The Nameless Graves

THE NAMELESS GRAVES A Carolina McKay Thriller TONY URBAN DREW STRICKLAND CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 From the Authors More from Tony & Drew Copyright © 2023 by Tony Urban All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. “Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.” ANDRÉ MALRAUX “Birds born in a cage think flying is an illness.” ALEJANDRO JODOROWSKY CHAPTER ONE Clockwork. That’s what all the houses in the suburbs were like. Cookie-cutter homes, with lawns trimmed to the same length lest they be the talk of all the neighbors, feeling the shame of the whispers and askance glances at how Mister and Missus So-and-so were falling behind on their chores. How much they might be bringing down the property values. Or even worse, that the Almighty HOA would hit them with a fine for non-compliance. Inside was even more the same. Husbands rushing off to work, mothers fighting with their children to get ready for school, and the kiddos acting like it wasn’t the same thing every day and being surprised when they were yelled at for misplacing the shoes or losing their geometry books or forgetting to brush their teeth. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a happy, caring family in each and every house that lined the street. It just felt more like life was on autopilot. That the day-to-day grind superseded what was most important. Not always, but much of the time. That’s why Roy Jones sat at his kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, not paying his wife any attention as she cut the crusts off of sandwiches for their two children. Bologna and American cheese. The same school lunch the kids ate every day. Meanwhile, Roy finished up the rye toast and poached eggs that his wife had made for him – the same breakfast, every day – and took a long swig of coffee. Nothing was worth reading on his phone. There never was. But he still found his eyes glued to the tiny screen, feeding his addiction to the device that was supposed to make his life easier, but somehow made it more difficult. Barely paying attention to his own life and family, he vicariously consumed the lives and families of others, many of whom he’d never met. Never would meet, either, because in just a few days, Roy Jones would be dead. Roy checked his watch and lifted his eyebrows. “Oh geez, looks like I have to go,” he said, finishing the last of his brew. He stood from his chair and turned around to see his wife. Tracy was beautiful, and while he might not realize that he was letting days slip by, he still recognized his love for her. Over the years, wrinkles had crept around her eyes, but each one was just a reminder of all the time they’d spent together. Sometimes he even thought she was more beautiful now than the day they’d met. “Don’t forget your mug,” Tracy said. She set his silver tumbler in front of him, which was filled to the brim with the brown elixir that kept him running until late evening. She always reminded him, but he never forgot. Clockwork. He grabbed the mug, and she leaned forward, puckering her lips. He pressed his own against hers briefly, but long enough that both of them knew the other still cared. When he pulled away, Tracy called out, “All right kids, we gotta hit the road, too. Get dressed and please don’t make Mommy late for work.” “Love you guys. Have a good day,” Roy called out as he closed the front door behind him. Like clockwork: the food, the kiss, the chatter, the coffee, and then Roy was on the road no later than 7:30 in the morning. Meanwhile, during Tracy’s daily test of her patience...Liam, their oldest, was barely throwing his hoodie on. The hoodie he had pulled from a pile of dirty clothes on his bedroom floor. He completely ignored the mystery stain, consisting of what looked like spaghetti sauce, even though they hadn’t eaten spaghetti in at least a week. The rumble of his footsteps rushing down the stairs echoed in the house. All the while, Kelly, their daughter who had just turned eight the week before, struggled to put her shoes on. She was old enough to know better, but somehow, she still managed to try and cram them onto the wrong feet. “Kelly, hurry up!” Tracy called from the kitchen, her voice emanating from the clatter of washing dishes and silverware. Once Kelly fixed her shoes, she bounced up and ran as fast as she could out of the bedroom. “Coming, Mom!” She yelled. Elementary school started at 8:15, but the drop-off line could be a nightmare, so Tracy liked to beat the crowd - or at least try. Fortunately, her own job was just seven miles down the road. Work technically also started at 8:15, but old Doc Najarian, the town dentist, never scolded her if she was late. Not that she’d admit that to her family, because some days, those fifteen minutes in-between