I’d always been terrible at deciphering a map. It wasn’t something that had ever concerned me—there was always GPS—but now, with a numb ass and even number toes, I stood at a grave marked Stevenson.
I didn’t even know a Stevenson.
I crouched, using the stone to lean against, and slipped the map from the pocket of my coat to study it again. It didn’t help.
“I think this thing is misprinted.” I may not have been able to read a map, but I had my pride.
Jonathan snorted—as if my brother had any room to judge—and I turned to find him sprawled on the cold ground, memorial stones and statuary casting odd shadows around him in the waning afternoon light.
Despite the not particularly late hour, nerves churned my stomach. Cemeteries did that to me now. A remnant of my short, bloody acquaintance
