Page 51 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“You sounded upset.” He says it like that. Simple. No drama. A statement of fact.

“I was. Am.” I tear off half my snack cake and offer it up like a peace treaty. “Want some processed sugar-based emotional avoidance?”

He takes it. “I see,” he says, chewing.

“I slept with Blake,” I announce. Because apparently my mouth is a confession booth now.

“Was he unkind?”

The way he says it makes my ribcage feel like it’s trying to shrink away from itself.

“God, no. He’s perfect.” I sigh so hard it almost knocks me over. “Sweet. Filthy. He helped me dig holes and he meant it.”

Carson nods like I told him Blake helped me move a couch, not haul human remains.

“If I wanted to get a body from here to the parking area,” I ask casually, licking icing off my pinky, “how would I do that?”

He sighs. The kind of sigh you make when you realize you’re both the problem and the solution. “What are you doing?”

“Walter,” I say, and that’s all it takes.

His jaw tightens. “Jesus. Okay. You tell me when, and I’m here.”

“Just like that?” I was expecting a lecture. Or at least a frown of moral disapproval.

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t even hesitate. Like this is Tuesday and I asked for help moving a piano. A corpse piano. “How are you planning to kill him?” he asks, with a level of calm that should be concerning. But for me, it’s foreplay.

“I haven’t gotten that far.” I glance around the woods like they’ll give me inspiration. “I mean, it’s isolated. I could kill him with a marching band, and no one would hear.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying, if I wanted to murder him with, like, a cymbal crash or choreographed jazz hands, this would be the place.”

“I’ll make sure the band gets permits,” he says.

I feel a little more grounded. A little more ready. Because I may be spiraling, but at least I’m spiraling with snacks, sarcasm, and accomplices who bring their own evidence bags.

Chapter Eighteen

Carson

What the hell am I doing, standing in the woods eating frosting-filled snack cakes while planning a murder? Protecting her. That’s what.

“I understand why you need to do this,” I say, licking sugar off my thumb like it’s normal to discuss body disposal over Little Debbies.

“Do you?” She eyes me like she can see the sins in my shadow. The things I’ve done with musical accompaniment.

“I know what he did to you,” I say. “It’s public record.”

She stiffens, shoulders locking up. “That public record doesn’t tell half of what he did to me.”

I cross the space between us and open my arms. She melts into me like I’m home. Like I’m hers.

“I know that, sweetheart.” My voice drops softer than I knew it could go. “I’ve seen the spaces between the lines, on dropped charges, bruises that don’t match the statements. I’ve read the truth in hospital forms that say ‘accident’ when I know better.”

She shakes against me. “I won’t blame him for what I am. I made this. I took what he did and I turned it into something sharp. But goddamn it, he broke parts of me that don’t grow back.”

I pet her hair. “What you are is a treasure. A public servant like me, but better. One not bound by policies that let monsters walk away clean.”

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