Page 97 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
I sigh. “I know,” I say as we walk. “It makes me nervous too.”
“We need to give those photos you took to the police.”
“I will,” I say. “I’ll send them over later this afternoon.”
We continue to walk, hand in hand, until we reach the graveside ceremony. There aren’t many people here, but a few; I spot Phil and Elsie, dressed in black, and maybe ten more people.
None of them look very sad at first glance.
Although…
My gaze jumps back to Phil, and I blink in surprise.
He doesn’t look sad, necessarily, but he doesn’t look well, either. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair, normally slicked back, falls limply around his face. It’s greasy, and that combined with the scruffy shadow on his face makes me think he probably hasn’t showered in several days.
Interesting. And…strange.
I don’t let myself dwell on it right now. I drift instead to the row of easels next to the casket, leaning in to look at them more closely. They each display a different photo; the first is a black and white glamor shot of Carmina as a young woman, beautiful and poised. The next is a wedding portrait, and she’s even lovelier in that one; her smile is stunning, her eyes sparkling. Then comes a family photo, the same one that hangs in Phil and Elsie’s house; seeing it now, though, I can’t stop the little voice in my mind that wonders if that little boy grew up to be a murderer.
When I move on to the last photo, I’m expecting to see Carmina looking the way I always knew her—older, elegant, haughty. But I’m shocked to discover how wrong I am.
It is Carmina, and she is older. But that’s the only part I got right. She’s standing by a graveside in this very cemetery, looking worse than I ever saw her look in life. She’s dressed in elegant black, but her hair is distinctly disheveled, and her face is swollen and puffy. A heavy locket hangs around her neck—one I’ve seen before, I think. I peer at it more closely, noting too the stiff portion of her sweater at the base of her throat, the unusually high neckline—
“Oh,” I say as something unexpectedly painful twinges behind my belly button. It’s backward. Her shirt is backward in this photo.
Why did they display this? It’s cruel.
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, blinking my eyes rapidly. Then I look at Soren. “She was so lonely.”
He frowns, leaning over to look at the picture. “What do you mean?”
I inhale shakily. And it’s stupid, maybe, that this one photo has me holding back tears, but…
“Her sweater is backward,” I say, pointing at the portion of her shirt that’s right at the base of her throat. “Look. You can see the patch right here where the tag is inside.”
“Okay…” Soren says slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I see it. So what?”
“So,” I say, taking another deep breath. “No one told her, Soren.” I look at him, blinking more rapidly still. “There are people all around her. Someone took this photo. But…no one bothered to tell her that her sweater was backward. No one cared enough to tell her. Not even her family.” And it’s horribly, desperatelysad, pulling painfully in a way I don’t even understand.
Phil walks past me then, and instead of shying away, I hold out one hand to stop him. “Phil,” I say.
“Hmm?” he says, looking at me. He still looks awful.
“This necklace,” I say, pointing at the heavy oval locket. “Did she wear this a lot?”
“Yes,” Phil says shortly. “It has a picture of my father inside.”
“Ah,” I say, and understanding clicks into place. “Thank you.”
I wait until he’s moved past us before turning to Soren. Then I pull out my phone and hunt around my photos until I find the photo the waitress at the restaurant sent me. I peer at it more closely until I see it.
“Her date,” I whisper to Soren. “The date at Chateau Marche where no one turned up. It was with her husband.”
Soren frowns. “Her…deadhusband?”
“Yes,” I say.
His frown deepens, and I fight the urge to smooth those lines out of his forehead. “What?” he finally says.
