No. What would be the point? I doubted Arthur had ever set eyes on me, and I doubted even more that he would have cared that I’d come by. He was obsessed with my mother, not with me. I was little more than an inconvenience. Our problem. That uncomplimentary phrase still itched in the back of my head, hard as I tried to exorcise it. The argument could easily be made that ultimately I had cost him the relationship he had with her.

I’d been about two years old when he died. Had he ever tried to see me?

Not likely. If he had, Lulu or my grandmother would have guessed who he was—taking Lu at her word and assuming they didn’t already know. So why was I wasting my time hanging out at a stranger’s grave? I shifted my light around and watched my feet part the grass as I navigated a trail between the stones. About halfway back to the road I sorted out a separate set of footsteps crunching through the grass, moving a split second slower than mine and taking a longer stride.

I turned off my flashlight and stood still. Another voice called out.

“Hello?”

Hot damn, Eliza had been right.

I didn’t answer, but I hopped off the main path and set my back against one of the pillarlike monuments.

“Hello? Is someone there?” He was not shouting, not even raising his voice above a hard whisper. I did not have to see him to know I should hide from him. I doubted he was armed, but there was no sense in taking chances.

“I . . . I saw a car up by the road. Is there someone here?”

Malachi had not been to see Eliza yet, otherwise he might have guessed whose car it was. My breath came a little faster, and my heart beat a little harder. Should I head for the car? Call out? I wasn’t too far from the house at all; if I yelled, the cops down the hill would likely hear me.

He stood as still as I had, nearly on the same spot where I’d been a moment before. I could have reached out and pulled his hair. He was nervous, but he was wanted by police in several states so I decided not to judge him a coward for his shaking. His shoulders were square and high, his neck craned forward, and his hands were held out and empty—not even a flashlight.

Speaking of flashlights, my own was heavy enough to brain him with if it came down to it. I fondled the metal-and-glass instrument with both hands, but did not leap out to ambush him . . . yet. I wanted to know what he was up to.