Page 26 of Creeping Lily
Barnaby’s body shudders once, twice, then goes still. His last breath is a wet rattle, body sagging forward as the zip ties hold him in place. The spray on the wall already starts to run, thin rivulets of red crawling toward the floorboards, soaking into the cracks. The storm outside hammers harder, like the sky’s pounding a war drum just for us.
I step back, chest heaving, knife still in my hand. It drips steadily—tap, tap, tap—onto the warped floor. The rain on the tin roof almost drowns it out. Almost.
The air is heavy with copper and stormwater, thick enough that each inhale tastes like rust and wet earth. His head hangs low, chin to chest, the gash in his neck still leaking in slow, stubborn streams. The man who thought himself untouchable now looks like every other piece of trash I’ve taken out—small. Diminished. Forgettable.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, though the fabric’s already soaked through. The blood smears instead of coming clean. Figures.
Through the flyscreen door, the rain blurs the outside world into a dark watercolor. The yard is a slurry of mud and weeds. Somewhere far off, a dog howls—long and hollow, as if it knows.
I take a slow walk around him, my boots making wet, sticky sounds against the floorboards. Every angle I look from, he’s less of a threat and more of a carcass.
By the back window, my reflection stares back at me in the glass—eyes darker than I remember, jaw tight, mouth set in something that could be satisfaction or just the absence of guilt. Hard to tell anymore.
I pocket the knife and grab a faded sheet from the laundry pile. Draping it over him feels more like sealing a coffin than covering a body. The fabric clings where it touches the blood. A red bloom spreads slowly through the pale cotton.
For a long moment, I just stand there, watching it seep.
The storm eases into a steady downpour, less violent but colder somehow. I unlatch the flyscreen and step out onto the porch. Rain sprays against my face, cool and sharp, mixing with the sweat on my skin. Out here, the air smells cleaner—washed. Behind me, the house still stinks of death.
I light a cigarette with shaking hands. The first drag burns down my throat, grounding me. In the distance, headlights cut through the curtain of rain—Mary Jane’s parents, on the long road home. By the time they pull into their driveway tonight, she’ll be wrapped in blankets, safe in her own bed.
Barnaby will still be here.
I glance over my shoulder at the sheet-covered shape slumped in the chair.
“You won’t be missed,” I mutter, smoke curling from my lips.
The rain hisses louder, swallowing the words whole.
I finish the cigarette, grind it out on the porch railing, and head back inside. There’s still work to do. Bodies don’t bury themselves. And filth like him deserves an unmarked grave.
13
LILY
There’s a knock on the door of our dorm room.
Bethany and I both look up. Her brows lift in silent question, but I just shrug. I’m not expecting anyone. She clicks across the floor in her heels and swings the door open.
“Justin?” she blurts, her voice pitching up with surprise.
Her brother leans against the doorframe like he owns it, dressed in a casual button-up and jeans. His green eyes skim past her and lock on me—steady, deliberate. My stomach knots.
“Hey, Lily,” he says, smooth as poured whiskey. “Not coming?”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the way my pulse skips. “No. I’ve got work to do.”
Bethany steps aside, still frowning. “Weren’t we meeting at the restaurant?”
Justin doesn’t even look at her. His eyes stay on me as he steps inside, moving with that slow confidence that makes the small dorm room feel tighter.
“Trick’s coming. Marshall too,” he says, like that should be enough to sway me. “They’re all waiting downstairs.”
“What?” The word slips out before I can help it.
He shrugs. “It’s dinner. You’ve got to eat.”
Bethany studies us both, her gaze flicking back and forth before her eyes narrow in her brother’s direction. Her brother doesn’t just drop by her dorm. We both know this. This is different.
