around her.
A dead lightbulb swung gently above the table though no wind touched it.
Somewhere far away, water dripped.
Not ordinary water.
A slow, wet sound.
Like the mountain counting.
Lily folded the letter and placed it in the inside pocket of her mother’s jacket.
That was the second twist.
Her father was alive.
The cave was not treasure.
It was a crime scene.
And the town’s most respected men had built their lives over buried bodies.
She wanted to scream.
She did not.
She wanted to curl up
