"What if somebody sees us?" my mother asked.

It had occurred to me to bring ski masks and something to hide my license plate, but I'd dismissed these ideas as being products of watching too many MacGyver reruns on late-night TV, my company during my recent bout of insomnia. Still, my being caught digging up a grave would look really bad when reported in the Charleston papers. Especially if they included a photo of me in my mom jeans.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," I said. "Yvonne checked the records and verified that the house and property have been abandoned since the nineteen fifties, when Jonathan's parents died. One of his brothers in north Georgia inherited it, but n.o.body's lived here since then."

"So we're trespa.s.sing," she said.

"Yes. But that would be the least of the charges if we're caught." I pressed down on the brake, stopping the car. "If you want to turn back, speak now."

I followed her gaze out the back window of the car, to where all we could see was a swirling haze of orange-colored dust, and then to the sides of the narrow road with ditches leading down into the forest. She looked at me. "I think we're beyond that now. Don't you?"

I nodded, knowing she was right in more ways than one. I pressed my foot on the gas pedal, moving the car forward with the oddest feeling of being glad that there was no turning back.

The Victorian farmhouse, when we finally came upon it in a clearing, appeared to be waging its last stand against the encroachment of the forest. It was exactly how I had pictured it-with the peaked roof, large deep porch, and the straight lines of the porch supports straight out of a book of Americana. This style of house probably existed in most regions throughout the country, calling to mind large families and chickens in the front yard. Not murder and empty graves. The only difference between my mental picture and what I saw before me was that the house seemed even more abandoned and forlorn than I had imagined.

No gla.s.s existed in the windows, allowing for gaping holes through which one could see collapsed ceilings and fallen walls. A large tree poked through the roof, the dislodged slate shingles half-embedded in the ground below where they'd fallen, as if in testament to the violence of the storm that had thrown them there.

I put the car in park and turned off the ignition. "I'm a.s.suming the family cemetery is out back."

"That's what Yvonne said." My mother faced me. "You don't like cemeteries very much." It wasn't a question.

"Nothing good ever happens while I'm in one."

She took my hand and squeezed. "Remember, we're stronger together. Don't forget that."

I squeezed back, then let go to exit the car. We stood in the deafening silence filled only with the background drone of thousands of unseen insects. I could smell the nearby marsh and the ubiquitous Lowcountry pluff mud, a scent I'd loved from the very first whiff. People say that's how you can tell a true South Carolinian-if they don't wrinkle up their noses at the unique smell of rotting vegetation.

"Do you feel anything?" she asked as we faced the desolate house whose yard seemed to be swallowing it whole, with weeds that grew through the slats in the porch floorboard.

"No. Not yet, anyway. Maybe there's no reason for them to be here."

My mother regarded me. "Or maybe we haven't given them a reason yet."

I swallowed heavily, trying to focus on the task at hand. I unlocked the trunk and handed a shovel to my mother, then took out the pick and another shovel for me. We were rounding the side of the house when I heard the distinct sound of a car door slamming.

I started and stopped. "Oh, no-somebody's here!" I quickly calculated how long it would take us both to run to the car and back out over the long gravel drive, before looking over at my mother, whose expression wasn't registering alarm or even surprise. Instead she actually looked apologetic.

Anger quickly replaced my fear. "Are you expecting someone?" I asked, moving ahead slowly while my suspicions rose, then were confirmed when I heard Nola's voice.

"They're here," Nola announced, just as my mother and I rounded the corner to the back of the house.

Jack and Nola stood by his pickup truck, each holding a shovel. All we needed was a couple of pitchforks to reenact a medieval witch hunt.

"What are you doing here?" Jack and I asked simultaneously.

We looked at Nola and my mother, both of whom suddenly looked very, very guilty.

"Mother! What were you thinking?"

Very calmly she approached us. "I was thinking that we needed Jack's help. Nola agreed."

Nola stepped between Jack and me. "And it would be nice if the two of you would make up. I feel like that dude on The Bachelor trying to choose between the two of you. It's just wrong."

Jack was staring at me, his expression one of confusion. "What happened to you?"

You, I wanted to say, but didn't want to give him any more power over me. I couldn't meet his eyes, remembering the humiliation of our last encounter. I stuck out my chin. "I'm on vacation. This is what people wear on vacation."

The old familiar smirk lifted half of his mouth. "On a retirees' cruise to Cancun, maybe. Where did you get those clothes?"

I tried to be offended but couldn't. Even if Jack wasn't mine, it was good to know he was still Jack. Regardless, I didn't think either "Sophie" or "Goodwill" would be acceptable responses. Instead, I pulled together the last shards of self-respect and asked again, "Why are you here?"

"For the same reason you are, I'm thinking." He slid a glance at his daughter. "Nola told me about Julia's letters. She'd heard enough to be able to let me know what was in them. But, being the intelligent person that she is, instead of telling me what she already knew, she allowed me to reach the same conclusion you apparently have-that Jonathan was the other body buried with William."

Curious enough to forget my humiliation and the stabbing pain in the vicinity of my heart that came each time I looked at him, I asked, "What made you think that?"

He scratched the back of his head. "Well, his death from influenza in 1938 was too coincidental. First William, then the house fire, then Jonathan-all in the same year. There was no influenza epidemic that year, which doesn't really mean he couldn't have died from it; it's just that his death was too . . . neat."

"And there's no such thing as coincidence," Nola said, beaming.

"Fast learner," Jack said, rubbing the top of her head as if she were a little kid. Frowning, as if he were trying not to show too much interest, he turned to me. "What about you? How did you figure it out?"

"The letters waxed poetic about the beautiful blond hair of the person Jonathan wrote to. According to the Manigault family photos that I've seen, Julia's hair was dark brown. William's was blond."

"Ah." He nodded. "Anyway, Nola acted appropriately surprised when I told her about my conclusion and casually mentioned that if we could find Jonathan's grave and discover it empty, we'd have a pretty good guess as to who was buried alongside William Manigault. I imagine she even convinced Yvonne not to tell me she'd already given you the same information on where to find Jonathan's grave when I met with her yesterday."

Nola focused on a rock on the ground in front of her with scholarly intensity.

Jack and I stood facing each other, our eyes not exactly meeting. "Well," I said, "glad to have my conclusions collaborated. But I think Nola, my mother, and I can handle it from here on out. After all, none of this concerns you."

My mother stepped forward. "Let's not be so hasty, Mellie. Jack's already here, and we could really use his considerable muscle to help with the digging. It will make it go twice as fast."

As much as I wanted to contradict her, I knew she was right. An extra set of arms would make it all go so much faster-even if they were Jack's arms. I figured that maybe I could work with my back to him so I wouldn't have to look at him. Or hear him breathe, which would bring back way too many memories. With a heavy sigh that sounded a lot like Nola, I said, "Whatever."

"No."

The three of us turned to stare at Jack.

He crossed his arms. "No," he said again. "I think Mellie should ask me nicely. As she pointed out, this has nothing to do with me. If she wants to borrow my muscles, she'll have to ask."

I felt my mouth drop open. "There is no way in . . ."

My mother spoke up. "My sciatica is really acting up, Mellie. I don't think I'm going to be much help with the digging. Which would leave only you and Nola. And she weighs about eighty pounds soaking wet. So before you make any hasty decisions, please think about it."

I tried to imagine doing all that digging by myself, and couldn't get past the part where I'd need to break the surface somehow. Just thinking about it depleted my energy reserves, not to mention the time issue. The fear of discovery was never far from my mind.

I took a deep breath and sighed deeply. Looking at a spot behind Jack's shoulder, I said, "Would you please stay and help us dig?"

"Since you asked so nicely," he said, with a hint of a smile lingering in his voice.

I slid my gaze to meet his, noticing again how blue his eyes were, and how they weren't mocking me but appeared instead to be searching mine. I looked away, for the first time not able to even guess what he might be thinking.

"Then come on," I said, hoisting a shovel and pick, then marching past Jack.

"Nice jeans," he said as I walked by, giving me a couple of ideas of what I could do with the pick and shovel besides digging.

Just as Yvonne had described, a small family cemetery lay situated behind the house, down a rock path that had been rendered almost invisible by tall weeds. A rusty wrought-iron gate surrounded the clearing with its small number of unkempt tombstones, their rounded tops made visible only by the shifting breeze.

"What is it with you Middleton women and family cemeteries?" Jack asked.

My mother raised her eyebrows and I knew she, too, was recalling the last time we'd been in a cemetery together as we'd tried to put the spirit of Rose Prioleau to rest. We'd come very close to having it all end in disaster.

"Except here I'm not feeling anything," I said. "Like all the spirits here are resting peacefully."

"Or aren't here at all," Nola added.

I hoped she was right.

We fanned out through the overgrown cemetery, reading fading inscriptions on the old grave markers. There were only about a dozen, and it didn't take long for Jack to find it. "Over here," he called, indicating a white marble marker in the shape of a cross. "Just has his name-no birth or death dates. Maybe Jonathan's parents didn't want their lie to be imprinted on a cross."

We stood in front of the marker and stared at the flat expanse of dirt and gra.s.s that grew over the grave. Jack reached for the pick and I handed it to him, more grateful that he was there than I wanted to admit, and not just because of the added muscle. Still, I couldn't look at him, and each accidental glance was like the slow peeling of a Band-Aid off a wound that wouldn't heal.

"Move back," he instructed. "I'll start and then we can all take turns scooping out the dirt. We're going to go about six feet long and six feet deep, and if we work fast we should have it done in a couple of hours."

"Can you make it faster?" Nola suggested. "I've got plans tonight. With Alston," she added hastily.

We stood back as Jack hoisted the pick and let it fall, and the first tremor of fear began at the base of my neck. I glanced at my mother and saw that she'd felt it, too.

"You'd better hurry, Jack," she said. "I don't think we'll have two hours."

His gaze traveled from my mother to me, and I knew he was remembering our last cemetery digging, too. He raised the pick above his head and drove it into the earth, and I felt the ground trembling softly below me, as if we'd awakened something that should have been left asleep.

We watched until Jack had obliterated the weeds and gra.s.s that had grown on top of the grave, loosening the soil enough so we could begin digging. I picked up my shovel. "I'll go first. The faster we dig, the less time we'll have to feel the pain."

Because of the small s.p.a.ce, my mother, Nola, and I took turns standing on the opposite end from Jack. He continued to dig throughout, changing sides with us so he could even out the depth of the hole. The hot sun beat down on us, and I found myself wishing I'd thought to bring water. In my old life, I wouldn't have left anything to chance. In my new life, I found I could barely remember what I needed to do in the next half hour.

"Are you all right?" my mother asked.

I blinked at her, my eyes stinging from the dripping sweat, and realized that I was seeing double. "Just . . . a little hot," I said.

She took the shovel from me. "Go sit over there in the shade next to Nola and cool off. I can do this now."

"But it's my turn. . . ." I stopped protesting, knowing that if I didn't sit down sometime very soon, I'd end up facedown in the hole.

I sprawled next to a sweating Nola, her face and hands smeared with dirt and probably looking a lot like I did. If somebody came upon us now and demanded to know what we were doing, it would be very hard to prove our innocence.

I hadn't been sitting down very long when the sound of metal hitting wood traveled up out of the grave. My mother and Jack stopped. "We're barely at four feet, but I think I found a coffin," Jack announced. His shirt was soaked in sweat, but he hadn't removed it. I'm sure it was more for my mother's benefit and Nola's, but I was very, very thankful. If the heat didn't make me pa.s.s out, that surely would have.

"I can finish this," he said, then helped my mother out of the grave. She came and sat down next to us in the shade of the pine tree while we watched Jack.

He used his shovel to remove the dirt from the top of the coffin, then tossed it aside to grab the pick. "Just in case it's not empty, I want you three to stay where you are for now."

I wanted to protest, but I didn't think I could have moved to a standing position even if I wanted to. He raised the pick once more above his head, and let it come down with a crashing, splintering sound. He moved back and brought the pick down two more times, using the broad-sided portion to pry away what was left of the lid.

He turned to face us. "You might want to come see this."

Nola and my mother stood. I waited for a moment, focusing all of my energy on becoming vertical again. Using the trunk of the tree for support, I pulled myself to a stand, then joined the others.

Slowly, the three of us leaned over the edge of the gaping hole, staring inside at a splintered pine coffin, its lid demolished enough to reveal several large rocks lodged into packed dirt, filling the narrow s.p.a.ce. We let out our breaths in a simultaneous exhale.

My mother shook her head. "I don't understand. Why would Jonathan's parents hide their son's murder and give him a false grave?"

Jack wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. "I'd bet a lot of money that they didn't know he was dead. That they were led to believe that he'd run off with William."

I nodded. "From what I know of Harold Manigault, I think he waited to find out if what Julia had told him about William was true. I mean, he must have known that Julia was jealous about William's inheritance, and he must have had his doubts. I think William was planning to leave, but wanted to see his lover one more time. So he got dressed up and that's when his father confronted him. The argument must have been brief-or nonexistent-since the fact that William was wearing his mother's clothes was evidence in itself, and in a fit of anger, Harold tossed William from the turret, killing him, either intentionally or not.

"I'm not exactly sure how the rest of it played out, but somehow Harold found out where William was meeting his lover, and waylaid Jonathan. Can you imagine his shock in finding out it was his future son-in-law? I have to imagine Jonathan's death was no accident."

"No, definitely not," Jack said. "I think he threw both bodies in his truck and drove out to the family plantation, where he buried the bodies, then burned the house so n.o.body would go back and accidentally discover the graves. To keep Jonathan's parents quiet, I'm guessing he told them that William and Jonathan had run off together-which would have been a huge stigma back then and would, in effect, silence them-and to save face, they faked Jonathan's death-even had a funeral for him. Either way, he was gone from them forever."

"Poor Julia," my mother said, shaking her head. "To have blamed herself for William's leaving all these years."

Nola's brow furrowed. "But then why would William's ghost try and stop Julia from discovering the graves? Wouldn't he want his death avenged?"

I had been staring at the coffin, listening to them speak, but seeing instead a dark night of violence and loss. And feeling William very close by. His presence wasn't threatening, and before I could ask him why, I suddenly understood. Stop her. It will only get worse if she does not.

"He was trying to protect Julia," I said. "He wanted her to believe that Jonathan had gone to his death loving her instead of allowing her to live with the knowledge of the worst kind of betrayal."

Nola kicked a clod of dirt into the coffin. "Miss Julia said her mother and William were really close. I bet Anne hid the letters after William disappeared to keep Harold from destroying them. I bet she saw Harold kill William, too-that's why they had to cart her off to the loony bin after he died."

I turned to my mother. "What are we going to tell Julia?" This was the part I had no experience with, and wasn't really sure whether or not I wanted to. "She's dying. She might need to know the truth so she can rest in peace."

Nola rolled her eyes. "I don't need another doll chasing me around. I vote we tell her."

A heavy gray cloud covered the sun, casting us all in heavy shadow. We looked up to see that everywhere else the sky was blue. But the insects were now eerily silent as a wind materialized, pushing at us with sudden intensity.

"We need to go," Jack said, his voice urgent but calm for Nola's sake. But my mother and I were remembering another cemetery not that long ago where an angry spirit tried to take her revenge on those of us who sought to right an old wrong.

"Yes," I said, leaning down to pick up a couple of shovels. "I think a storm is coming." Spots formed in front of my eyes and I stumbled. My mother took my arm. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Just a little bit of heat exhaustion, I think. Would you mind driving?"

"Not at all. Just go sit inside the car and turn it on so you can get the air-conditioning blasting. I'll worry about collecting all the tools."

"Hurry," I said without argument, squeezing her hand while examining the black cloud above us that seemed to be lower in the sky now, pressing the oxygen out of the air. "I think we've upset Harold. Julia told us that appearances were everything to him. Even now, after all this time, I don't expect he's going to be thrilled about the world seeing his family's dirty laundry."

She squeezed my hand again. "We're stronger than him. Just keep saying that to yourself and I'll be right with you."

I nodded, not completely sure I believed her, then watched her walk back to where Jack and Nola were refilling the hole. I wasn't feeling well, whatever strength I possessed depleted. I supposed that was a natural by-product of heartbreak, but I wouldn't know, having never experienced it before now.