Free Buried by Linda Joy Singleton Page B

” I point, closing my eyes to shut out the image. “Behind the tree.”
    â€œShow me,” he says with thick suspicion.
    I shudder. “I—I can’t.”
    His hand rests on the hilt of the gun at his side, studying me. Then he nods, as if coming to some decision. “Stay right here,” he tells me. “Don’t go anywhere.”
    â€œOkay,” I murmur. My legs wobble and I lean against Amerie’s car for support.
    I watch him stride over to the burnt tree, his gaze sweeping around, on alert as if expecting an ambush. He stops abruptly, a few feet from the hole.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he calls over to me sharply. “Were you digging?”
    â€œI—I wasn’t.”
    â€œCould have been an animal.” He bends down, rubbing his chin. “What’s this?”
    My stomach clenches and I know the exact moment when he’s seen past the dirt and ragged cloth … to the tiny finger bones. An intake of breath. But he recovers quickly, backing away and brushing past me as he strides to his vehicle. I don’t move, as instructed, but my mind drifts, so I’m only half-aware of the sheriff barking orders into a phone. It’s not until he finishes talking and comes over to touch my shoulder that I snap back to this awful reality.
    â€œHow did you know to come here?” he asks, steel behind his words.
    â€œI didn’t know anything. I was just out driving.”
    â€œDo you have any idea what’s over there?” He pointed past the burnt tree.
    Tensing, I nod.
    â€œSo you’ll understand why I need to get a statement from you.”
    I hesitate, then nod.
    â€œWe can’t do that here, so I’ll have to ask you to come to the station with me.” There’s underlying hostility in his tone, as if he’s found me guilty and can’t wait to lock me up. Freak goths are liars, right? I get that all the time. Sure, I lie sometimes, but not when it’s important. Unfortunately, my truth is more unbelievable than any lie.
    â€œI don’t know anything,” I insist. “I need to get home or my parents will worry.”
    â€œThey should worry,” he says. “May I see your driver’s license?”
    Not a question. An order.
    I imagine the news headline: Minster’s Daughter Finds Grave Under Suspicious Circumstances . No, I can’t do that to Mom. She’ll get fired for sure.
    But I can’t refuse the sheriff, so I hand over my license. It’s a horrible picture, of me with blond hair and no makeup. My heart sinks like quicksand.
    I shift in my army boots while the sheriff studies my license. He rubs his chin. He makes “hmm” sounds. Then he picks up a phone and steps away from me so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
    Amerie’s car keys dangle from my fingers, the tiny pink fairy wings sparkling as if ready to fly away. I wish I had wings.
    â€œBeth Ann Matthews,” the sheriff says, turning back toward me. “Why does Matthews sound so familiar?”
    I shrug. “It’s a common name.”
    He snaps his fingers. “Are you any relation to our new minister?”
    I groan. Can things get any worse?
    Of course they can.

    The next hour is forgettable—at least I’d like to forget.
    Waiting on a hard plastic chair, strangers staring at me or ignoring me, conversations buzzing like white noise. I shut most of it out until Sheriff Hart informs me that my father is on his way.
    Just great , I think miserably. Why couldn’t it be Mom?
    When Dad arrives, he avoids looking directly at me. He sits stiffly beside me while I answer questions.
    Unfortunately, everything I say sounds wrong.
    Sheriff Hart shoots off questions like his words are bullets and I’m standing in front of a firing squad. I think I’d prefer bullets. His questions rip through truth and lies so I hardly remember what I’ve said. I can’t tell him about my