I put them in a freezer bag.
I drove to Marjorie’s house at midnight.
I dug under the rosemary.
I put the bag in the cedar box beside her mother’s ring.
Marjorie d*ed eleven days later.
I was in the county jail.
Brian didn’t tell me until the arraignment.
On Thursday, I asked Dorothy if I could borrow her car for two hours.
She handed me the keys without asking where.
Marjorie’s house had been sold.
A young couple lived there now.
I knocked.
I told them the truth, or most of it: that my mother-in-law had buried something in the garden and I’d like to dig it up.
The wife looked at my clothes.
The husband looked at my face.
“Under the rosemary?” he said. “We almost pulled that out. It’s half d*ad.”
“Please don’t.”
He got a shovel.
The cedar box was exactly where I’d left it.
