Page 8 of The Grave Robber

Don’t do it.

Jason’s words hit like a forty-five-caliber round to mychest. Emotion seared across my skin and burned the backs of my eyes. A bitdramatic, maybe, but holy shit. Not only had I been duped, tricked into comingto Idaho—a fact that stunned me more than I cared to admit—but I’d also beenlured into an impossible situation.

Don’t do it.

Part of me wanted to rip my best friend’s head off. He hadno right to lay this on me. But I quickly made a mental U-turn. Out of everyman in the bar—short, tall, beefy, small—Jason Vigil was the only one who couldvery likely take me in a bare-knuckle brawl. We’d both been boxers in highschool, trading off championships like a baseball fan trades cards. We’dgraduated to mixed martial arts soon after. Even then, I’d hated fightingJason. We were too close, brothers, and I’d always wondered if he pulled hispunches.

I didn’t want to find out. Not now. And I didn’t want todiscover which of us had weathered our respective years best. If things didn’tgo as planned, I would be humiliated for the second time that day, and myself-esteem could only take so many hits.

Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t throw a punchanymore to save my life. I couldn’t fight if I wanted to. I was absolutelyuseless.

Don’t do it.

Despite my best efforts, my gaze flitted to the girl. Herhaunted expression didn’t sway me. Didn’t even nudge the needle. I didn’t careif she’d been terrorized for years. That she looked as thin and frail as apaper doll. That she’d tried to take her life. I was done. Done with ghosts.Done with hellhounds. Done with demons—especially demons. Fuckers. None of itmattered. None of it was my problem. Not anymore. Even when she looked up fromher book, her gaze meeting mine, and I found myself treading frantically justto keep my head above the murky depths I found there. I didn’t budge.

Don’t do it.

“You seem upset.”

I turned back to Jason and quickly reassessed my chances ofgetting in a kidney punch before he took me to the mat. If I was certain Icould take the shot, which I wasn’t, I may have tried. “You think?”

The muscles in Jason’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forwardonto his elbows. “I’m sorry.”

“About which part? The luring me here under false pretensesbit, or the fact that you’re ruining my vacation?”

“Neither.” He pointed over my shoulder. “I think sherecognized you.”

I whirled around.

She was headed our way, carrying the mug and her book.

“That’s my cue.” Jason flew out of his chair and booked itto the kitchen. Cowardly bastard.

The seat he’d vacated didn’t stay empty for long. Before Icould get up and run myself—I said he was a cowardly bastard, not that Iwasn’t—she sank into Jason’s chair, folding her long legs as gracefully as afawn settling onto a forest floor.

“It’s you,” she said, clearly just as surprised to see me asI was to see her. She put the mug and book on the table, apparently planning tostay a while.

Why did she seem so fragile now, when I would’ve sworn shewas seconds away from chopping me to pieces with a battle axe an hour ago? Why wereher features so much more delicate? Her eyes so much more expressive? And blue.The smooth, cobalt blue of a ceramic bowl. Had they been this blue before? Ordid they change with her moods?

Either way, her father was right. She would choose a periodover a pause, though not for a few months. Only this time, she would succeed. Isaw her last moment—chewed nails, limp hands, wrists open—in a bathtub soakedwith blood, her bent knees protruding out of the water. November 12th. 8:28p.m.

For the love of God, Eric, don’t fucking do it. If youfail, and youwillfail…

No. Just no. There was nothing I could do. I could not takethis on. Iwouldnot take this on. I’d text Jason the details of herdeath so her father could stop it and be on my merry way before anyone—namely,my friend—even knew I’d left.

I shook out of my thoughts, nodded a greeting that served asboth hello and goodbye, and started to rise. But before I could take my leave,the tinny voice of an elderly woman drifted toward me—one who’d died in hersixties sometimeinthe sixties.

“I like her,” she said, beaming at the oblivious blonde.

With a heavy sigh, I sank back into the seat and cast asideways glance at my boss’s aunt, always impressed with how much her blue hairglowed, even in the afterlife. At some point before her death, Aunt Lillian—asshe’d insisted I call her—had been swallowed whole by one of those floraltents. She wore an impressive array of love beads and had a brown leather straptied around her wrist.

I’d asked her once how she died. She’d mentioned a hippiecommune, a love affair with a bona fide shaman, and a bad batch of LSD. My onlydisappointment when I first met her was that she didn’t have a peace sign paintedon her cheek.

“She seems sad, though,” Aunt Lil continued.

“How did you recognize me?” I asked Halle, ignoring thewoman who’d followed me all the way from Santa Fe. “I was wearing a helmet.”

Halle pointed. “The New Mexico shirt with theBreakingBadRV is hard to forget.”

---