Over Tumbled Graves by Jess Walter Read Free Book Online Page A

forearm that a person usually acquires in prison. Dupree slid the photo out of the album and put it in his pocket.
    Outside, a spring wind had picked up. Dupree found Spivey talking to a cute television reporter, his foot up on the bumper of Dupree’s car, speaking under his breath.
    “You having a press conference?”
    Spivey brought his foot down and shifted his weight. “We were just talkin’.”
    “You tell her about the neo-Nazis?”
    Spivey tried to smile nonchalantly. “He’s kidding. He always jokes around.”
    “Oh, shoot. You’re right,” Dupree said. “We’re not supposed to talk about that. Thanks for keeping me out of trouble, partner.”
    The TV reporter glanced at her notebook, and Dupree leaned over to read what she’d been writing.
    “I can neither confirm nor deny rumors of castration,” he said. “You’ll have to ask the chief about that.”
    She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
    “And don’t quote me saying they cut his heart out. I’ll deny having told you that.”
    “Don’t listen to him,” Spivey said. “He’s just messing around.”
    Dupree opened the car door and motioned at Spivey, who reluctantly climbed in. They drove quietly for a block before Spivey spoke. “That was mean.”
    “I told you, don’t talk to reporters unless you ask me first,” Dupree said. “And when you ask me, I’ll always say no.”
    Spivey stared out the passenger window as Dupree drove, the car almost moving itself, its driver deep in thought. They crossed the river to the north side of the city.
    He rolled his window down and turned into the quiet neighborhood around Corbin Park, porch lights twinkling through front-yard shade trees, sprinklers raining water like shattered glass on the sidewalks. He drove slowly, taking in the smell from the flower beds and lilac bushes. He’d always liked the neighborhood along this park, in part because he’d never been to a serious crime here. It was late and he should just do this in the morning, but he wanted at least to drive by her house to see if she was up. At the end of the park he turned, and his headlights ran across her car in the driveway. He parked in front of the small one-story house. A light was on in the back of the house, where he guessed the bedroom would be. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the photograph he’d taken from the dead guy’s album, held it against the steering wheel, and imagined her behind the dark picture window.
    “Whose house?” Spivey asked.
    Dupree didn’t respond at first. “Hmm? Oh…nobody’s.”
    Inside, Caroline had started when the headlights rolled across the picture window in front of her house. She sat in the dark on the couch. She watched out the window, waiting for the car to leave. She knew who it was. Joel finished his shower and Caroline heard the creak of footsteps behind her and knew again without turning that Joel would be in the doorway, wearing a pair of flannel boxer shorts, drying his hair with a towel.
    She envied the way men could date younger women without any self-consciousness. She’d heard men say stupid things like, “As we get older, we’re getting closer in age.” She longed for that kind of self-deception, but her mind played the opposite game, constantly imagining him as a little boy—six when she graduated from high school; four when she had sex the first time. There was something especially troubling in realizing that she began having her period the year he was born.
    “I really am sorry, Caroline.”
    She turned and smiled. “I told you, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have left my phone on.”
    “It was stupid of me to call.”
    She turned back to the window and could still see the sliver of headlight on the curb, could still hear Dupree’s car idling outside.
    Joel took a step into the room. “Someone out there?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    They’d already made love, when Caroline had come home from the hospital. She had