I don’t get out right away, though. For a moment, I just sit here, hands on the wheel, engine ticking as it cools. Staring at the place where I buried my wife eighteen years ago.
It doesn’t look the same as it did last time I was here. Half-built luxury condos rise up on either side. Jutting, exposed rebar, acres of glass, steel piling. It’s gentrification unfolding before my eyes, though the discovery of human remains has, understandably, stalled construction for a while.
A weathered sign near the gate reads RIVERVIEW RESIDENCES — LUXURY LIVING COMING SOON. Someone has spray-painted MURDERER across it in red.
I don’t flinch at that. I’ve been called worse by better.
But I know this ground. Beneath the construction equipment and the police tape and the mud, I know it. I dug into it wit
