Page 25 of Born Wicked

I could tell him about the family that lived in that house who screamed at me for not doing every single one of the dozens of chores they gave me.

I could tell Jon about the boy who had tried to get me to give him a hand job at that junior high school and then spread rumors about me being a tramp when I’d shoved him over into a garbage can.

I could tell him about that intersection where that car fire happened, the one where I got my scar from.

There are dozens of heartbreaking events I could tell Jon about.

But I remain frozen, utterly silent, when this stretch of road suddenly looks familiar for a different reason.

We drive right on by the exact spot where my mother was murdered by Archer King and where she snapped my neck. Where I died my first death as an infant, protected from that madman by my mother’s curse.

I don’t breathe as we drive by that spot.

I might not have been much good to anyone for the majority of my life. But I can protect Jon. I can protect him from as much pain as possible. I will never tell him any more details of what happened to me, his lost daughter, here in this painful place. I will never point out to him the site of Ingrid’s death.

So, in the dark, I sit silently, and hold it all in, keeping every bit of it to myself.

It’s a damn relief when the GPS tells us to turn just two miles down the road. We drive past five houses, and it chirps that our destination is in five-hundred feet on the right.

And then there it is. The road turns into the cemetery. There’s a low stone wall surrounding it. There is an arched sign going over the road that cuts right through the middle of it, reading Peace Grove Cemetery.

“We’re here,” Jon says. And there’s something pained in his voice, but there’s also something…. It’s not quite hope, not quite excitement. But I think he senses that for the first time in over twenty-nine years, he’s going to be in the presence of Ingrid once more.

He parks the car in the middle of the road, and we both just look out at the headstones for two entire, silent minutes.

Mom?the word slips through my mind, a scared call into the dark. Emotions bite the backs of my eyes, but I shove them down, just like I’ve practiced so well, and climb out of the car.

It’s cold, I know it should be colder, but I still zip my coat up. My breath billows around me. The dark is so encompassing. There is only a little sliver of a moon tonight, so the only light provided comes from the stars that are peeking through the clouds that sit still in the sky.

“They said she would be buried here, but there wouldn’t be a headstone,” I say as my eyes scan the graveyard. “So, I guess we’re looking for an open area?”

Jon nods, swallowing once. The look in his eyes is haunted, and they’re a little red with emotion. So, I just reach for his hand, and we step forward together, united in our search.

Rows and rows of deceased people spread out before us. I’ve seen bigger cemeteries. But this is still probably three acres of headstones.

That woman lived to be ninety-nine. That man was only thirty-one when he died. That child was only nine months old when they passed. There is a couple’s headstone that doesn’t say dates, only the wordsReunited Once More.

Nothing is guaranteed in life. Except that it will end eventually.

Damn. I’m the exception to even that rule.

We comb through the south side of the cemetery, and something begins to grow uneasy in me.

Row upon row of headstones.

The south side is completely full. All the way up to the stone fence that surrounds the entire property.

Acid seems to bubble in my stomach as we begin making our way through the north side. Long family rows. A few soldiers. An entire area for infants. Row upon row, every grave is perfectly lined up.

I start paying attention to the dates on the newer headstones.

Thirty-two years ago.

Thirty-one years ago.

Thirty years ago.

Twenty-nine years ago.