Free In My Father's Eyes by Kat McCarthy

Emily’s stepfather.” He shook Tom’s hand. “I’m Harold. Emily’s boss. From the store.” He explained.
    Tom’s eyes calmed and he shook Harold’s hand quickly.
    “Oh. I…see. It’s just…we’re not…pleased to meet you.” He stuttered.

 
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
     
    Emily Walls walked out her front door into the early afternoon sun. The year’s first frost had hit last night and the hoary dew had melted, leaving the ground damp and squishy beneath her boots. Tugging her coat around her tighter against the cool wind, Emily squelched across the lawn and went left.
    This late on a Sunday, families were just returning from grocery stores and churches. Emily, breath fogging, stutter jogged moving quickly along the sidewalk, her cheeks flushing in the November chill.
    She passed off her block and headed right, crossing the suburban street, her boots kicking at the piles of leaves gathered in the gutter, brown and soggy. Emily bypassed the bus stop not wanting to take a chance on having to speak with anyone, and made a left at the convenience store on the corner outside the entrance to her subdivision.
    Thirty minutes and two miles later the church’s spire came into view over the tops the tall fir trees stretching into the painfully blue sky. Warmed by her walk, she loosened her jacket, and went up over the small hill surrounding the church’s parking lot. Slushing through the wet grass, she circled left of the church and followed the fence line for a hundred yards until she approached the entrance to the cemetery.
    From far away came the sounds of cars passing on the road. Looking both ways, Emily shoved the toe of her boot into the locked chain link gate that barely rose to her waist. With a hop she was over and moving deeper into the manicured lawn that curved and slid over the rounded hills behind the church.
    Hedgerows created walls that blocked off the cemetery into discreet sections. There was a map closer to the church that showed which numbered section was which, but Emily didn’t need the direction. She’d been here before. Many times.
    Following the paved path used by the caretaker’s golf cart, Emily circled around the bare branches of a giant elm, and followed the cart path deeper, passing weathered angels, rusted wrought iron fences protecting family mausoleums with Delphic columns like tiny miniatures of the Parthenon until the large statues and tombs gave way to smaller, more intimate stones. Stones that bore names and dates with the occasional pithy remembrance.
    Thighs starting to burn from climbing the rolling hills, Emily stopped under a dogwood that stood off by itself, away from the larger firs, elms and maples as if it had found itself amongst strangers and scooted away for safety.
    Puffing fog, Emily looked at the bronze plaque set into the stone flush with the trimmed lawn. Kneeling, Emily set her bag down, feeling damp seep into her jeans and chill against her knees. Unmindful, she leaned forward and rolled onto her back, her head resting just below Emma’s marker, her dark hair splayed in a wash around her.
    “Talk to me, Em,” she said, her eyes closing, hands clutching at the wet grass and soft soil covering her sister’s grave. Beneath her shirt, the cross felt heavy on her neck seeming to sense the attraction of its twin in close proximity. Over the years, she’d come to Emma’s grave to empty her soul, to share with her sister her feelings, her fears; the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.
    In the three weeks since Harold had driven her home on that rainy night, she hadn’t been able to make any sense of the odd coincidence of Emma’s resemblance to Lydia. Her world was one of logic and reason, coincidences were just that, coincidences. Harold hadn’t spoken of it since that night. Things at work had gone back to normal and with the holidays kicking into full gear, they were busier than ever.
    And now she needed answers. Her boot heels dug into the ground as