to deal with it. There isn’t a thing I can think of that is a good solution. Tell the killer I took out a restraining order? Somehow, I don’t think he’s the law following sort. Hide away until he’s caught? He’s been killing for years, and I can’t stay hidden or under protection for years.
“I’m sure he already told you everything,” I tell my uncle, not coldly but honestly.
Henry leans back in his chair and studies me. He does that far too often for me to be unnerved by it. He can’t turn off his job the way I can. In public, I am a consummate professional. I am polite, reserved, approachable. I am the woman you can come to in your loss and pain, and I will remember your name when we are in line at the grocer. I don’t intrude, leaving the choice to speak up to the bereaved—because even years later, that’s what they are to me. They are the bereaved, and I am not going to remind them of their grief by approaching them. Here at home, though? I am Juliana. I am a woman with a temper. And right now, Henry Revill has sparked it. Again.
“Someone had to tell him,” Henry says unapologetically. “You not dealing with it stopped being an option once the Creeper sent a letter to you.”
“You weren’t surprised by the letter.”
Henry shrugs. “Too many bodies when you’re around. Too many bodies that end up being yours. That meant either you were connected or guilty of something.”
“She’s not guilty of a damn thing!” Uncle Micky might be the sweetest man I know, but he’s still the closest thing I have to both a guardian angel and a father.
“We know that.” Henry looks at Micky. “We follow every lead, no matter how improbable when it comes to a case like this.”
I take the scone sitting untouched on Henry’s plate. If he wanted the damn thing, he should’ve eaten it before I walked into the room. “You checked out everyone who works here then.”
“And Andrew.” This time Henry doesn’t sound at all sympathetic. Andrew’s dislike of Henry is matched by Henry’s increasingly obvious disdain. In truth, no one in the police department seems to get on with Andrew. I have to wonder now if it was because of this.