Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
The first shovelful is the hardest. My arms protest immediately, muscles reminding me that they’re accustomed to lifting cameras, not digging graves. But I keep going, ignoring the burn spreading through my shoulders and back. The repetitive motion is almost hypnotic.
Dig, lift, toss. Dig, lift, toss.
Don’t look at the body.
Don’t think about what you’re doing.
I dig for a few minutes in silence, the only sounds our labored breathing and the shovels cutting into earth. My mind keeps racing, jumping between panic and an eerie calm.
“At least with Mrs. Fletcher gone for the weekend, we don’t have to worry about explaining this,” I say, needing to cut through the silence.
“That’s one lucky break,” Flint says, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “But we still need to move quickly. People from town might come looking for Liam soon.”
“His brother will tear this place apart,” Damiano says, digging faster.
“Right,” Flint scoffs. “Because Viktor’s so fucking thorough.”
“More thorough than you ever were,” Damiano shoots back.
“Guys,” I interrupt, feeling tension building between them like an electrical storm. “Not now.”
They fall silent, but the air crackles with unspoken history. I focus on digging, even as my arms start to shake with fatigue. The hole gets deeper, our piles of dirt growing alongside it.
Twenty minutes in, my breathing gets ragged. I try to hide it, but of course Damiano notices.
“Take a break,” he says, stopping to look at me. His dark hair is tied back, a few strands escaping to frame his face. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I say. The response is practically programmed into me after years of illness.
“No, you’re not,” Flint says, also pausing. “Your lips are turning blue.”
I touch my mouth self-consciously. “That happens sometimes. Poor circulation.”
“Sit.” Damiano points to a nearby stone bench. “Five minutes.”
“We don’t have five minutes.” I jab my shovel into the dirt. “Viktor could already be looking for Liam. We need to finish this and get the hell out.”
“And what good is it if you collapse?” Damiano snaps. “You want to deal with a medical emergency in the middle of all this? Or explain to anyone why you passed out in the maze with a body?”
I try to keep digging, but my vision starts to swim. I stumble slightly, grabbing the edge of the grave to steady myself.
Flint notices and swears under his breath. “Now. Take a minute,” he adds, still digging but glancing at me with reluctant concern. “Sit before you fall.”
I want to argue more, but my body makes the decision for me. I sink onto the stone bench, watching them work. The sun momentarily breaks through the fog, illuminating the scene in stark detail. Two men digging a grave, dirt-streaked and intense, while a corpse waits patiently for its final resting place.
“So what’s the deal with you two anyway?” I ask, partly to distract myself, partly because I genuinely want to know. “What happened?”
They exchange a glance, a whole wordless conversation passing between them.
“Nothing worth talking about.” Flint returns to his digging with even more aggression.
Damiano merely shakes his head and keeps working, his expression unreadable.
“Right,” I say dryly. “Nothing. That’s why you can barely look at each other without either wanting to punch or kiss each other.”
Flint chokes on a laugh, caught off guard by my bluntness. Damiano’s eyes widen slightly before his face settles back into its controlled mask.
“You should rest, not analyze us,” Damiano says, but there’s less edge to his statement now.
“I’m sitting. I’m resting. And I’m curious,” I say, feeling steadier as I catch my breath. “We’re literally burying a body together. I think that earns me at least the cliff notes version.”
“It’s complicated,” Flint says.
“No shit,” I reply. “I got that much.”
Damiano sighs. “We were together for two years. It ended badly. Now we’re stuck on the same island, trying to avoid each other and failing spectacularly.” He thrusts his shovel into the dirt with more force than necessary. “End of story.”
“That’s the sanitized version,” Flint mutters. “Missing a few key details.”
“Like what?” I push, oddly emboldened by the absurdity of our situation.
“Like how he disappeared for three months with no explanation,” Flint says, glaring at Damiano. “Or how he came back like nothing happened and expected everything to be normal.”
“I told you why I left,” Damiano says quietly, dangerously.
“No, you gave me some bullshit about ‘finding yourself’ in Italy,” Flint snaps. “While I was here thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I needed space.”
“You needed an excuse,” Flint snarls, stepping closer to Damiano. “You fucking ran when things got real. Just like you always do.”
Damiano throws down his shovel, closing the distance between them. “You want to do this now? Really?” His voice drops to a menacing whisper. “You want to talk about who ran? How about when you were screwing that tourist behind my back and then acted like it meant nothing?”