The voice was shaky and hard to understand over the phone. “What was that?” Emilia asked. “There’s a grave here. With my name on it.” Emilia hated the late shift on Saturday. The drunks were always having their little fun, calling the police and trying to pull her leg. “Is this some kind of joke?” “No, no,” the man said, sounding confused. Emilia took a deep breath. She couldn’t let herself get worked up—these calls were recorded, after all. “Can you tell me your name?” “Bernhard Valburg.” “Thanks, Herr Valburg. Where are you?” “At the cemetery.” “Which cemetery?” “Dorotheenstadt Cemetery,” the man said, though he didn’t sound certain about it. “Good, Herr Valburg. And you’re standing at your grave right now?” Emilia asked. Maybe the caller was some junkie tripping out. “I went to the cemetery this evening. It’s my departed wife’s birthday tomorrow. I always gave her roses when she was alive. Peace roses. She loved those, the yellow ones tinted with pink at the edges . . .”
