Chapter 22: The Grave

Calla's POV

Two days after the cold-storage plant, Bram stood in Pru's doorway at nine in the morning with no car at the curb and no suit.

He wore a plain grey sweater, and he held a white rose in one hand.

"I want to ask you something," he said. "You can say no."

Pru, behind me with her coffee, lowered her mug.

"Ask."

"Will you come to see my brother?"

I stopped breathing.

"I go every Sunday," he said. "I haven't taken anyone. I'd like to take you. If you can't, I'll understand, and I'll leave, and I won't ask again."

I looked at the rose.

I had never in my life been asked a question that mattered and been told I could answer it either way.

"Yes," I said. "Give me a minute."

I went and put on shoes.

The cemetery was on the bluff above the harbor, behind the Wainwright house, where the old stones leaned toward the water.

The house itself stood shuttered. A moving truck was in the drive, and two men were carrying a wheelchair ramp down the front steps.

Bram did not look at it.

We walked up a gravel path between rows of grey stones until we reached a new one, polished and plain.

*DERMOT HENRY WAINWRIGHT. 38.*

There was nothing else on it.

Bram crouched and laid the white rose against the base. He brushed grass off the stone with his thumb.

"Hello," he said. "I brought somebody."

I stood a little behind him, with my hands in my pockets, and my left thumb wouldn't stay still.

"Go on," said Bram quietly. "He'd have liked you."

I came forward and knelt in the wet grass.

The stone was cold under my fingers.

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