Page 117 of Runaways

Nothing. No sign of life, no sign of a body aside from those interred long ago. I almost convince myself Tate made the whole thing up—that it was just a prank, but then…

I stop short, my heart dropping into my stomach as I just barely manage not to fall into an open grave with no marker.

"Fuck, that was close." I thrust my hands, shaking from a mix of cold, adrenaline, and fear, into the wet front pocket of my hoodie. It provides little warmth as I try to catch my breath.

But before I move on, I look down into that open hole and see…something.

I'm not really sure what it is at first—it's almost impossible to make out in the dark—but at the bottom of that muddy hole, floating just at the surface of the water pooling at the bottom, are waves of long, grey hair and a jacket I recognize as the one she got when her bowling team won the league championship last spring.

"Jodie!" I scream into the abyss. But of course, she doesn't hear me. Face down in the water, she doesn't move. "Jodie, please! Jodie!"

I don't know what to do, and if I wasn't so cold, so fucking terrified and traumatized and helpless all at the same time, I probably would have known better than to do this.

I jump into the hole.

When I land, my legs quickly slide out from beneath me, and I fall on my ass in about five inches of muddy water. As I pullmyself up, I sink further into the muck. It's thick enough that I struggle to pull my feet back out.

"Jodie!" I call out again. Once I manage to move my feet closer, I kneel in that muddy water, grab her jacket, and attempt to flip her over.

But the jacket slips from her body with ease. "What…"

I hold it in front of me, watching the water drip down the white embroidered leather, perplexed.

I let it fall back into the water and feel around beneath its surface, and I feel….nothing. My eyes pool with tears as with shaky hands, I reach for the long, grey hair, and lift it out of the water—all the way out of the water—too.

It's a wig.

It was a trick. And now…

Now, I'm stuck in a grave. In a freezing cold, wet grave.

I'm going to die in here.

"Tate!" I scream, pulling myself back onto my feet, and then I throw the wet, muddy wig out of the hole and onto the surface. "Tate! This isn't fucking funny!"

I wait. Thunder cracks overhead and still…nothing.

"Tate, get me out of here!" I sob. "Tate, please! I'm sorry!"

I don't know what I'm sorry for, but I can't say that. And once he gets me out of this fucking hole, I'm going to kill him. I can't say that, either.

"Tate!" I scream, my voice more desperate this time. "Help! Someone, please, help me."

But there's nothing. No sign of anyone in the graveyard, no Tate, no Silas. Just the occasional flash of lightning in thedistance and the sound of raindrops hitting the water pooling at the bottom of the open grave.

It's only getting colder. And deeper. I can't feel my skin. I can't feel my fingers; I can't wiggle my toes inside my waterlogged boots.

"Help!" I scream one more time. But this time, I barely try. I know no one will hear me. "Fuck!"

Desperate for warmth, I burrow into the corner of the hole, sinking down into the water and pulling my knees into my chest.

I'm so cold, so tired, and so utterly defeated.

They say hypothermia isn't a bad way to die. It's as easy and painless as falling asleep. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Tate did promise a merciful death that day in the car.

I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes. I wonder how long it'll take. Hours? Will I still be alive in the morning?

But I can't fucking die in here. Because I'm going to kill Tate.

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