“Camouflage. Soil stabilization. Emotional support.”
My boots sink into the wet trail. He barely seems to notice it. “For the body?”
“For the ecosystem.”
I stare at him blankly.
He adjusts the burlap sack higher against his side, his grin flickering through the dark. “And yes, technically, the body.”
I don’t understand yet, but I trust him to a degree. So, when he takes one shovel from me, I’m not offended by the chivalry. My shaky muscles are grateful for one less thing to carry.
Fifteen minutes later, when Gage leads me through the brush, I focus on his back muscles rolling through his soaked black shirt and not the body waiting in the dark pocket of trees a few yards off the trail.
We return to the site. The shape of the man in the mud hits my vision, and my stomach roils so violently, I have to lock my grip around the shovel handle.
Gage sets the potted plant near a slick knot of roots, lowers one sack beside it, then hooks the darker burlap sack over a low branch like he needs to protect whatever’s inside.
I decide not to ask. Not yet.
His gaze moves to my white-knuckled grip, then back to my face. “Use your legs more than your back.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Practical advice.” He reaches into the sack at his boots and pulls out two pairs of gardening gloves. “Also, protection.”
“For our romantic murder hike?”
The straight face doesn’t survive as he tosses me the cleaner pair. “You’re very committed to making this sound illegal.”
“It is illegal.”
“Sure. But I’m flexible on the romantic part.” He winks, a knowing glint in his eyes.
My brain stutters so much, I almost drop the shovel. “Right.” I shove my hands into the gloves and shake off the awkwardness. “Sorry. I’m stuck on the part where you brought murder props.”
“Tools.”
I glance at the burlap sack on the ground. “And that?”
He hooks two fingers through the drawstring and drags it closer. “Native grass plugs. Leaf litter. A little extra soil.”
“That sounds alarmingly prepared,” I remark.
“Or ecologically responsible.” He waves nonchalantly.
I frown. “Gage.”
He ducks under a dripping branch and turns back to me, rain sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. “Fine. It sounds alarmingly prepared in an ecologically responsible way.”
Humor crosses his features. I hate that I almost smile. I hate even more how the dark humor actually helps. Until I see the body, and my heart starts to hammer all over again like a frantic rabbit.
But Gage doesn’t hesitate. He steps into the mud and drives his shovel into the earth, smooth and terrifying. He’s definitely done this before. Very normal thought to have about the man helping me hide a body. Very comforting.
The first push of my own shovel into the wet ground shudders straight up my arms. My palms scream because my body has strong opinions about manual labor. My shoulders burn. My thighs burn. My lungs drag in cold air that tastes like rain and mud and raw panic.
But the more I move, the less I shake.
Nothing about me is steady. But the terror finally has somewhere to go—into my arms, my legs. And the wet, sucking sound of mud to metal.
