Cemetery Girl by David J Bell Page A

she wanted Caitlin to be baptized there by Pastor Chris. Caitlin was eight years old then and refused, but I took Abby’s side and told Caitlin she should do it. I chose not to attend the service, but Caitlin grudgingly agreed, scowling and dragging her feet the whole way. When they came home, I asked Caitlin how it had gone.
    “Weird,” she said, crinkling her nose.
    “I figured as much,” I said. “Do you buy any of it?”
    “Nope.”
    We laughed together, more like conspiring siblings than parent and child. Abby left the room.
    “You’re both so . . . hard ,” she’d said. “I can’t get near either one of you.”
    Her involvement with the church had increased steadily after that—a mission she undertook alone—and when Caitlin disappeared, Pastor Chris and a gang of his helpers set up shop in our living room, praying, bringing food, answering the phone. They kept a constant vigil, and when the media and police left, the church people left too, but Abby went with them and so did what remained of our marriage.
    At the far side of the park, near the cemetery, I slowed my pace. More trees lined the path there, providing shade. I looked behind me and saw no one, so I wasn’t in any danger of getting run over or becoming the obstacle clogging the path. I knew Caitlin’s marker— cenotaph , as Buster would say—lay just beyond the trees, and where the foliage was thin enough I made out the rows and rows of headstones.
    What if Ryan was right?
    They would release the sketch, and for a time things would happen. A flurry of attention, the discovery of possibilities.
    But after that? If none of the leads panned out, and the sketch proved to be a dead end . . .
    What would I do then?
    I turned my gaze away from the cemetery, and that’s when I saw the girl on the path ahead of me.
    We locked eyes for a moment. She saw me. I knew she did. And as soon as she saw me, she bolted, moving from left to right and through the small stand of trees that separated the park from the cemetery. She was blond and young and looked just like—
    Caitlin!
    I ran forward, my shoes slipping and sliding against the gravel track. I felt like a man running through deep water. I couldn’t move fast enough. Then I reached the spot and looked through the trees. There was a small break, a worn little path leading from the park to the cemetery.
    I followed, ducking my head beneath the low branches, and came out onto the green lawn of the cemetery. I looked around. Nothing but the flat earth and the headstones. No sign of the girl.
    “Caitlin!”
    I moved left, out toward the main road. My breath caught in my throat, the sweat thickening beneath my arms. I crossed the small, winding road that wrapped through the cemetery.
    I called out again. “Caitlin!”
    No girl in sight, but in the distance a graveside service was in progress. Several heads turned toward me, considering me. I didn’t have time to think about the figure I must have been cutting. I didn’t call out again, but worked my way up through the cemetery, keeping close to the boundary it shared with the park. I looked to the left, into the trees, hoping for another glimpse of the girl or even just the sound of rustling branches and leaves.
    But there was nothing. I went all the way up the boundary, all the way to the parking lot by the small limestone chapel, where the cemetery held services. The lot was full of cars, including a hearse and two gleaming black sedans, but no girl. No Caitlin. I stood there in the sun, my breath coming in short huffs. But there was no girl there, no sign of a girl at all.

Chapter Thirteen
    I wandered back toward the house in something of a daze. The girl—blond, thin, fast—definitely looked like Cait-and I’d spotted her in the park where Caitlin had disappeared. She looked younger than Caitlin should have looked after four years away.
    But then, if it was Caitlin, if that was my daughter, why did she run at the first sight of me? Why did she