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He steps to the side, opening a gap between him and I for Lacey to see the couple through. “They’ve been together for thirty-five years since. That’s a solid amount of time. And in all those thirty-five years, there’s been no scandal, no police issues, no violence.”
“You don’t believe me?” She hiccups and reaches up to swipe her cheek. “You’re going to rule this a suicide too, and put her back in the ground like no one cares?”
“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” I say. “It’s that we need proof. We need something to hold on to. Right now, that couple over there looks kinda solid.”
“We’re not ruling this anything,” Fletch adds. “The medical examiners will do their job. The doctors on this case today are legions better than the one you got last time. If there’s something to be found, they’ll find it. And if there’s not, then you may have to accept that Holly died in a way you don’t like.”
“Detectives?”
Behind us, Officer Clay does his duty to perfection, drawing The Wades’ eyes to us, and Lacey’s to them. “Can you come over here a minute?”
I turn back to Lacey and take her hand in mine. She’s close to seventy years old. Her palms are soft like butter, and her cheeks are thin, almost translucent. But her eyes are steely hard. “We’re not brushing this off, okay? We’re not putting Holly away until we’ve exhausted every single avenue. You have my word.”
“But you have to be prepared,” Fletch murmurs. “Your sister is gone, Ms. Trainor. She’ll be reburied eventually. Whatever comes of this investigation, there’ll be a time you have to learn to live without her.”
“I understand.” Dropping my hand, she clasps hers and glances down at the moist grass beneath our feet. “I just want to know you’re doing the very best you can before that time comes.”
“We promise.” Tapping my arm, Fletch nods to Henry and Hillary. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll come find you again soon, Ms. Trainor.”
Turning, I walk beside Fletch and come to stop in front of the Wades.
“Henry.” I nod for him. Then I scan to his left and slightly up. “Hillary. Did you need something?”
“W-we just wanted to know what progress you were making inside,” Hillary chokes out. She’s closer to sixty, younger than Lacey by a few years, but she appears every bit the rounded, softened, slightly large, old grandma type. “We wanted to know if you had any news.”
“You objected to this exhumation.” Fletch cuts in instead. He meets Henry’s eyes. “You said no. But you came here tonight anyway.”
“I objected because I don’t want my family to hurt,” he argues. “I didn’t want Holly’s family in pain either. But it would seem you were intent on bringing her up anyway. For that reason, I wanted to be here.”
“To be the first to hear of anything we uncover?” I ask daringly—and, according to Henry’s glare, offensively. “Didn’t want to miss out on the gossip?”
“There’s no gossip to be had,” he snaps back. “There are two families in exceptional pain, reliving a trauma we thought we moved past thirty-six years ago. My late wife was unwell,” he groans. “She was the most amazing woman I’d ever known up to that point in my life, but she was unwell.”
Beside him, Hillary’s eyes flicker with a deep ache as her husband openly grieves another woman.
“She’s missed,” he murmurs. “But I moved on, Detectives. I have children now. And grandchildren. What do you expect me to do when you knock on my door all these years later and bring it all up again?”
“Cooperate,” Fletch shrugs, drawing their eyes to him. “We understand this is upsetting, Mr. Wade, but typically, if the police ask for your permission to do something that may bring us answers, saying no tends to put us offside.”
“And while I respect your authority in this case,” he reaches across and wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I care more that my family is at peace.”
“Detectives?” Back at the tent, Minka’s voice draws me around with a fast twist.
Her expression gives nothing away. Her eyes, not even hinting at what she wants. She lifts a hand and beckons me with a crook of her finger.
Lifting just one of mine, I request a minute. Then I look back to Henry and open my phone to search for the photo I took of the discovered locket. “We have to step away in just a second, Mr. and Mrs. Wade, but I have a couple of quick questions.” Finding the picture, I look up and ask first, “At Holly’s funeral, what were people placing on the casket prior to burial?” I look from one set of eyes to the next. “Flowers? Letters?”
“There were fake flowers.” With a hitch in her breath, Hillary presses a tissue to her lips. “Most people put real flowers in too, but the funeral director gave anyone who wanted one a little white flower to place in at the end of the service.”
“Did anyone give Holly jewelry?” I watch them both. Study their eyes. Their expressions. “Bracelets? Hair clips? Necklaces, maybe?”
“I don’t…” Henry shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I didn’t watch every single person who passed her by. But no, not me.”
“Do either of you recognize this necklace?” Tapping my phone screen to make sure it’s lit, I turn the device around and show them both the photograph I took. “It appears to be made of silver. The locket is heart-shaped, and the chain is about eighteen inches long.”
Hillary’s breath catches as her eyes spill over. “Oh my goodness.”
