Chapter 5 GRAVEYARD DATE
# CHAPTER 5: "GRAVEYARD DATE"
The message had been cryptic but unmistakable: "Meet me at Oakwood Cemetery, 7 PM. Come alone. —B"
I stared at my phone, a smile playing at my lips. Two months into my resurrection, and Barrett was finally taking the initiative. The fact that he'd chosen a cemetery for our rendezvous was either deeply romantic or deeply concerning—possibly both.
"Is this what passes for courtship in your second chance at marriage?" Zoe asked, peering over my shoulder at the text.
"It's progress," I replied, already mentally cataloging my wardrobe options. What does one wear to a cemetery date with the husband who previously murdered you?
"It's creepy," Zoe countered, but I could hear the curiosity in her voice. "You think it's related to that USB drive I sent you?"
I turned to face my unlikely ally. After our first encounter—when Barrett's security had caught her hacking his systems—Zoe had reached out to me privately. Turns out, she'd been working a double angle, hired by someone else to investigate Barrett long before I came into the picture.
"Maybe," I admitted. "The video showed Barrett and Chen discussing some kind of cover-up, but it wasn't clear what they were hiding." I checked my watch. "I guess I'll find out tonight."
"You're really going to meet him? At a cemetery?" Zoe raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen any horror movie ever?"
I smiled. "I've already lived through the worst horror story imaginable. Hard to top being murdered by your husband."
"Fair point." Zoe hesitated. "Just... be careful, okay? Barrett Montgomery isn't the type of man who makes amateur mistakes. If he's inviting you to a cemetery, he has a reason."
"That's counting on it."
Six hours later, I pulled my car through the ornate gates of Oakwood Cemetery. The setting sun cast long shadows across the manicured grounds, giving the marble headstones an ethereal glow. Under different circumstances, it might have been beautiful.
I parked near the administrative building and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I'd opted for understated elegance—a simple black dress, pearl earrings, and a small revolver tucked into my purse. Just in case.
Following the coordinates Barrett had sent, I made my way deeper into the cemetery. The path wound through older sections where weathered stones told stories of lives long forgotten, then into newer areas with gleaming granite and fresh flowers.
And there, at the crest of a small hill overlooking the city, stood Barrett.
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He was facing away from me, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid posture that betrayed his unease.
"Interesting choice for date night," I called out as I approached.
He turned, and for a moment—just a moment—I caught a glimpse of something raw and vulnerable in his expression before his usual mask slid back into place.
"Diana," he acknowledged. "You came."
"You invited me to a cemetery at sunset. How could I resist?" I stopped a few feet away, maintaining a safe distance. "Though I have to say, most husbands would choose a restaurant or a movie."
"We're not most couples."
I laughed softly. "No, I suppose we're not."
Barrett gestured to the plot of land before him. "Do you know where we are?"
I looked around, noticing for the first time the polished black marble headstone. The name engraved on it sent a chill down my spine:
DIANA MONTGOMERY
BELOVED WIFE
1990 - 2023
"UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN"
My own grave.
"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my voice, "this is certainly unexpected. Most men just buy flowers."
Barrett's expression remained serious. "I had this made after your... accident."
I stepped closer to the headstone, running my fingers over the carved letters of my name. "It's beautiful. Expensive too, I imagine."
"Money was never an object when it came to you."
I turned back to face him. "No, just human decency."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "There are things you don't understand, Diana."
"Then help me understand." I gestured to the grave. "Why bring me here? To remind me of what almost was? Or to warn me of what could still be?"
Barrett moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something distinctly him. "I brought you here because this is where it started."
"What started?"
"My regret."
The simple admission caught me off guard. I studied his face, searching for signs of deception, but found only weariness and something that looked remarkably like pain.
"You planned my death, Barrett. I saw the journal."
"Yes," he admitted. "I did."
"Then what is there to regret? You got what you wanted. I was dead."
He shook his head. "That's where you're wrong. I never wanted you dead."
Before I could respond, the sky opened up. One moment we were standing in the golden light of sunset, the next we were being pelted by fat raindrops that quickly turned into a downpour.
Barrett didn't hesitate. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and held it over me, sheltering me from the worst of the rain. The gesture was so unexpected, so at odds with the man I believed had orchestrated my murder, that I momentarily forgot to breathe.
As he moved closer to ensure the jacket covered me properly, his shirt became soaked, clinging to his torso and revealing the unmistakable outline of a gun holster at his waist.
My blood ran cold. So that was his plan—lure me to an isolated location, finish what he'd started months ago. I slipped my hand into my purse, fingers closing around my own weapon.
"Diana," Barrett said, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get out of here."
"Why?" I challenged, tightening my grip on the gun. "Is someone coming?"
"Yes," he replied, his eyes scanning the darkening cemetery. "And they're not as interested in keeping you alive as I am."
Before I could process his words, Barrett's hand moved to his holster. I reacted instinctively, drawing my own weapon and pointing it at his chest.
"Don't," I warned.
Barrett froze, his eyes widening fractionally—not at the gun, but at me. "You came armed."
"Did you really expect anything less?"
A strange expression crossed his face—something between admiration and frustration. "No, I suppose not." He slowly raised his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, Diana. But we need to leave. Now."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have waited for a rainy night in a cemetery. I would have done it the moment you showed up at my office, back from the dead."
He had a point. Still, I kept my gun trained on him. "What's really going on, Barrett? The journal, the plans, the video of you and Chen—what were you hiding?"
Barrett's eyes narrowed. "What video?"
"I have footage of you and Andrew Chen discussing some kind of cover-up, something about making it look like an accident."
Understanding dawned on Barrett's face. "That wasn't about you. It was about—"
A sharp crack cut through the rain—the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Barrett lunged forward, tackling me to the ground behind my own headstone as another bullet whizzed past.
"Stay down," he ordered, drawing his weapon.
"Who's shooting at us?" I demanded, heart pounding.
"The same person who tried to kill you the first time." Barrett peered around the edge of the headstone. "And it wasn't me."
Another shot rang out, chipping marble dangerously close to my head. Barrett returned fire, the sound deafening in the confined space.
"We need to move," he said. "On my count, run for those mausoleums." He gestured to a cluster of stone structures about fifty yards away. "Ready? One, two, three—"
We sprinted through the rain, bullets kicking up dirt around our feet. I could hear Barrett's labored breathing beside me as we zigzagged between headstones, making it harder for the shooter to track us.
We reached the mausoleums and ducked behind the largest one, both of us soaked and breathing hard.
"Are you hit?" Barrett demanded, his hands moving over my arms, my sides, checking for injuries.
"I'm fine," I gasped. "You?"
He grimaced, and I noticed for the first time the dark stain spreading across his shoulder. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing, you've been shot!" I pressed my hand against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"Not yet." Barrett peered around the edge of the mausoleum. "He's still out there."
"Who, Barrett? Who is trying to kill me?"
Barrett's eyes met mine, and in that moment, all pretense fell away. "My brother."
"Your... brother?" I echoed, stunned. "You don't have a brother."
"I do," he said grimly. "My twin brother, Benjamin. He's been... away... for a long time. Until recently."
My mind raced, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle. "Your twin brother wants me dead? Why?"
"It's complicated." Barrett winced as he shifted position. "Benjamin has always been... unstable. When I married you, it triggered something in him. An obsession."
"With me?"
"With destroying what I love."
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. What I love. Not what I loved. Present tense.
Before I could process this revelation, movement caught my eye. A figure emerged from the shadows between two nearby graves—a man who looked eerily like Barrett, but with harder eyes and a cruel twist to his mouth.
"Hello, brother," the man called out, his voice chillingly similar to Barrett's. "I see you've found your wife. Again."
Barrett pushed me further behind him. "It's over, Benjamin. The police are on their way."
Benjamin laughed. "Always the protector. Tell me, does she know? Does she know you've been protecting her all along?"
I gripped Barrett's uninjured arm. "What is he talking about?"
Benjamin answered before Barrett could. "The journal you found, Diana—those weren't plans to kill you. They were plans to fake your death, to get you away from me."
My world tilted. "What?"
"He's lying," Barrett said, but there was defeat in his voice.
"Am I?" Benjamin challenged. "Tell her, Barrett. Tell her how you discovered my plans to kill her. Tell her how you staged her drowning to get her out of my reach. Tell her how you've been hunting me ever since, trying to eliminate the threat before bringing her back."
I looked at Barrett, searching his face for confirmation or denial. "Is this true?"
Barrett's expression was anguished. "I was trying to protect you. Benjamin had already killed two of my associates' wives. I knew you were next."
"So you... what? Faked my death?"
"I had to make it convincing," Barrett said. "For everyone's safety. You were supposed to wake up in a safe house in Switzerland, with a new identity. But there was a complication with the drug dosage. You never woke up. Or so I thought."
Benjamin clapped slowly. "Such devotion. It would be touching if it weren't so pathetic." He raised his gun. "But your plan failed, brother. And now I'll finish what I started."
Barrett moved with lightning speed, pushing me aside as he fired at Benjamin. The brothers exchanged shots, marble chips flying as bullets struck the mausoleums around us.
In the chaos, my hand brushed against something in Barrett's pocket—a small velvet box that had fallen out during our scramble for cover. I grabbed it instinctively, tucking it into my own pocket without thinking.
A final shot rang out, followed by an eerie silence broken only by the steady patter of rain.
"Barrett?" I called out, fear clawing at my throat.
"I'm here," he answered, his voice strained. "Benjamin's down."
I peered around the mausoleum to see Benjamin sprawled on the wet ground, clutching his leg. Barrett stood over him, gun trained on his brother's chest.
"It's over," Barrett said, both to Benjamin and to me. "The police are almost here."
As if on cue, sirens wailed in the distance. Benjamin glared up at us, hatred burning in eyes so similar to Barrett's.
"This isn't over," he spat. "It will never be over as long as she lives."
Barrett's finger tightened on the trigger. "Give me a reason, Benjamin. Please."
I placed my hand on Barrett's arm. "Don't. He's not worth it."
Barrett's eyes met mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. "He would have killed you."
"But he didn't," I said softly. "You stopped him. Twice."
The police arrived moments later, surrounding Benjamin and taking him into custody. As paramedics tended to Barrett's shoulder, I finally had a moment to examine the box I'd taken from his pocket.
Inside was a ring—not my original engagement ring, but something new. A platinum band with a single perfect diamond, and an inscription that made my heart stop:
"For my second chance at forever."
Barrett limped over to me, his shoulder bandaged. "That wasn't how I planned to give that to you."
I looked up at him, tears mixing with raindrops on my face. "You were going to propose? After everything?"
"Because of everything," he corrected. "Finding you at my office that day—alive, angry, demanding I sign a love contract—it was like being given a miracle I didn't deserve."
"You lied to me," I said, but there was no heat in my accusation. "You let me believe you tried to kill me."
"Would you have believed the truth?" he asked. "That I loved you so much I was willing to let you go? To let you hate me, if it meant keeping you safe?"
I thought about the past two months—my schemes, my surveillance, my blood in his coffee. "No," I admitted. "I wouldn't have."
Barrett took the ring box from my hands. "I don't expect forgiveness. I don't even expect you to stay. But I wanted you to know the truth before you decided."
I looked at the man before me—soaking wet, bleeding, exhausted—and realized that somewhere along the way, between the blood coffee and the drones and the bento boxes shaped like poison bottles, I'd fallen in love with him all over again.
"Ask me," I said.
Barrett blinked. "What?"
"Ask me properly."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Ignoring his injuries, he lowered himself to one knee on the wet ground beside my empty grave.
"Diana Montgomery," he said, his voice steady despite everything, "will you marry me? Again?"
I smiled through my tears. "On one condition."
"Anything."
"We're not doing the 'till death do us part' bit again. That didn't work out so well the first time."
Barrett laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound I hadn't heard in years. "Deal."
As he slipped the ring onto my finger, I glanced at the headstone that bore my name. "What do we do about that?"
Barrett followed my gaze. "I have some ideas."
Three days later, we returned to the cemetery. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a crisp autumn day perfect for what Barrett called our "pre-wedding trip."
The headstone had been modified. My death date had been removed, and beneath my name, a new inscription read:
DIANA MONTGOMERY
BELOVED WIFE
WHO RETURNED FROM THE DEAD
TO TEACH HER HUSBAND A LESSON ABOUT LOVE
"It's perfect," I declared, placing a bouquet of red roses against the stone. "Morbid, but perfect."
Barrett slipped his arm around my waist. "Like us."
I leaned into his embrace, savoring the warmth of him against the cemetery chill. "Do you think your brother was right? That it's not over?"
"Benjamin will be in a maximum-security psychiatric facility for a very long time," Barrett assured me. "And this time, I'm not taking any chances with your safety."
I turned in his arms to face him. "No more fake deaths? No more secret journals?"
"No more secrets at all," he promised. "Though I can't guarantee I won't occasionally monitor your vital signs. Old habits die hard."
I laughed, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. "I can live with that. As long as you can live with finding blood in your coffee occasionally."
"Only occasionally?"
"Special occasions," I amended. "Anniversaries. Birthdays. Days ending in Y."
Barrett's smile was everything I'd been fighting for these past months—warm, genuine, alive with a love I'd thought was lost forever.
As we walked hand in hand through the cemetery where my empty grave stood as testament to our strange journey, I couldn't help but feel we'd both been given something rare—a second chance to get it right.
"You know," Barrett said thoughtfully, "most couples have to wait until the afterlife for their reunion."
I squeezed his hand. "Since when have we ever been like most couples?"
"Fair point." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Mrs. Montgomery."
"It's good to be back," I replied. "Though I have to say, dying was the best thing that ever happened to our marriage."
Barrett laughed, the sound echoing among the headstones like a promise of life amid the memories of death. "Let's not make a habit of it."
"Deal," I agreed. "Once is enough."
As we left the cemetery behind, I couldn't help but glance back at my headstone one last time. It stood as a monument not to death, but to rebirth—to the love that had survived betrayal, misunderstanding, and even death itself.
Some love stories end at the grave. Ours was just beginning.