Page 9

I can do this. One push. One breath. Another push. The ground fights back. The wet earth is heavy and uncooperative. Good. I can deal with this battle.

By the time my palms start to sting, some dark, furious part of me actually likes it. The ache. The blisters forming. The way my muscles burn because I am the one using them now. I am still here. Moving. Strong enough to bury the worst thing that happened to me tonight. I’m entitled to this pain. I’m choosing it.

In a way, it’s almost holy. Completely deranged but holy. And Gage knew. I watch him between breaths. The way he grips the shovel. How his muscles roll and bulge through each thrust in the earth. The way he keeps glancing over at me—not to judge or rush me, but to make sure I am still inside my body.

After we cover the body in layers of earth, I learn what’s in the other sack.

It’s a dead raccoon, which he unceremoniously dumps on top of the grave before we bury that, too. A dead animal throws any dogs off the scent.

The most disturbing part is not that he knows all this stuff. It’s what Gage notices. Every time my breath snags, he cuts through the rain. “Numbers.”

I grit them out, rain dripping into my vision. “Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.”

“Good girl.”

My stupid, traitorous ovaries react to those words again. And the heat quivering between my legs. Ugh, I so can’t fall for a guy over a damn corpse. I hate to admit it, but our meet-cute came with murder, shovels, and emotional support foliage.

So, yes. Unforgettable.

By the time we finish, my arms feel like limp noodles, my legs are trembling, and my palms smolder like I’ve tried to high-five a belt sander. Mud everywhere—and I mean everywhere.

It took hours. I lost track somewhere after hour two. Gage called breaks constantly, and I’ll give him that much—he never once sent me home. Never offered me an out. Like he knew about the undiagnosed ADHD, which has rarely finished a load of laundry but will absolutely finish a grave. He simply kept handing me water bottles and protein bars and pointing at the ground until I sat on it. He thought of everything. I haven’t stopped wondering why.

I slipped so many times, I’m less a person and more of a mud pie. Full-body soil mask. Or a really bad off-road wheeler. My hoodie weighs twice what it did, soaked through with rainwater and blood.

I’m barely standing. It counts.

Gage crouches near the disturbed earth and reaches for the small potted plant he brought from the truck. I somehow forgot about the murder flower. That seems incredibly rude of me.

“This is really happening,” I mutter, leaning against the shovel.

“Yes.”

“We are really planting a protected prairie thingy over a body.”

“Native species,” he corrects.

“My mistake.” I kneel beside him, ready to help shift the dirt over the roots. “I wouldn’t want to disrespect the felony shrub.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not a shrub.”

“Gage.”

“It has standards,” he clarifies.

A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. Wrong and way too loud in the rain.

Gage strokes one rain-damp leaf with ridiculous gentleness. “Shh, sweetheart. Let it go. She’s had a bad night.”

“If I find that funny,” I ask, my voice wobbling, “does that mean I’m a psycho?”

“No.”

“You sure? I feel like corpse-botany laughter checks at least one box on a diagnostic form.”

He shakes his head, more serious. “It means you’re human and trying to cope under extreme, life-altering circumstances.” Warmth teases his expression. “Also, I’m funny in a crisis.”

I snort again. God help me.