But keeping trophies and staying silent about murder was unforgivable. Some parishioners refused to believe it. They said Father Bill was a saint, that he’d been framed. Alex didn’t argue. People believe what they need to.
George Garrett was stripped of his community honors. His name was scrubbed from every donor list and award. The funeral home was shuttered. No one wanted to go to a place with such a dark history. The building was eventually sold and turned into a warehouse. The Garrett house on Main Street sat empty. Windows boarded, a “For Sale” sign in the yard.
No one was buying. Too many ghosts. Oak Creek slowly tried to move on. People get used to anything—tragedy, scandal, shock. Time passes, and the edge dulls. Life goes on.
Alex stayed in town. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because his mother was buried there. Maybe because he finally knew the truth. Maybe because he had nowhere else to go. He kept working for Sam’s crew. A normal job, a normal life.
In the evenings, he’d sit in his apartment, watch the news, maybe have a beer. He didn’t overdo it. He’d seen what it did to his mother. Sometimes he went to the cemetery. Not to his mother’s grave—he went there rarely. He went to a spot near the back fence, under some old oaks.
He’d put up a small monument there with his own money. It took most of his savings. A simple granite stone with a photo and an inscription: “Mary Morris. 1983-2005. Beloved Sister. Gone but never forgotten.” There were no remains.
Just the stone and the photo. But Alex needed a place to go, a place to sit and remember. One afternoon in the fall of 2024, he was sitting by the stone when he heard footsteps. He turned. A woman in her fifties was walking toward him. She was thin, with graying hair and a tired face.
She stopped and looked at Mary’s photo. “She was a beautiful girl,” she said. “Yes.” “My daughter was beautiful too. Amy. She went missing in 2013.” Alex nodded. “Amy Bell. From the post office.”
