He trotted back, the arm dangling limply from his mouth, his tail wagging like he'd done something praiseworthy.God, he’s licked my face with that tongue. I cringed at the thought.
"Drop it!" I commanded, grimacing. He did, looking up at me expectantly, the severed appendage at his paws. I went to grab it, but then he pounced on it and ran with it, wanting to play with it and me like this was some twisted fucking game.
Whyyyyy!?
I wanted to scream.
I heaved myself out of the shallow grave, gasping for breath, dirt smeared across my face. The body in the carpet next to the hole I’d dug was fully intact. This fresh hell was someone else’s doing. “Fuck my life,” I muttered, glancing through the trees where Tony had run off with the severed arm. I could hear his paws thudding around and his little growls. I was sure he was shaking the thing like a chew toy.
“Great. Just great.” I rolled to my feet and kicked at the loose soil, frustration boiling inside me. “Everything’ssuper good.” I groaned, running my dirty fingers through my hair while I huffed a breath. “Come on,” I shouted toward Tony. “We don't have time for this.” I needed to finish before anyone stumbled upon us.
My heart thudded against my ribs as I sensed movement to my side. I whipped around, and there was a mountain of aman barreling toward me. He was wearing a red plaid shirt that was completely unbuttoned, his bare abs on full display, and firefighter pants clung to his hips. Panic seized me and I almost screamed, but I didn’t want to be caught out here by the police, and although it wasn’t reasonable, this lumbersnack with murder in his eyes and way too many muscles was probably just as guilty as I was.
Before I could dodge or plead, his arms, like steel bands, wrapped around me, hoisting me up as if I were nothing but a sack of potatoes. My stomach lurched, my view inverted. Over his shoulder, the world became a blur of greens and browns as he charged through the trees.
“Put me down!” I demanded, my voice muffled against his back.
He didn’t slow, didn’t even respond. "Let me go!" My voice rose to a shrill pitch. He ignored my plea, the heat from his body seeping into mine.
I fell silent. This was fucking ludicrous. There I was, about to bury a man alongside a chopped-up stranger, and now I was being kidnapped by a brute who looked like he ate nightmares for breakfast.
"Sorry, officer,"I imagined saying,"but I was mid-burying a body when this gentleman decided to kidnap me. Oh! And there was a severed limb in the hole I dug, so you get a three-for-one special."I could almost laugh to keep from crying. And all I could do was hang limply over his shoulder, my thoughts as scrambled as the leaves crunching under his foot falls.
I saw a cabin appear in the distance through the trees, and he quickly made his way to it. He didn't hesitate, barreling through the door with me still slung over his shoulder. He stomped into a bedroom to the right and dumped me onto a bed that protested with a loud creak. Before I could even attempt to scramble away,his large hands clamped around my wrist, cold metal clicking. He’d handcuffed me to the wooden poster bed.
"I will be right back. I’m not going to hurt you. We'll talk when I return." His voice was a low rumble laced with a Scottish accent that wasn’t too thick. I assumed he’d been in the States for a while then. His gaze locked on mine for a heartbeat too long, then he turned, his heavy footsteps receding, and the front door slammed shut. I was left alone with the sound of my own ragged breathing and a fire crackling in the room over.
I twisted my wrist, trying to find some give. Maybe I could slip free. Nothing. A spike of panic jabbed through me, but I forced it down. That wouldn't help. I needed to focus.Think, Logan, think . . .
My eyes darted around the room, taking in the cozy, rustic simplicity of the cabin. This looked like a guest bedroom. There was only one way in and out and a sliding closet door, along with two small end tables on either side of the bed. There wasn’t a bathroom in here, so this place probably had two bedrooms and this was the spare. This room didn’t look lived in enough to be the main bedroom. I stretched my neck and glanced out of the window closest to me, and I saw the shadowed back of the caveman that had put me in here walking away from the cabin. Fuck. I needed to get out of here.
I twisted against the cuff again, the metal biting into my flesh. The post attached to the bed didn’t budge. A grunt escaped me, frustration boiling over. I yanked harder, desperate, but pain shot through my wrist. I gritted my teeth, stifling a cry.
Suddenly, I remembered that when I’d been young, I’d had to help my mother put a bed together and the posts would unscrew from the main frame. It had been wooden, similar to this one. Could it unscrew? It was worth trying. Clenching my teeth, I wrapped both hands around the thick wood, muscles straining, skin scraping. After a few tries, it started moving.
“Come on,” I whispered, determination flooding through me. Each inch gained was agony, my wrists were screaming in protest, but I kept at it.
The bedpost creaked free, and with a final pull, it came loose in my grip. “Gotcha.” The weight of it felt good, solid, and I instantly felt a little safer knowing I literally had a weapon handcuffed to my wrist.
I crept out of the bedroom and glanced around. I couldn’t hear anything, so I decided to snoop a little, quickly walking through of the place. Keeping the wooden post slung over my shoulder like a baseball player.
It wasn’t a big house, but it was so cute and cozy for a caveman. I checked a few drawers, looking for a gun or some other murder weapon, because sure, why not add another man to my body count. But all I found were overdue bills covering the dining room table. Everything about this place seemed normal. No meat hooks dangling from closets. No one shrieking from the attic. No creepy, secret shrines or serial-killer aesthetics. What even was a serial killer's aesthetic?
He hadn’t looked like a murderer—it seemed all he had was a closet full of plaid shirts and a debt problem.
Still, there’d been an arm buried in that hole.An arm. This was his land, his property lines, his address on the mail. So either he was running a seasonal body stash out back, which was very on-brand for the plot of my life, or I had happened upon the most popular communal grave in town. Both options were terrible. They were also—if I was honest—my brand of bad luck.
I moved through the rooms quickly. If he caught me, what would I even say? “Hi, I was renovating your property with my baggage and found an arm. Can I borrow a shovel to finish the job?” I almost laughed.
My internal monologue toggled between survival instincts and my absurd observations. Why did every suspicious man have apotted succulent? Why did the best hiding spots always smell faintly of mothballs? Why had I—of all people—ended up with a wooden post as my emotional support weapon?
I needed to get out of here. I’d seen enough. I made it to the front door, hefting the wooden post over my shoulder. The cool air smacked me as I burst outside. I made sure the coast was clear and then I sprinted. Branches clawed at my face and leaves crunched underfoot. I ran in what I believed was the opposite direction I had come. It would be fine. I would just circle back around to the main road and hop in my truck and leave.
“Tony!” My voice came out a hushed whisper. I couldn’t leave without Tony. He had become my family over the last six months, since I’d adopted him. More than that, he was my partner in crime, quite literally now.
The soft pad of paws on damp earth came from up ahead. Tony emerged, his tongue lolling to the side. He seemed unfazed by our predicament, his tail wagging. As if this were the best walk he’d ever gotten to go on.
“Good boy.” Relief flooded me. We were together. Now, we just needed to put distance between us and, well . . . everything else. We plunged deeper into the woods, away from the cabin, the body, and the man with the meaty arms and an accent. Away from it all.
