Page 17 of Wednesday

We stayed like that beside the open grave, the body of Samuel Wilson partially consumed in front of us, until the first hints of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Morrow moved away, picking up the remains and slithering down the tunnel out of view. When he emerged, he began to fill in the hole.

I stayed on the ground, watching him and thinking. My palm still tingled where his blood had mingled with mine. I held my palm toward the rising sun to squint at it. The wound was already closed, marked by a thin, dark line. In a few hours, it would be gone like before.

The rising sun caught the edge of the temporary marker, illuminating Samuel Wilson's name and dates. Seventy-four years of life, preserved in memory. His family's, mine, and Morrow's. There was something perversely beautiful in that idea. I leaned back in the grass and watched the sky slowly lighten while Morrow erased the evidence.

Chapter Eight

The mark had not faded. I traced the dark line across my palm for the hundredth time that day, following its path from the base of my pinky to the base of my thumb. Samuel Wilson's memories had begun to blur around the edges, fading like old photographs, but the mark remained crisp and defined.

Two days had passed since Morrow had fed on Samuel. Two nights of searching the cemetery for Morrow, only to find nothing but moonlight and silence. The cottage felt smaller each day, the walls pressing in.

When Winters knocked at my door that afternoon, I nearly did not answer. His presence felt like an intrusion. But duty won out, and I pulled the door open to find him clutching his ever-present clipboard.

"Afternoon, Ms. Ruiz," he said, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. "Just wanted to update you on a few matters."

I gestured him inside silently.

"Good news, actually," Winters continued, settling into one of my kitchen chairs. "The council denied the developer's permits during a late-night meeting. Some historical preservation clause they managed to dig up." He smiled thinly. "The developers found a better location anyway. Fewer complications."

Relief flooded through me. The thought of moving and losing everything I had found had been weighing on me more than I had realized. Without the uncertainty, I felt like I could take a deep breath.

"That's good," I said, my voice sounding rough from disuse.

Winters nodded, his gaze dropping to my hands where I had unconsciously been rubbing the mark on my palm. His eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses.

"Cut yourself?" he asked.

I curled my fingers into a fist. "Just a scratch."

Winters stared at my hand a moment longer before meeting my eyes. Something in his expression shifted, a wariness creeping in. "You should be careful around here after dark, Ms. Ruiz. Especially near the old graves."

"I know how to do my job," I replied, more sharply than I had intended.

"I'm sure you do." Winters looked away, shuffling papers on his clipboard. "I just... we've had guards leave before. Suddenly."

The implied warning hung between us. Did he know about Morrow? About Frank Tillman and so many others?

"One other thing," he said, clearly eager to change the subject. "There's a funeral this afternoon. Eleanor Blackwood. Local philanthropist, quite wealthy. The procession should be done by your shift, but you'll need to make sure the gates are locked after they leave."

I nodded, already calculating how long the grave would take to settle, when Morrow might approach it.

"The family's a bit... concerned about security," Winters continued. "Apparently Mrs. Blackwood insisted on being buried with a family heirloom. Diamond necklace that's been passed down for generations." He shook his head. "Her daughter wanted it, but the will was specific."

My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. "I'll keep an eye on it."

"I'm sure you will." Winters stood, gathering his clipboard. At the door, he paused, studying me with that same wariness. "You look different, Ms. Ruiz. Are you feeling alright?"

I forced a smile. "Just tired. Adjusting to the night schedule."

He did not look convinced but nodded anyway. "Get some rest. Nights can be... long here."

After he left, I returned to the window. I could not shake off the memories of Morrow’s touch. The intensity. The pleasure. Maybe, it was the forbidden aspect of it that made it so earth-shattering. I had to tell myself that. Otherwise, what did that make me?

Hours later, the moon hung over the cemetery, bathing the stones in silver light. I walked my patrol route mechanically, my focus toward the east. For once, my job took all of my attention. Eleanor Blackwood's final resting place was by the eastern fence, marked by an elaborate flower arrangement and a temporary placard.

If Winters was right about the necklace, the grave might attract more than just Morrow tonight. As I doubled back, I caught a flicker of movement near the fresh plot. I froze, squinting. Two dark figures hunched over the grave, and after a moment, I heard the scrape of shovels moving dirt. I stepped into the shadow of a row of trees and crept closer.

"Hurry up," a voice hissed. "This one’s a guaranteed payday."

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