Page 47 of Grave Matter

Then I hear laughter. From somewhere up ahead, around the bend.

“Hello!” I yell.

The laughter gets louder. A woman. Everly?

A man starts laughing too. Could be Michael, though I can’t imagine him laughing.

I start walking faster, and then I’m jogging, running around the bend until I come to a halt.

There’s no one there.

The laughter has stopped.

The road is an empty straightaway for a bit before it curves down around another corner.

At that corner, a lone maple resides amongst a copse of cedars and hemlock.

The maple tree is dead.

Nearly all the branches are bare, with big brown and rust-colored leaves spread out along the road.

What the hell?

I’m staring at the tree, wondering what happened to it, when I hear twigs snapping in the woods.

I gasp, twisting around.

Fear chokes my throat, and I listen, wide-eyed, straining to see, to hear.

Snap.

There’s someone moving amongst the trees.

A dark shape in the forest, walking parallel to me.

“Who is that?” I cry out. “What do you want?”

Suddenly, the sun comes out again, my vision going white, my hands above my eyes as I wince through it.

Kincaid emerges from the trees, dressed in his black coat.

There you are, as always. The thought flits across my mind.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking mildly flustered. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was worried. I—” He frowns, his gaze sharpening. “Jesus, are you alright?” He gestures to his nose. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” I bring my fingers under my nostrils and touch my skin. It’s wet. I take it away to see fresh blood.

My stomach churns. I hate nosebleeds.

“Oh, shit,” I say as he strides over to me, fishing in his coat pockets. He takes out a navy handkerchief. Of course he would have a handkerchief.

I take it from him and hold it under my nose, feeling like an idiot. The cloth smells like him, that warm tobacco and wood that makes me feel like I’m draped in a warm blanket.

“Do you get nosebleeds often?” he asks, standing close, too close. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but not when I have blood pouring from my nose.

“I used to get them all the time as a child, but not since then,” I say, my voice nasal. I give him an awkward look. “This is mortifying.”

He studies me with those cool grey eyes, the color reminding me of the weather’s quick change. The temperature is creeping back up by the second.

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