Standing beside the grave, Bo felt no sorrow for Moses. The memory of the agents killed at Wildwood and of the First Lady kneeling for execution, as well as the ache of Bo’s own wounds, were all painful reminders that for Moses, dead was best.
After a while, the priest asked, “Enough?”
“I guess,” Bo said. “I don’t know what I was hoping for. Answers only he could give.”
“The only answer you’ll get is right there in front of you. And it’s not a bad one.”
Bo looked at the vandalized stone. The black paint nearly obscured the inscription.
Forgive us our trespasses.