Chapter 9
“He will file a formal motion by tomorrow morning,” the courier said behind me.
“Let him file it,” I said, and closed the heavy door before he could offer the pen again.
Inside the apartment, the quiet was absolute. I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, watching the gray clouds hang low over the Potomac from the floor-to-ceiling glass. The leather folder containing my old journals lay on the marble counter, untouched since the divorce was finalized, and I found myself wondering how much of my life had been recorded without my consent.
I needed to get out of the apartment, away from the silent servers and the lingering scent of Harrison’s expensive cologne that seemed to cling to the vents.
The afternoon turned colder, and by three, I found myself driving toward Arlington. The gravel on the path was wet, sticking to the soles of my leather shoes as I walked toward section thirty-four, where the white headstones stretched in perfect, silent rows over the hillside.
My father’s grave marker was a simple white stone, identical to the thousands of others. I stopped five feet away, my eyes catching a splash of white against the gray granite.
Three fresh, unplanted lilies lay on the grass directly beneath his name, Arthur Harper.
The stems were bright green, completely free of the brown frost that had touched the rest of the cemetery grounds. I knelt down, touching one of the petals, which was still cold and firm.
“They were left about an hour ago,” a voice said.
An older man in a green canvas jacket and heavy work boots was standing near the adjacent row, a leaf rake resting in his hands. His name tag read Thomas.
“Did you see who left them?” I asked, standing up.
“A tall man,” Thomas said, squinting toward the eastern gate. “Wore a dark wool coat with the collar turned up. He stood here for five minutes, just looking down at the stone.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “But he didn’t walk back to the parking lot. He headed down toward the river gate.”
I looked toward the trees lining the Potomac, where the gray fog was beginning to settle over the water, hiding the city beyond.
May you like
My father had been gone for eleven years, his helicopter lost in a storm over the North Sea, yet these flowers were fresh.
I stood up, my fingers brushing the yellow notepad in my coat pocket, the one containing his handwritten cyphers.
