The moment I shake the last, sweaty hand, I turn on my heel and head for the car park. Thankfully, Leilani's Grandma doesn't ask about where I'm headed. She saw Leilani walk away, saw the suffocation on her face as she slowly, so slowly that it was almost invisible, swayed to the side with each handshake.
The green lawn rustles under my shoes as I drag myself around the cemetery, not wanting to walk on the dusty, cracked walkway. If it wasn't for the many ragged lines adorning the concrete, I might as well have thought it was some kind of aesthetic. But alas, there are too many of them, all looking crooked enough to show that they are a lack of maintenance.
I trudge up to the car park, heading for the black Mercedes Leilani and I came in. That's when I see him. A man in black attire, jeans and a hood jacket—and glasses. Sun glasses. And the way he is looking around, standing by the passenger door to the front tells me he is waiting for either Leilani or me to show up.
