Her Mother’s Grave

Chapter Nine

A week passed, and every night Josie dreamed of the tall maple tree in the woods behind the trailer that was her childhood home. Sometimes her father was there, a hole in the top of his head, a macabre smile on his face. He beckoned her. “Come,” he said. “I have to show you something.” Each time, Josie was too afraid to get close to him. Sometimes Ray, her ex-husband, was there—only it was Ray at nine years old, crashing through the woods behind her, telling her not to get any closer. She woke sweaty and thrashing in her king-sized bed, her limbs twisted in the sheets.

Today was no different. Her eyes snapped open, her heaving chest and gasping breaths slowing gradually in the warmth of the sunlight streaming through her bedroom windows. She sat up, pulling her sweat-soaked T-shirt away from her skin, and looked around the room, taking in the high ceilings, the large windows, and the walls painted a soothing cream color. It was her favorite room in the house, open and airy in a way she usually found comforting, but still she shivered as the sweat on her body dried, leaving her clammy. She would have just enough time to shower and stop for coffee before reporting to work.

Twenty minutes later she was locking her front door, her mind on the performance evaluations and equipment requisitions waiting on her desk at the station, when her cell phone rang. It was Noah.

“What’ve you got?” Josie answered.

Noah’s laughter filtered through the phone line. “You’re getting better at the small talk, Boss. I’m fine, thank you.”

Josie smiled as she made her way from her stoop to where her Escape waited in the driveway. “I’m glad to hear that, Fraley,” she said. “I’d really love a latte from Komorrah’s Koffee. Maybe you could make your way over there before I get to the station. How’s that for small talk?”

“The latte is already on your desk,” he responded, making Josie smile.

“You may need a raise,” she joked. “Now, what’ve you got?”

“I’ve got a preliminary ID on our mystery girl. We didn’t get any hits in Denton, so Gretchen expanded the search area. We tracked down a dentist in Bellewood who inherited his father’s practice about ten years back. His dad practiced for decades before he retired. Apparently, his dad repeatedly mentioned the patient with hyperdontia he treated in the late ’70s, early ’80s, because the condition was so rare. Gretchen is over there now getting the chart so Dr. Feist can see if they’re a match.”

Josie stood beside her Escape, feeling a tingle of excitement. An ID in a week. It was a good start. “That’s great,” she said, fishing her key fob out of her jacket pocket.

“Yeah, we lucked out with her having those fangs.”

“Extra teeth,” Josie corrected. Ever since she’d seen them, she couldn’t help but wonder what the poor girl had been through because of them; kids could be exceptionally cruel.

“Sorry,” Noah said. “Supernumerary teeth. Anyway, we might have never tracked down her identity if it weren’t for them.”

Josie lifted her shoulder and used it to keep the phone pressed against her ear as she reached for the handle of her Escape. On the underside of the door handle, her fingers sank into something cold and mushy. “What’s her name?” she asked.

The smell reached her nose the moment she took her hand away from the door handle—foul and stomach-clenching. She held her fingers up in front of her face, the brown color confirming her guess. “Shit,” she muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Her name?”

“Belinda Rose. Date of birth October 15, 1966.”

Josie felt the color drain from her face, the clamminess of the early morning returning and coating her skin like a greasy film. In that moment, she wasn’t sure what made her feel queasier—the excrement covering her fingers or hearing the name from Noah’s lips.

She held her hand away from herself, looking around, realizing she’d have to go back inside to clean up. But her legs felt heavy and stuck in place, and her lungs were filled with lead.

“Boss?”

“That’s not possible,” Josie croaked.

“What’s not possible?”

“Belinda Rose can’t be dead—she can’t have been dead for over thirty years.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“Because Belinda Rose is my mother’s name, and as far as I know, she’s still alive.”