Free My Sister's Grave by Robert Dugoni Page B

him.
    “I was a late bloomer. I grew a foot the summer of my junior year.” The O’Learys had moved from Cedar Grove after Dan’s sophomore year in high school. His father had taken a job at a cannery in California. It had been a sad day for Tracy and the other members of their posse. Dan and Tracy had stayed in touch for a while, but those were the days before e-mail and texting and they had soon fallen out of touch. Tracy seemed to recall that Dan had graduated and gone to college on the East Coast and remained there after graduating, but had also heard that his mother and father had returned to Cedar Grove when his father had retired.
    Thorenson approached and introduced the minister, Peter Lyon. Lyon, tall with a full head of red hair and fair skin, wore a white, ankle-length alb with a green rope tied around his waist. A matching green stole was draped over his shoulders. Tracy and Sarah had been raised Presbyterian. After Sarah disappeared, Tracy’s faith had ranged from agnostic to atheist. She hadn’t set foot in a church since her mother’s funeral.
    Lyon offered his condolences, then stepped to the head of the grave and began with the sign of the cross. He thanked those who had come, raising his voice to be heard over a burst of rain pattering on the canopy. “We have come today to inter the remains of our sister, Sarah Lynne Crosswhite, in the earth. Our loss is great and our hearts are heavy. In times of trouble and pain we turn to the Bible, the Word of God, for our comfort and our salvation.” The minister opened his Bible and read from it. Finishing, he said, “I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” He closed his missal. “Sarah’s sister, Tracy, will now come forward.”
    Tracy stepped to the edge of the grave and inhaled a deep breath. Darren Thorenson handed her the gold-plated box and gave her a hand as she knelt on a cloth spread over the ground, though she still felt moisture seep through her nylons. She placed Sarah’s remains in the grave and then scooped up a handful of moist soil. Tracy closed her eyes, imagining Sarah lying in bed beside her as she had frequently done when they were children and when they had shared a hotel bed while traveling to shooting competitions with their father.
    Tracy, I’m scared.
    Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes. Now take a deep breath and let it out.
    Tracy’s chest heaved. Her eyes watered. “I am not . . . ,” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice even as she spread her fingers and let the clumps of dirt fall onto the box.
    I am not . . .
    “I am not afraid . . .”
    I am not afraid . . .
    “I am not afraid of the dark.”
    A sudden gust of wind rippled the canopy and blew strands of hair in Tracy’s face. She smiled at the recollection and folded the strands behind her ear.
    “Go to sleep,” Tracy whispered, and wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek.

    Those in attendance came forward to drop handfuls of dirt and flowers into the grave and to offer their condolences. Fred Digasparro, who had owned the barber shop, needed the assistance of a walker, a young woman at his side. Hands that had shaved men with a straight razor now trembled as he reached to take Tracy’s hand. “I had to come,” he said, with his Italian accent. “For your father. For your family.”
    Sunnie quickly embraced Tracy, sobbing. They had been inseparable throughout grammar school and high school, but Tracy had not stayed in touch, and now the contact felt uncomfortable and the tears forced. Sunnie and Sarah had never been close; Sunnie had been jealous of Tracy and Sarah’s relationship.
    “I’m so sorry,” Sunnie said, drying her eyes and introducing her husband, Gary. “Are you staying for a few days?”
    “I can’t,” Tracy said.
    “Maybe a cup of coffee before you go? A few minutes to catch