I didn’t know if I wanted to call for help or record this, but either way, I was out of luck.
He came back to the grave and started digging up the soil again, and I clutched the sides of the tall headstone, watching him.
Who was he? God, was he crazy or just stupid? We lived on the coast. Take a boat out, weight the body down and toss it overboard, for crying out loud.
I blinked, remembering myself. It wasn’t like I’d thought about it or anything.
The wind kicked up, blowing the sheet off her face, and I looked down at her, my mouth going dry. She didn’t look familiar, but I wasn’t really close enough to tell. At first glance, she looked my age, but the way the skin fit around certain parts of her body told me she wasn’t. Maybe twenties or thirties.
I looked around, hoping the caretaker might be making the rounds or kids would be coming back to party some more, but we were completely alone out here now.
He dug for another minute and then stopped, his shoulders slumped as he stared down at the body, almost in a daze.
And all of a sudden, I was him. In his shoes, standing where he was. I’d just killed someone, and I was getting rid of the evidence.
Raising his black boot, he slowly lowered it to her neck and pressed down, watching her and baring his teeth.
Anger.
He was angry.
And despite everything in my head telling me this was a horror, I couldn’t run. I couldn’t stop watching.
He could be a serial killer. A rapist keeping her quiet forever. A predator of innocents.
She might not even be dead yet. I could run, get help, and save her life. At the very least, put him behind bars.
But then he started sobbing, shaking and gasping, and I was him. I would be him if I let Martin push me enough.
Someday, at some point, it was coming. I’d lose my mind and just fight. Fight until either he or I stopped breathing.
A breeze swept through the trees, his hood blew off his head, and I blinked, seeing Damon Torrance standing there with the shovel in his hand and the body of a dead woman at his feet.
I sucked in a breath and his eyes shot up, his whole body freezing as our eyes locked.
Shit.
My blood drained, and I couldn’t inhale.
He dropped the shovel and headed toward me, charging hard and steady down the small hill as I stumbled backward, too scared to take my eyes off him.
Something caught my eye, and I looked behind him, seeing the woman’s hand flop over and her head move.
“She’s moving,” I choked out, hitting the back of a crypt.
He stopped about two feet from me, holding my eyes for a moment.
Slowly, he turned, looking over his shoulder at her. Her finger twitched, and I noticed the tears still hanging at the corner of his eyes.
The wind continued to glide over the headstones, the scent of his cigarettes wafting around me, and at this moment, I thought I would’ve liked to be him.
He was going to get away with this. What would we all do if we could get away with it?
Maybe I was lucky to never have to find out. Maybe he was because he could escape his pain.
“Who is it?” I asked softly.
I took in their hair. Hers and his. The same jet black, so dark it almost shimmered blue in the moonlight. The same skin, pale and translucent like they were made of marble.