Page 32 of The Stranger

Another tally in the con column for snowy murders.

I’m still undecided if I’ll do it again.

You dig and you dig and you dig, and it’s still not enough. Not nearly enough. For a human body especially, you have to get deeper than you think is possible and wide enough they can fit comfortably. And then there’s the displaced dirt you have to find something to do with. And putting the grass back so it looks undisturbed. And the weeds. My god, the weeds. Cutting through weeds may as well be cutting through concrete.

It’s not easy.

It’s hard, laborious, thankless work.

It would’ve been easier if I could’ve buried them all, the two teenagers included. Safer. Less risky. If I’d had the space in my brain to consider it, I might have taken them to the woods for the animals, too, but I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking clearly, my mind muddled from exhaustion and adrenaline.

Even now, even from just partially digging the one grave for the one body, my arms burn. They feel like jelly every time I have to turn around a curve. I have dirt and blood caked under my fingernails. I desperately need a shower.

But it’s done, and I’m satisfied.

I don’t like to kill when I don’t have to, but some people deserve to die. Not those kids, of course. Wrong place, wrong time. It couldn’t be helped.

But him? He deserved it.

And that feels good.

Accomplished.

Like a hard day’s work. And now, with him out of the way, I can enjoy my holiday.

Something draws my attention out of the corner of my eye up ahead, and I slow down. The car slides a bit as I hit the brakes, but it’s okay.

Someone is there. Walking along the side of the road. A person with their hood up, not dressed nearly warm enough for this weather.

I should keep going, keep driving and pretend I didn’t see them. The last thing I need is a distraction right now, but I can’t help being intrigued.

Why would anyone be walking so late at night in this storm? And, if they’re walking alone…would anyone miss them?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TIBBY

“He’s dead,” I whisper, my voice soft and breathless as I grab Walker’s arm, pulling him back. I can’t get out of here fast enough. I feel sick. I’m going to pass out. Going to die.

Like Ernest.

Ernest is dead.

Really, really dead.

His throat has been slashed. Quick, nasty work from the looks of it.

He’s just…gone. He’s gone.

Dead.

Blood has been smeared across the tub, but there’s not a drop anywhere else in the bathroom. Everywhere I look, if there was any sign of him being brought in here, it’s been cleaned up. Perhaps, then, he was killed in this room. In the bathtub, even. But if that’s the case, why was there blood in the lobby? And why would he have been in our bathroom to have been killed here in the first place? He had no reason, and certainly no permission, to be in our room.

He’s dead.

He’s really freaking dead.

“The towels are gone,” I whisper, noticing it for the first time. “Someone took the towels. Walker, the towels!”

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