Murder Under the Mistletoe by K.J. Emrick

Author:K.J. Emrick [Emrick, K. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: South Coast Publishing

Colby let out a low whistle. “Wow, Mom. I’ve never seen that kind of hatred from a parent toward a son. And it’s right there, forever. For anyone to see.”

She wasn’t wrong. Gravestones stood for hundreds of years, just like this one had. For someone to put something so vile on their own son’s epitaph spoke to a deep-seated loathing. The person who had this made had to know people would read this about the boy who had died.

The father mentioned in the words had to be Orson Bylow. That made the son…

“Rupert Bylow.” Colby read the name at the very bottom of the stone, above the date of death, as Darcy shoved the snow out of the way. “That’s him!”

Darcy stood up, slapping the snow off her gloves. “That’s who, honey?”

“That’s the guy from the mirror. The ghost. The one I told you about.”

“The boy ghost?’

“Yeah, him.”

“The one that you spent over an hour talking to in there this morning?”

“Well, yeah…”

“The same one that clammed up and disappeared when we came looking to see where you were?”

“Mo-o-om…”

“Okay, okay, I’ll let it go. I already knew it was his ghost. I was just teasing.”

“Seriously? That is so sneaky.”

“Yup. That’s another spring chicken thing. You’ll get there eventually.”

Darcy tried to get a smile out of her daughter, but all she got in return was a pout. Of course, she didn’t think Colby was interested in the ghost boy—Rupert Bylow—that way. You couldn’t very well have a crush on a ghost. She wisely let it drop and went back to looking at the stones.

To the left of the cross, the one tall rectangular slab of stone leaned at a precarious angle. It was too narrow at the top to hold snow, and the lettering on it was raised instead of recessed like the hateful epitaph on the cross had been. All in all, it was much easier to read. With a little glove scrubbing, they could read it just fine.

Here lies my wife,

Jennifer Bylow.

She died hating

me, as surely as

I hated her.

Love can not

grow in a cold,

dead heart.

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