Chapter 23: Who Died

The Kingsbury plot sat under an old oak at the top of Harlan's oldest cemetery.

I had never been there.

I had only been told, by a singer in a gray hoodie, that it existed.

The stone was black granite, cut clean, and the lettering was deep.

IVY KINGSBURY.

Under the name were two dates, and under the dates, a line.

Beloved sister.

Polly stood in front of it with her rain boots planted in the wet grass.

She read the first word slowly, with her finger, the way she was learning to.

"That's you."

"That's me," I said.

"Mommy." She frowned up at me. "You're right here."

"I am."

"Then who died?"

I crouched down so my face was level with hers.

Behind me my mother stood with her hands folded, and Philip stood very still.

Douglas had stopped at the edge of the grass, a few steps back.

"Nobody, baby," I said. "Somebody was scared, and somebody was sure, and they put a stone in the wrong place."

"Like a sock in the wrong drawer."

"Like that."

"Can we put it in the right drawer?"

I almost laughed.

"We're about to."

Two men from the cemetery had come with a small crane on a truck.

Philip had arranged it that morning.

He had also arranged for a second man with a shovel, who stood apart and did not look at any of us.

"The coffin," Philip said, very quietly. "I want you to know what's in it before they open the ground."

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