All Good People Here(44)
“This was in the middle of the night?”
He nodded. “And I’m pretty sure it was during summer because”—he shot a glance at the ceiling—“yeah, I remember I was working at Granny’s Pantry at the time. It was my summer job during high school. God, I fucking hated that job.”
Just then, the bell above the door chimed and in walked another customer.
“Welcome,” Eli said, then looked at the new arrival. “Oh. Hey, Trevor.”
“Dude,” Trevor said. “What the fuck was up with that fight scene at the end?”
And then, the two guys were talking, and Margot knew it would be near impossible to steer the conversation back to Jace, but she didn’t care. Her mind was whirring.
If Jace used to visit January’s grave the same time every year, he most likely did it in accordance with some significant date. And the only meaningful date connected to January during summer that Margot could think of was July 23, the day she died. So Jace had visited his sister’s grave every year on the anniversary of her death. Now the only question was: Did he still? Margot checked the date on her phone as she headed out the door: July 19.
As she made her way to her car, a flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and she snapped her head up to see a figure across the street. When she realized who it was, Margot’s heart began to pound. It was the same woman she’d seen outside Shorty’s, the one with dyed auburn hair. Officer Schneider-Schmidt had almost convinced Margot that she’d turned some random, innocuous stranger into a nefarious stalker, but now it seemed she’d been right after all. This woman was following her. Across the street from each other, they locked eyes, and the woman turned, ducking behind the building she’d been standing in front of.
Margot took off across the street at a run. But she hadn’t checked the road before sprinting across it and she turned just in time to see a black SUV slamming on its brakes. She stopped, the car less than a foot from her. Her body crackled with adrenaline, the screech of brakes echoing in her ears.
“Sorry!” she shouted to the driver, a woman with a hand clapped against her chest and breathing hard. Then, shooting a glance both ways this time, Margot ran toward the building where she’d seen the woman disappear. But when she rounded the corner, all she saw was an empty street.
SIXTEEN
Margot, 2019
On her way to the church cemetery, Margot thrummed with nerves. Why was this woman following her? Was she the same person who’d left that note on her windshield? What the hell did she want?
It’s not safe for you here.
Margot darted her eyes yet again to the rearview mirror, but it seemed the auburn-haired woman had paused her pursuit for the moment. That, or she’d just gotten better at hiding.
Margot flicked her blinker, and the moment she turned onto Union Street, the church came into view. Without the swarm of congregants in front of it, it somehow seemed smaller than it had yesterday before the Sunday service. The grass around it was brittle and yellow. On a marquee sign in the yard, plastic letters spelled out the message: EVEN THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL, FOR YOU ARE WITH ME. PSALM 23:4.
Margot pulled to the curb in front of the little white building and got out of the car, glancing around for any sign of the auburn-haired woman tailing her. Though the street was quiet and empty, Margot still got the unsettling feeling of eyes on the back of her neck. She pushed the thought away, then strode quickly to the gate in the white picket fence surrounding the graves, undid the latch, and slipped through.
Like the church, the cemetery was small, with no more than a hundred graves or so. Margot made her way through the recent ones, their headstones still smooth and gleaming in the fading evening light. As she stepped past a particularly big stone, another came into view behind it and Margot stopped short. There, engraved in the marbled granite, was her aunt’s name: REBECCA HELEN DAVIES, MAY 2, 1969–OCTOBER 7, 2018. But before Margot could even register the grief swelling inside her, she noticed the headstone next to it and her breath caught in her throat. Engraved on a matching stone was Luke’s name, his birth date etched beneath, his death date a clean blank space. She turned away.
She’d only taken two steps toward the older graves when one caught her eye. The headstone was larger than most of the others with a white cherubic angel sitting at the top. The base was surrounded by offerings, spilling out onto the graves on either side. There were bouquets of flowers wrapped in plastic, daisies dyed unnatural blues and greens. There were grinning teddy bears clutching stuffed hearts and little plastic candles, their ever-present flames flickering weakly.
Margot made her way over to read the inscription, although she didn’t need to. She already knew to whom the grave belonged. Sure enough, when she stepped in front of it, the engraving read: JANUARY MARIE JACOBS, APRIL 18, 1988–JULY 23, 1994. Margot stared at the death date. She’d spent that summer of ’94 with the very girl whose body she was now standing on top of. They’d played pretend and ran through cornfields and braided each other’s hair. Now, that time felt so far away. In the two and a half decades since, Margot had lived so much life; she’d grown into a different person entirely. Had she been afforded that life because some man had picked January’s window instead of hers? Did she have all those years because January had not? The gratitude she felt at the thought made her burn with shame.