Margery Lemont might have been buried alive, but I won’t return her skull to the earth. Or to Godwin, for that matter. Instead I wade into the frigid lake, deep enough that the water ripples around my hips. I lower the skull in cupped hands beneath the surface. A few air bubbles escape, and for a moment I can imagine it’s a last breath—a last goodbye. Then I let go. The skull sinks quickly, a weight falling out of sight, obscured by the shifting silt.
