Page 11 of The Unraveling

My brows pinch. “A FOIA request?”

She nods. “Someone requested a copy of the entire case file under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Who?”

The clerk’s face changes. She purses her lips like she’s caught herself speaking out of turn. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“But who would request a copy of my file?”

She shrugs. “Could be anyone. Cases that result in charges are a matter of public record.”

“Was it someone from the media?” No one has bothered with me since the story about Connor fizzled from the headlines. It has been months now.

“You’d have to fill out the form online to get that information.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

I sigh. “Okay. Thank you. Do I need to do anything else to file that paper?”

“Nope. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

I step back out onto the street, feeling even more glum than I did when I came in. My shoulders hunch and my feet feel heavy, like my shoes are made of concrete, but I go back to walking. Because what else do I have to do? I walk a few miles, not really paying attention to where I’m going, until I reach a dead end. Iron gates practically smack me in the face. A cemetery. Seems an appropriate enough place to end my day. So I keep walking, find the entrance, crunch the browning grass beneath my feet with every step, and start reading gravestones as I pass.

Philip Morrow. 1931–1976. Beloved father, husband, and son.

Matilda Holtz. 1876–1945. Too well loved to ever be forgotten.

Julia Einhard. 1954–1960. Our angel in heaven.

I swallow a lump in my throat and taste salt. Julia was only six.

Gabriel’s daughter will never get to turn six.

I close my eyes. What am I doing? I don’t belong here. And I’m suddenly exhausted. So I turn to leave the cemetery. A small brick hut sits at the exit, and I pause, thinking of them…

Gabriel’s wife.

His daughter.

“Excuse me,” I call through the window.

An attendant turns away from a form she’s filling out and peers over her glasses at me. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. Is there…” I hesitate. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s not my business. But I haven’t been so good at staying within the boundaries of healthy thus far, so why start now? “Is there a way to find out if someone’s buried here? I recently lost some friends, but I’m not sure if they were buried here or somewhere else. I’d like to bring flowers.” The lie streams out of my mouth easily.

“Of course. What are their names?”

“The last name is Wright. Ellen and Rose. They would have been buried last year.”

“Hmmm…” She types into the computer. “No Wright interred here since about five years ago.”

“Oh. Okay.” Disappointment hits. It would’ve hurt to see their graves. I got off too easy today.

“Sorry, dear. Good luck finding them. Often seeing someone’s final resting place can bring us peace.”

I nod my thanks and turn away. Unfortunately, there is no peace for me.

CHAPTER 6 Then

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