“You don’t have to stay and help me,” he said. “Working in a cemetery isn’t exactly the life I’d picture for someone like you.”

She put her hands on her hips. “So what do you picture for someone like me?”

“Husband, kids, nice house in the suburbs, PTO board, maybe a dog.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m kidding. So what now?”

“Well, I have to return the book so Caleb will get off my back.”

“And after that?”

She shrugged. “I’m not one who looks that far ahead.” She grabbed another sponge, knelt down and started helping Stone clean off the grave marker. Later, after they’d eaten a dinner that Annabelle prepared, they sat on the porch and talked.

“I’m glad I came back,” she said, glancing at Stone.

Stone said, “I am too, Annabelle.”

She smiled at his use of her real name. “That Seagraves guy, he called you a Triple Six. What’s that about?”

“That was about thirty years ago,” Stone said.

“Fair enough. We all have secrets. So you ever think about going someplace other than here?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Here tends to grow on you,” he said simply.

Maybe it will, Annabelle thought. They sat in silence, staring up at the full moon.

• • •

A four–hour drive north, Jerry Bagger stood looking out his window at the same moon overhead. He’d called in every favor he’d ever earned, threatened and beaten up more people than he could remember, loving every minute of it. The result was he was closing in as her defenses and covers started falling away. Very soon it would be his turn. And what he’d done to Tony Wallace would pale next to what he had planned for the lady. The image of her slow destruction at his hands never failed to curl his lips into a smile. He was back in control. Bagger puffed contentedly on his cigar and sipped a finger of his bourbon.

Get ready, Annabelle Conroy. Here comes big, bad Jerry.