“Well, I’m not psychic. I promise you that,” I said, a bit tongue-in-cheek.

“What do you mean by that?” He stopped and looked at me sharply.

I couldn’t understand it, but I knew that I had made him angry. The joy of the day drained away under the stare of his blue eyes. “It was a joke.” I laughed nervously. “You know, that I’m not a psychic telling you these things. I’m just an average researcher.”

His jaw popped a little. “It’s not far ahead, just beyond the first two clumps of trees there.”

For the second time that day, I had to ask myself, What just happened?

We walked a few more minutes, and I managed to avoid most of the sticker-filled dewberry patches but chided myself for not giving my skin a good douse of bug repellent before setting off on this journey. I tried not to be irritated by Ashland’s unpredictable moods. He swung his machete at some branches and ignored me. And I returned the favor. I made myself a thousand promises to keep him out of my mind, although it was tough not to watch his muscles ripple under his blue linen shirt. But I silently pledged to speak as little as possible to him until we entered the clearing.

We stopped in a small clearing, and under a copse of oaks and pines stood a forgotten mausoleum with the name “Cottonwood” etched above the door. It was made entirely of hewn stone blocks that fitted together masterfully. The mausoleum doors were green, evidence of copper, with a huge keyed lock below the right door handle. It had a peaked stone roof that looked intact, down to the window grates. It stood about eight feet high and was large enough to hold a large family.

Large tears welled up in my eyes. I thought of Calpurnia’s hopeful face, how she imagined a life in the world beyond her privileged prison. I wondered if she managed to escape, and if she did, was it to another pretty jail nearby? I slid my sunglasses down, over my eyes, quickly dabbing away the wetness.

“And there’s more. We found a dozen small crosses over here, but there’s nothing written on them. There’s really no telling who else is here.”

“This is pretty amazing. Let me grab my phone.” I began snapping pictures and emailing them to myself so I could examine them later on my computer. I couldn’t believe TD had found this.

“I wonder who we have here. I mean, obviously, someone in the Cottonwood family, but who? I suppose there are some records somewhere?” He seemed genuinely curious about who lay at rest on his property, and I couldn’t blame him. I shuddered to think that Jeremiah Cottonwood may have been lying just a few feet away from me. The wound on my ankle twinged.

“Hmm…that should be easy to find out. I imagine Mr. Cottonwood and his wife and perhaps their children. What was the daughter’s name? Calpurnia?” I snapped away with my phone, pretending I didn’t know. I was not a skilled liar. I squatted next to the small white crosses, hoping my question didn’t give me away.