She was too strong for Jessica.

Her eyes closed, the fight draining from her fast. Her grip on the gun loosened. She could no longer feel any pain in her arm or neck. Somewhere in the distance, Jessica thought she heard a bang and a crash, followed by the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. Too loud and too close.

Then there was nothing.

37 JESSICA

37

JESSICA

The storm had passed.

The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. The grass a lush green after two solid days of rainfall. The sun was bright enough to have folks reaching for their sunglasses again, but there was a definite crispness to the air.

Fall was finally here.

Laid gently across the foot of the headstone were a dozen white roses, tied with a white satin ribbon. Her favorite flower. There was no card, and there was no need for one. The flowers had been left earlier that morning by Darla Kennedy. Just as she had done on this date every year for the last quarter of a century. The grave marker wasn’t the oldest in the memorial park, and it wasn’t the newest either. After twenty-five years, the stone was tarnished and worn, its inscription no longer as sharp as it once had been.

Twenty-five years.

Eleanor Lavelle had now been dead for as many years as she had been alive.

Jessica gingerly knelt on the grass in front of the headstone. Her bones still ached, her muscles not yet back to full strength. She could feel the sharp sting of the arm and neck wounds, if she moved too quickly, despite the pain meds. The dampness of the grass soaked through the knees of her jeans as she placed a single white rose next to Darla’s bouquet and gently ran her fingers across the name carved into the cold stone.

Eleanor Lavelle had been flawed, no doubt about it. She’d had a burning desire to kick back against a world she felt had treated her unfairly. Jessica knew the feeling all too well, but the truth was Eleanor Lavelle had been more lost than she had ever been.

Her mother had made decisions she would probably have looked back on with regret had she lived to see her fiftieth year. Even so, she was real. Eleanor Lavelle wasn’t a picture-perfect photo of a stranger in a park. She was Jessica’s mom. She was a million miles away from the tragic backstory Tony had tried to construct for her benefit, but after all the lies, the truth was good enough for Jessica.

She stood slowly and gazed around the vast memorial park. Wondered if Catherine Tavernier’s final resting place would be here too. If anyone would mourn her.