Chapter 7: The Grave

The Sedgwick family plot sat on a hill in Greenwich, behind an iron fence with spear tips.

On Sunday morning sixty people stood in black among the wet green grass.

Some were relatives. Some were board members. Some were reporters who had gotten the time from Yvonne's own office.

I understood the plan the moment I came through the gate.

She wanted a crowd, a priest, and a camera, and she wanted me to look like a madwoman with all of them watching.

Pearl walked beside me in her good church coat with her handbag held in front of her.

In her other hand she carried a garden trowel from her kitchen drawer.

"You said bring a shovel," she muttered. "This is what I had."

"It's perfect."

"It's a trowel, Wynne."

"It's the thought."

Anson came in a few steps behind us, hands in his coat pockets.

An old man in a cap walked at his side.

I had not met the old man yet. Anson had only texted me, Trust me, and a time.

The headstone stood at the center of the plot, a pale gray marble the size of a small door.

WYNNE YVONNE SEDGWICK.

Beloved daughter and sister. Taken too soon.

There was a carved lamb on top, and the dates were the ones I knew.

Someone had set white lilies at its foot, and under them lay a small box tied with ribbon.

I stood in front of my own name and my knees went soft.

Nobody had ever warned me that it would hurt like this.

"Darling," Yvonne said, and took my arm as if I were the one who needed help.

She wore a black dress and a black veil. Preston was on her other side with a face like a closed door.

Lila stood a little apart, wrapped in a blanket someone had put around her shoulders, white to the lips.

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