Page 148 of False God

“Like what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”

“Do you want to go for a ride?”

Lili’s face immediately lights up. “Yeah.”

I show her into the tack room, pointing to a pair of Blythe’s boots she can borrow.

Ten minutes later, we’re riding side by side, away from Newcastle Hall’s looming shadow.

I’m shocked by how comfortable it is. How it feels like this was a planned visit, not a total surprise. How easily we talk as the horses trot along.

“What’s that over there?” Lili asks once we’re about a mile from the manor.

I follow her gaze to the stone wall that encircles the graveyard filled with my ancestors. “The cemetery.”

I wasn’t intending to bring her here as part of the tour, but it’s the route I’m accustomed to taking. And there’s not much else to see, as she already pointed out. Past the next few fields, the forest starts.

Lili urges Gilbert ahead rather than guiding him away.

We dismount in tandem, like we’ve come here a thousand times together.

The horses grasp on to the opportunity to graze on the lush grass as I follow Lili toward the wooden gate that leads inside. A distant grumble sounds, so I cast a concerned look up at the sky. It’s gloomy now, not just overcast, dimming like a dying light bulb.

“Is it okay to go in?”

“Sure. Not much to see though.”

I hold the gate open for her, then follow her inside. The gardeners maintain this place the same way they mow and maintain around the main buildings on the estate. The grass around the graves has been trimmed short, stone slabs the only interruption in the stretch of space. No flowers or benches or mausoleum.

Lili walks toward my father’s headstone first. The last in line with the shiniest surface.

The flowers I scattered last time I was here are gone. Decayed, same as the bodies buried in the earth.

“Do you come here a lot?” She has to ask because there’s no evidence I come at all.

“Definea lot.”

She smiles, but it’s a sad one.

Sympathy from Lili feels different. Makes me feel safe and supported rather than pitiable and alone.

She revises her question to, “Do you come here?”

“Yeah.” I nod once. “My father had a low tolerance for others’ input. There’s a lot I never said to his face … things I say to this stone now.”

“Do you think he can hear you?” There’s no judgment in her voice, only curiosity.

“No,” I answer. “But I’m not really talking to him. I’m letting it out of me, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.”

There’s another rumble in the sky. Louder … closer.

But I don’t move or suggest we leave. I come here alone, always. To vent and curse and rage. To expel some of the stress sitting on my shoulders. It’s my shooting range, not a sanctuary.

Standing here with Lili is unexpectedly peaceful.

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