Cemetery Lake by Paul Cleave

longer on the force. Why were you at the
    cemetery?’
    “No comment.’
    ‘Bruce Alderman was killed four hours ago, and yet here you
    are, coming home. Why is that?’
    I almost tell her that he wasn’t killed, that he killed himself and there’s a difference, a very big difference.
    ‘How is it you still get cases?’ she asks. ‘Especially these types.
    I was led to believe everybody on the force hated you.’
    “I still have a few friends in the department,’ I say. ‘They do what they can to help.’
    She smiles and I’m not sure why. ‘Is there anything else you
    would like to add?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It’s been a long day, I imagine.’
    ‘It has been.’
    ‘It’s been a long day for everybody. I guess it must have been hard on you.’
    ‘Can you move your van now?’
    ‘Of course. Thank you for your time, Detect… I mean, Mr
    Tate.’
    The light on the camera switches off. Casey Horwell looks at
    me for a few more seconds, that same smile still on her face, then she turns away and climbs into the van. A few seconds later it pulls away. I get back into my car and park it in the driveway, too tired to put it in the garage.
    My house has three bedrooms but only one of them gets used.
    My daughter’s bedroom is still set up as if one day she’s going to return home, and I’m not exactly sure how healthy that is and I’m not exactly sure I care to know. If my wife were here maybe she’d have made a decision to change that, but she isn’t. It’s just like Patricia Tyler keeping a room for her daughter. Snapshots of time. It seems to be what life is about.
    I put a CD on the stereo, grab a beer and go out onto the
    deck, pushing play on my answering machine on the way. It’s
    my mother. She’s calling to see how the rest of my day went, and to ask about what happened. I make a mental note to call her
    tomorrow.
    The night has warmed up a little, and I sit on the deckchair
    in the misty rain and stare up at the night, listening to the music as the beer helps calm my nerves. I’d sit out here sometimes
    with Bridget after Emily was asleep. It’s sheltered from the wind when it’s cold, but when the wind is warm it sweeps in from the opposite direction and onto the deck. I’d slowly drink a beer and she’d slowly drink a wine and we’d talk about our day. I always felt as though I could tell her anything, but there were cases I couldn’t bring home. They would stay in my mind but I didn’t want them in hers. They were a part of my life and I didn’t want them to intrude on hers. We’d talk about our pasts and about
    our future; we had plans to move into a bigger house, we were
    debating whether to have more children. We would sit out here
    and laugh, we would make plans, we would argue.
    The rain drifts away and the sky clears a little; a gap appears in the cloud cover, and for a moment there’s a quarter moon up there, it throws around enough pale light so that when I look at my watch I can see the night is slipping further away. Emily’s cat, a ginger torn named Daxter, comes through the sliding door and jumps up on my lap. He starts purring while I scratch him
    under his chin. He was only six months old when Emily died, and any question as to whether cats can remember people has been
    answered by the fact that the only place he ever sleeps is on her bed, and that sometimes he has the same look in his eyes my wife has — as if he’s looking for something that isn’t there any more.
    I finish the beer and head back inside. I refill Daxter’s bowls with food and water, and he seems grateful enough. I walk past my daughter’s bedroom but don’t go in. There isn’t any point.
    I take a shower and I think about Rachel Tyler, but I try hard not to think about what her final hour was like. I try to envision a scenario in which Bruce the dead caretaker is innocent, but can’t seem to come up with much. Then I think about Casey Horwell,
    and can’t help but wonder if there is any truth in