He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

reached down for the pink carnations already wrapped in tissue paper, waiting for her. “Your usual order, Ms. Jones.” He handed the flowers to her and took her money.
    The name “Jones” gave her pause and she realized she’d grown used to “Stockton” again in the past few days, since the policemen always used that name.
    “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds,” she murmured. Another group of mourners was approaching the flower cart so she hurried past them, keeping her head bent. Usually she chatted with Mr. Reynolds. He was always nice to her and lived in her neighborhood, but he understood her shyness about her scar. She was sure he wouldn’t hold it against her that she hadn’t stayed to talk today.
    The sound of crunching gravel startled her, but it was just one of the undercover policemen keeping pace about twenty feet away.
    She turned down a dirt path between the graves and stopped under an oak tree with delicate fingers of Spanish moss dripping down. Her mother had loved oak trees, which was why Amanda had chosen this spot when she buried her parents. The shade was nice, too, lowering the stifling temperatures by several degrees. Still, it was so hot outside today that her lungs felt like they were sticking together every time she breathed. Her policeman shadow wasn’t faring any better in the heat. He stopped under another tree, loosening his tie as he took advantage of the shade.
    The hot breeze did little to help, but it did bring out the scent of freshly mown grass. Combined with the sweet, delicate scent of the carnations, it reminded Amanda of better times, summers spent with her mom, dad, and little sister.
    Amanda leaned forward and used the pink tissue paper to brush off the black granite headstone that marked the two graves. Then she filled the two vases with carnations. Normally she spoke out loud, telling her parents what she’d done the previous week. Or, on the rare occasions when she had news about Heather, telling them about her sister.
    She shivered in spite of the heat. There was nothing about this past week she wanted to share. And with a police officer only a few feet away, she wasn’t comfortable speaking out loud. Instead, she sat on the thick grass between the graves and allowed herself a few moments of silence to quietly remember them.
    Growing up in Florida had been fun. Her dad’s nine-to-five desk job at an insurance company didn’t buy a lot of extras, but it paid the bills, kept a roof over their heads. Mom stayed home to raise her two daughters, taking them to the beach every chance they got. Weekends were for cookouts on the back deck, or sometimes they’d go to a neighbor’s house and enjoy their pool.
    Amanda smiled again as she remembered how excited her father was when he got a promotion and a bonus. Heather was a senior in college. Amanda had already graduated and started her career as a computer programmer. For the first time since her parents’ honeymoon twenty-four years earlier, her parents could afford to go on a real vacation. They’d been so excited about their upcoming trip to Italy.
    Amanda’s smile dimmed. The plane crash had not only taken her parents’ lives, it had driven a wedge between her and her sister. It didn’t help that Amanda was the one who’d suggested the trip in the first place. And then there was John, Heather’s husband.
    Shaking her head, Amanda pushed away the unpleasant thoughts. The policeman leaning against a tree a short distance away was trying not to be obvious about watching her. But the disapproving look on his face, and the way he kept glancing around, told her he didn’t like her being here out in the open.
    She didn’t either, but sometimes responsibility outweighed other considerations. She sighed and pressed a kiss against the cold headstone. “I love you, Mom and Dad,” she whispered.
    After climbing to her feet, she brushed off her jeans and carried the last of the carnations to Dana’s tombstone only a few graves away. Amanda replaced the dried up carnations from her last visit with fresh ones. Keeping her voice low, she told Dana what she told her every week. “I’m so sorry, Dana. Please forgive me.”
    C hannel Ten anchorwoman, Tiffany Adams, stared down at the fresh flowers on Dana Branson’s grave. She waved her cameraman over. “Get a shot of this. Did you see anyone by this grave?”
    “Nah, no one’s been over here since we got here.”
    She stepped back so he could get a shot of the flowers.