Mark walked through the forest and out the other side. There was just one trail leading away through muddy soil. Anybody could have followed it, though it seemed nobody had. He followed that trail back to the road, and not far down that road, he found another police officer interviewing the owner of a liquor store. There were more tracks heading away into the grass, which once again, he followed.
At the end of the trail was a motorcycle that had been dumped in a bush next to a graveyard. Inside the graveyard, strange things were occurring.
“Don’t mind me,” a female voice was saying. “I died once too. So I’m familiar with your predicament. Of course, it didn’t last for me. It might not be for you either. One never knows.”
Mark wandered through the stones, tracking closer and closer to the sound of clinking and general warbling until he came upon the young lady he had been seeking. Gemma sat cross-legged on the grass above a grave, bottle firmly clenched in her delicate hand, an expression of glazed glee on her features as she extended both arms in a wide, welcoming gesture.
“Ah, Dr. Livingstone, I presume. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you, Moriarity! Well, you can’t. Because I’m not Sherlock Holmes!”
Mark had encountered drunk people before, but there was nobody on the planet capable of getting as messily drunk as a British girl.
“I’ve come to take you home.”
“Have you? Where’s home?”
“Back to Angelo.”
“Angelo’s not home. He’s a coffin waiting to happen.”
“Wish I could disagree with you, but you’re probably right.” Mark sat down next to Gemma, took a swig of the bottle she offered him and leaned back against one Maurice Petruschio’s headstone, just as she was.
Now that he’d found her, there was no real need to rush. It was possible some of the more intellectually minded bikers, or perhaps a police officer, might work out how to track her, but as they’d shown no sign of that in the last hour, he figured he had time to spare.
“Why are you even here?”
“Someone reported a blonde terrorizing the locals. I had to investigate.”
“No. I mean, why the fuck are you here? You had a wife and a baby. What could possibly make you choose this over that?”
“It’s complicated, Sherlock,” Mark said, taking another swig. This was the first time since he’d returned to the House of Vitali that he’d felt some peace. Yes, reuniting with Angelo and Bobby had sated the hollow feeling of missing them he’d been dealing with for a year, but they were damn hard work. Angelo especially had a new intensity to him, or rather, an additional intensity.
Every year that went by, things became more complicated. Mark was tired of complicated. He wanted simple for a bit. Drunk girl in a cemetery? That was as basic as it got.
“Mark,” Gemma said his name suddenly as if she’d just remembered he was there.
“Yes?”
“Did you love Tilly?”
“I do.”
“Then you should get her back. Don’t let the prince have her. You. Should. Be. The. Prince,” she said, poking him in the chest.
“Sometimes, being the prince means letting the princess go.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. You have a baby with her. Your baby. Some other guy is going to raise him.”
“And he will never want for anything and be always loved.”
“Yeah. Right. Like you’re that naive. This isn’t a fairy tale. He probably took her on because he’s secretly bankrupt, and the baby is the heir to the Braybrooke fortune, and having control of both of them grows his power, not to mention gives him leverage over you all. But don’t listen to me. I’m drunk.”
Mark looked unsettled. “I hope none of that is the case. Tilly was pleased to take his hand. He’s a very suave and handsome man.”
“Sure she was. Because women love being passed from one dude to another. Especially independently wealthy women. I bet she leaves him before the wedding and sets up a lingerie business in Malibu.”
“You’re really drunk,” Mark said. “I’m getting you home.”
“Home? It’s not my home. It’s your home. I don’t have a penis, so it’s not mine.”
“Tilly, enough.”
“My name’s Gemma. I know we’re both vagina havers, but it’s offensive to not be able to tell us apart.”
“A slip of the tongue,” Mark said. “Sorry. Regardless, the rest of the sentence stands. You have a home. Bobby is fond of you. Angelo wants you there.”
“I know you’re used to women with absolutely no standards, but I’m not a shut-in whose father traumatized her to the point that having one psycho fond of you and another want you in his control seems like a good deal. I’m out. I’ve decided to leave.”
“You know you don’t get to choose that.”
“No, Mark. You don’t get to choose that. He shot my friend. Do you know that? Right in front of me. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”