It was a beautiful lie carved into expensive stone. Beneath the dirt was nothing but fifty pounds of sand and the rotting remnants of a legacy I had burned to ash. Beatrice was serving three consecutive life sentences in solitary confinement. Preston had died quietly in a state ward eight months ago, his heart finally giving out, surrounded by strangers instead of the victims his mother would have slaughtered to save him.
I reached into my pocket and felt the cold, heavy metal of a gold signet ring. It bore the Blackwell family crest—a rearing stallion over an oil derrick. It was the ring Preston had always coveted. It was the ring my mother used to press into hot wax to seal her bloody, off-the-books contracts. The Bureau had released it to me as personal effects after the asset forfeiture.
I held it up to the dying light. It represented everything I was supposed to be: ruthless, wealthy, and dead inside.
With a swift, practiced motion, I tossed the heavy gold ring. It arced through the air and landed in the dry dirt directly in front of the headstone, disappearing into the dust of my own empty grave.
“Rest in peace,” I murmured to the frightened, unloved boy who used to crave his mother’s affection. He was gone, and he was never coming back.
I turned on my heel, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, and walked back up the hill.
Parked beneath the shade of a massive live oak was an unmarked cruiser. Ranger Hayes was leaning against the hood, a steaming cup of gas station coffee in his hand, watching the perimeter. He tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass as I approached.
“You good, kid?” Hayes asked, his eyes searching my face for any lingering ghosts.
I looked back at the cemetery one last time, then adjusted the heavy leather holster at my hip. I felt the comforting weight of my sidearm, the badge on my chest, and the undeniable truth that family isn’t who bleeds for you; it’s who stands beside you when the bleeding stops.
“Never better,” I nodded, walking around to the passenger side. “Let’s go to work.”
As I pulled the heavy door shut, the cruiser roared to life, kicking up a thick cloud of Texas dust. We sped away from the graveyard, heading toward the flashing blue and red lights of a new crime scene painting the distant horizon. I looked at my reflection in the side mirror as the darkness swallowed the cemetery. I was a ghost to the world I left behind, but for the very first time in my entire life, I was finally, undeniably alive.
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