Page 73 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
“Oh my god,” I wheeze, dropping him. “You’ve been dead for five minutes and you’re already a burden.”
He flops like a sack of beefy regret. I stumble backward, huffing, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat and... oh no. Is that brain matter?
“This is exactly like our marriage. You make a mess. I clean it up. No help, no thanks, and not even a towel to wipe off with afterward.” I kick the corpse.
He doesn’t respond. Typical.
“I should’ve killed you during the marriage. Would’ve saved on legal fees. And therapy. And dry cleaning.”
My foot hits a rock. I nearly fall into his body. There’s a splatter. On my shoe. On my socks.
I start to cry. Then I start to laugh. Then both, at the same time, which is honestly just my brand now. I sit down next to him in the dirt, mascara probably melting into war paint, andcackle through snot and tears like some unholy hybrid of Medea and a girl who didn’t eat enough protein this morning.
“This was supposed to be cathartic,” I sob-laugh. “A triumphant full-circle empowerment arc. But no. It’s just me, in the fucking woods, emotionally feral, covered in blood and failing to drag a corpse downhill like some murder-themed CrossFit exercise.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve. It smears.
Somewhere, in the trees, a bird sings a single chipper note.
I flip it off.
“Don’t start with me.”
Leaves shift behind me.
I freeze. Panic slams through my ribcage like a taser to the soul.
Oh no. Oh no. It’s a hiker. It’s a family. It’s a troop of junior scouts here to earn their “Trail Buddy” badge and instead they’re going to find me sitting in a pool of ex-husband juice like some banshee-themed PSA about women’s rights and red flags.
I whip around, ready to bolt or bite, and I see Carson, stepping through the trees like sin in flannel. Determined and built like the answer to every bad decision I’ve ever made. Eyes locked on me like I’m the crime scene. Like he’s already reading me my rights, and I am so, so ready to confess.
My knees give out before I even make it halfway to him. I stumble into his arms, shaking like a leaf on methadone, and he catches me. Warm and solid and growly, like a human safety blanket soaked in bourbon and repressed authority issues.
“You came,” I gasp, clinging to him like he’s the only stable surface in this whole fucked-up forest.
“Of course I did,” he says. His voice is low and furious, but it’s not at me. It never is. “You think I’d let you face that bastard alone?”
I sob into his chest, smearing a little blood onto his shirt, which feels like a reasonable trade.
Behind him, Edgar appears like a stylish hallucination. Long coat, black gloves, and zero emotional disturbance. He stops beside Walter’s mangled remains, peers down, and hums like he’s about to suggest a chianti and a small-batch relish. “A little overdone,” he muses. “But emotionally satisfying. Like a well-roasted duck. Did you tenderize before cooking, or was that a freestyle approach?”
I’m too broken to laugh, so I wheeze instead.
Blake lumbers in next, wide-eyed and red-faced, carrying a cooler and looking like someone just invited him to an impromptu blood orgy and he’s trying to be polite about it. “Uh,” he says, glancing between the corpse, the murder utensil still glistening in the dirt, and me clinging to Carson like a wet koala. “Are we… touching the body? Is this a group activity? Should I… do I need gloves?”
“You will,” Edgar says, already rolling up his sleeves like this is a Tuesday afternoon garage clean-out. “I brought the hearse. You’ll help with the removal.” He turns to Carson, composed as ever. “You get her home. Fed. Held. Possibly made to climax. Multiple times. Beauty, restoration, et cetera.”
“Already planned on it,” Carson says, casually.
Blake, who has clearly short-circuited somewhere around climax, just nods and follows Edgar to the body like a good murder intern.
And I let myself be held.
For the first time since I laid eyes on Walter, I let my body go slack, let my pulse slow to something less feral. I look at these three beautiful, absurd men, my dark little harem of moral ambiguity and post-homicide grace, and I realize I’m not alone anymore.
I’m sweaty. I’m exhausted. I smell like rage and iron and probably a little pee. But I’m not alone.
And that’s fucking everything.
