We stepped out onto the porch, the night air hitting my face like cold water.

“Are you going to be alright?” Lydia asked as we walked down the gravel driveway.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just need some time to think.”

“Marcus is desperate,” she said.

“Desperate men do foolish things.”

“I know,” I said.

She stopped by her sedan and opened the door.

“If you find anything else that proves he moved those graves, call me,” she said.

“I will,” I promised.

I watched her red taillights disappear down the long, winding driveway.

The wind from the James River was picking up, rustling the dry leaves on the ground.

Instead of going back inside the house, I turned toward the north ridge.

The grass was high and wet, soaking the cuffs of my jeans as I walked.

The silhouette of the old family cemetery rose against the grey sky.

The iron gates were locked, their rusty scrollwork catching the faint moonlight.

Beside the gates stood the stone gatehouse, a small, neglected building.

My grandmother had spent hours there when she was alive, tending to the family records.