Choosing a couple of volumes from my collection, I turned to hand them to Devlin. His gaze was riveted to a display of framed photographs on one wall.
He walked over to take a closer look. “Did you take these?”
“Yes.” His scrutiny made me oddly nervous. Other than the few I’d posted on Digging Graves, no one had ever seen my photographs.
“You double-exposed the film. Interesting the way you superimposed all those old graveyards over cityscapes. There’s a definite theme and point of view. Also, a hidden message, I suspect.”
I came to stand beside him. “Not really. Like gravestone art, the message is in the eye of the beholder.”
He studied the images for a moment longer. “I find them…lonely. Beautiful, but intensely lonely. They make me uneasy.” He glanced at me then. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult.”
“I didn’t take it as one. I’m glad they make you feel.”
His gaze lingered, searching. “You like cemeteries, don’t you?”
“They’re my livelihood,” I said with a shrug.
“I’m guessing they’re more than that.” He turned back to the pictures, frowning. “There’s a sense of isolation, but not in the graveyards. In the cities. Within the people. These images are very revealing, I think.”
I suppressed a shiver. His observation made me feel exposed and vulnerable. “I wouldn’t read too much into them. I like playing around with interesting compositions and different techniques. There’s no deep meaning here.”
“I disagree,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a discussion best left for another day.”
Seven
“Here.” I handed him the books. “Why don’t you browse through these while I go wash my hands?”
I left him perched on the edge of a corner chaise, thumbing through one of the volumes, while I hurried down the hallway.
In the bathroom, I washed my face and hands, resuscitated my ponytail and pulled on a clean T-shirt. Beyond that, I didn’t bother with the mirror. I tend to be a little too hard on myself even though I’m aware of my attractiveness. I’m what people call a quiet pretty. Blond hair, blue eyes, a nice complexion and a generous mouth. I’m thin but my muscles are strong and taut from all those years of working in cemeteries. I enjoy my share of admiring glances, but in no way would I ever be considered exotic or sultry, like the woman who haunted Devlin. Why that mattered to me even a little bit was not something I cared to contemplate.
I couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes, but when I returned to my office, I found Devlin stretched out on the chaise, sound asleep. One of the books rested on his chest, the other on the floor beside him.
This was an unexpected turn of events.
I walked over to his side and stared down at him. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and I resisted the urge to sweep it aside.
Touching him was out of the question. So I said his name instead, but he didn’t rouse.
He looked so deeply under, I was a little apprehensive about startling him awake. He was an armed police detective, after all.
I stood in a quandary, wondering if I should just let him sleep. He was probably exhausted and he looked so peaceful. But this was odd. A first for me.
Taking advantage of the situation, I gave him another thorough appraisal. He had a scar beneath his bottom lip that I hadn’t noticed before. It was small but indented, as if something very sharp had punctured the skin. A knife, perhaps. The thought of that drew a shiver.
My gaze traveled downward to where the silver medallion nestled in the hollow of his throat. When I leaned in to get a better look at the insignia, another strange thing happened. I grew suddenly breathless. Not the fluttery feel one gets from excitement or fear, but a paralyzing sensation akin to having the wind knocked out of me.
I stumbled back and put a hand to my chest. Whoa.
Devlin muttered something in his sleep, and I scurried away even farther, bumping into the desk and dropping, weak-kneed, into my chair. My gaze went back to him as I nervously tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. What just happened?
I tried not to overreact, but that pressure in my chest was very uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to make of the experience.
Finally as my breathing eased, I decided it was just some weird by-product of nerves or an overstimulated imagination. Forcing my attention away from Devlin, I turned on my laptop to check the responses to last week’s blog entry— “Graveyard Detective: Sleuthing for the Dead.” A prescient article, as it turned out. Which made me a little apprehensive about my next topic—“Sex in a Cemetery: Graveyard Taboos.”
I shot Devlin another look. Still fast asleep.
An hour passed before he finally stirred. He opened his eyes and glanced around in confusion. When he saw me staring at him, he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise and scrubbing his face with his hands.
“How long have I been out?”
“An hour, give or take.”
“Damn.” He glanced at his watch, then ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Sorry. I never do that. I don’t know what happened.”
I shrugged. “It’s a cozy spot with all that sunlight. I always get a little drowsy myself when I sit there.”
“It was more than drowsy. I was dead to the world. I haven’t slept that hard since…” He paused, frowned, then glanced away.
I wondered what he’d been about to say. “You had a late night. You’re probably exhausted.”
“It wasn’t that. It’s this place.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “It’s peaceful here.” His gaze met mine and I felt electricity pulse along my nerve endings.
“I haven’t felt this rested in years,” he said.
Maybe it was my imagination, but he did look different, sitting there in the sunlight. The dark smudges under his eyes had faded and he appeared rested and serene. Rejuvenated, I would almost say.
By contrast, I still felt weak in the knees and though the pressure in my chest had lessened, there was now an unpleasant hollowness in the pit of my stomach and an overall lethargy that was foreign to me. As we sat there staring across the room at one another, I had the sudden notion that Devlin had somehow leeched my energy while he slept.
That was impossible, of course. He wasn’t a ghost. At that moment, I’d never seen anyone who looked more alive.
“You okay? You look a little pale,” he said.
I swallowed. “Do I?”
“Maybe it’s just the light.” He picked up the books and stood. “Do you mind if I keep these for a few days? I’ll take good care of them.”
“No, I don’t mind.” I rose, too, on shaky legs. “Do you have any idea when I can get back into the cemetery?”
“We’re doing another sweep tomorrow afternoon. I’d like you to be there if you can arrange it.”
My father’s rules raced through my head, then faded. “Wouldn’t I be in the way?”
“Just the opposite. You’re more familiar with the terrain than any of us. If anything seems out of place, who better to spot it than you?”
“I’m not sure I’m free,” I murmured.
“If it’s a matter of money—”
“It’s not. It’s a matter of clearing my schedule.”
“One o’clock, if you can make it. It could take a few hours, so you might want to plan accordingly.”
I let him out the same way we’d come in, and then I hurried through the house and parted the curtains at one of the front windows to watch him leave.
When he came around the side of the house, his appearance struck me again. Already his gait seemed heavier, and I couldn’t help thinking of his ghosts. I imagined them at his side, invisible in the sunlight, one at each arm, bound to him forever.
Whether I could see them or not, Devlin’s ghosts were always with him, making him the most dangerous man in Charleston for someone like me.