Page 96 of Brimstone Hollow

Dishman grasps both my shoulders, holds them tight. His hands are strong and warm and sure. I can’t seem to look at him. I look at my shoes instead. His shoes. The floor.

“Neither of us thought he would take his own life,” Dishman says.

“No,” I whisper. “No, I… I didn’t think… I should’ve…”

“Annie,” Dishman says. “Annie. Look at me. Come on, now.”

He moves my shoulders again until I look up at him, finally look him in the eye. We meet each other’s gaze and, for a moment, everything starts to settle. The world slows back down. My adrenaline levels off and I can breathe again.

“Go outside,” Dishman says. “Get some fresh air. Have a seat. I’ve got to call this in.”

He points me toward the door and gives me a gentle nudge over the threshold. Then he escorts me to the top step of the porch, where I sit down and lean against the banister.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says. Telling me. Not asking me.

“Yeah,” I say, because maybe agreeing will make it true. “You too.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he disappears back into the house and I hear the low murmur of his voice as he calls the police station, the other funeral home, Officer Jeanine. I close my eyes and take a few long breaths, listen to my own heart gradually slowing down. The heat is less oppressive here, up on this mountain, deep in these woods, next to this creek. I can understand why Roman Bradley came here. Why he came here to make the choice to live or die.

I open my eyes and watch a hummingbird dart between bright red flowers.Zinnias, I think. The hummingbird’s wings make a buzzing sound.

I’m not sure how long it is before Dishman emerges from the cabin, trudges across the porch, and with a slight groan eases himself down to sit on the step next to me. Long moments pass with us sitting like this. Shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing, listening to the forest. There is no silence in a forest, not really. The creek goes on burbling, the birds go on singing, the cicadas go on humming. People talk about heading into the forest to experience quiet, but what they’re really looking for ispeace.

Humans seek the peace of the trees and the rocks and the water and the endless cycle of little creatures that will endure far shorter lives than ours, but that, generation after short generation, will continue seemingly into eternity while we bumble through our longer lifespans with the disastrous knowledge of our own mortality.

The breeze blows. The canopy rustles. Sweat drips down my back.

“Did he leave a note?” I ask Dishman. “I saw the paper and pen on the table.”

“He’d started,” he says. “But he only got as far asDear Diana. And then nothing…”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say.

“I think I’m getting too old for this job,” he says.

“You don’t look it,” I tell him, giving him a nudge with my shoulder.

“But it’s true,” he says. “In here—” He taps his head. “And here.” He taps his heart.

“This case…” I start.

But he says, “This case isn’t just a case. Not for me. I’m supposed toprotectthis town. But here it is, tearing itself apart, right under my nose.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

“I feel like I brought it here,” I tell him. “Like my coming here is the spark that set off the dynamite that blew Mount Zion apart.”

He smiles at me, soft and sad, and says, “You’re more like a hand grenade than a spark, Annie Gore.” Then, when I frown, it’s his turn to nudge me.

“No,” he says. “No, don’t be thinking like that. The dynamite was already here. Just waiting. All you did was ask questions. If folks didn’t like the answers, they shouldn’t have been doing what they were doing.”

I nod and there’s a long silence.

Finally, he says, “You found Nathaniel Nickels. I didn’t see your text until… well, until after everything. I can’t believe he was down in the Hell Hole. God… what the hell was Roman thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I think he must’ve been involved at least since Nickels died on Friday night. I feel pretty sure he’s the one that bought the door hardware, the one we saw on the security footage. He’s the one that rushed the autopsy, the one that buried the wrong man, and the one that dug him up. You remember how neat that grave was? Like it hadn’t been touched.”