Page 28 of Secondhand Soul

The way I’m going, cross-country, I cut through the cemetery to get to her car. The open grave confronts me abruptly, and I stop. Shine my phone’s flashlight down into the hole. I don’t see anything, no phone, just a frosty tarp that’s rumpled and holds puddles of icy water in its folds. I jump down, confident I can get back out—somehow.

Feeling around in the cold, hard ground, I let out the strength that I normally keep in check.

Phone.

Dead.

A few inches over, I can see where some earth is scrabbled away and churned up. Maybe that’s where Victoria tried to get her footing to get out. Maybe that’s where she fell. Whatever it is, the spot draws my eye, and I run my fingers over it and dig down like there’s more to find.

There is.

A gun.

A big, decent-sized gun with a suppressor. I can’t remember the name of this specific “breed” of weapon, but something in my brain goes, “Ah, a nine-millimeter.” Don’t know how that’s filed away, but there it is.

Suicide.

Victoria was going to kill herself.

With a silencer on a weapon?

No.

Victoria... Victoria is being hunted by those bad men she used to know. Victoria knows how to hide, travel light, and wants to defend herself.

That’s a hitman’s gun—and she probably took it off of one of the men she was “servicing.”

She’s smart. Survives. Fights for a better life.

She wasn’t just driving to get away. She didn’t just pull off to walk and stretch her legs or clear her head.

With a grunt, I pull myself out of the hole and seethe my way to the car. It’s almost invisible, black and small, nondescript and hiding in the shadows and the night.

Not parked.

Hidden.

Pulled into the pines so tight that it’s covered in needles, and I have to fight branches to open the door.

She pulled off the road right here for a reason—and she hid the car the best she could. Why?

I have reasons. Suspicions. None of them are good.

Victoria hid from whoever was chasing her, and she went to hide in the graveyard—a sprawling dark field with hundreds of headstones to hide behind and several crypts and mausoleums to duck into.

No wonder she didn’t scream for help. She didn’t want the thugs chasing her to find her. With any luck, they drove right past.

I don’t know who she pissed off, but if they’re anything like Pazcuso’s men, they’re more brawn than brains. They probably just kept driving—maybe didn’t even get into town, what with all the wards and protections in place.

I have to crouch to get into the car, adjusting the seat back as far as it will go. I look in the backseat, and sure enough, there’s the single, sad little duffel bag.

Victoria deserves so much better than a life of running and hiding. I found that kind of life here. So could she.

Chapter Ten: Victoria

Lazarus drops a semi-automatic carefully into my lap, along with my ice-cold phone.

My body loses whatever warm, semi-comfortable feelings I had and turns to solid marble. Heart decides to go on strike. Lungs decide breathing is overrated.