It’s the laughter that bonds us, I think. I’ve never been able to make anyone else laugh like I can her. It’s like a frequency we both tap into. I can sense the laugh coming before I’ve formulated the joke. The darker the better. Bang our heads against the wall or bounce off the bottom of a drug binge and we look at each other dazed and laugh. Tuck us in our graves, cover us in dirt, and you’ll hear a chuckle. I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. I don’t know who took more comfort, me or her. Probably me.

Speaking of graves, that’s where we were headed. At first glance, it was a quaint little church. Methodist or Baptist, maybe Lutheran. Brick siding with a thin spire that would more accurately be called an obelisk. A cross at the top, but not a Christian one. More like a sun cross with a gaping eye in its center. The wrought-iron fence behind the building contained the graveyard, which looked like something straight out of a George Romero film with the ground mist and canting headstones. Cue Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ and watch the undead claw their way out of the dirt.

Six steps led up out of the fog to a double-sided doorway. No nameplate or other building designation. Malia stopped at the top and turned.

“You need to prepare yourself for what you’re going to see inside,” she said.

“Which is what?” I said.

Her gaze shifted back and forth between us. “Your failings,” she said. “And how to make them right.”

“And we’re to get this lesson in morality from who? You?”

“From Rox,” Malia said.

Cassie’s hand had begun to tremble. She released her grip and I wanted to grab hold of her hand again but she crossed her arms. “We know our son. We love our son. Take us to him,” Cassie said. “Now.”

I knew better than to cross that tone of voice, but wasn’t sure how Malia would respond. She grabbed one of the doors by the handle and pulled it open, revealing a dark sanctuary lit by candle sconces. Smart lady. Much smarter than the chick I’d shot Jameson with, who had stuffed dollar bills down my pants while I danced on the bar.

The inside of the church was ransacked. Dusty floor with loose boards. A splintered pew shoved against the wall. Move it and watch the rats scatter. The collapsing rafters were draped in spiderwebs so large they flowed in the draft created by the open door. Were I to come across this church on my own I’d consider it a hazard. No way I’d trust the rotting floorboards to hold my weight. But they felt deceptively sturdy as we walked down the center of the room. All part of the design.