“Bugs,” Boris repeated, deadpan. “Yeah, of course there were bugs. He’s in the damn dirt. Where the bugs live.”
“I—She got shot, I think,” Jack explained, pointing at his temple. “Right here.”
Boris winced. “Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, alright. You got everything you need?”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Just… Let me cover her face, alright?”
Maybe he should dig further. Maybe there was a buried wallet, or some other form of identification. But when he reached the grave, his hands trembled so badly that the flashlight threatened to rattle free from his grip, and he knew he couldn’t do it. Didn’t have the stamina.
So, he grasped the shovel instead and began piling the earth over the corpse’s face.
When the mound was restored, he turned to find Boris standing behind him, gaze haunted.
“Should we say something? Before we leave?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack miserably. Was it only yesterdaythat he sat beside the grave and talked to it? It could’ve been seconds, centuries, anything in between.
But it was only yesterday.
“Sorry,” said Boris, looking at the mound. “I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll do what I can to help.” He sighed. “It was the mob, huh?”
“Sorry,” said Jack to the mound. “I won’t dig you up again.” He probably should say more, but he couldn’t find the words. Felt as if that part of his brain had been blocked off. Instead, he stared at the grave, a bubble of regret building in his throat.
“Rest easy,” said Boris with one final glance, and Jack teared up.
They returned to the car. A light drizzle had started at some point, and Jack hadn’t even noticed. Though the night was warm, he was already shaking, and the rain only made things worse.
The smell of vomit accompanied them. Boris must’ve gotten some on his clothes.
The bubble in Jack’s throat became one of regretandguilt.
Boris tossed the shovel into the trunk with a thud, slammed the lid, and leaned against the car. “We just exhumed a fucking corpse.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, voice thick.
“That was a fucking mafia hit.”
“How do you know? Wouldn’t they throw the body in the ocean?”
“This place has a mob problem,” said Boris. “Look, my dad lived here most of his life, except for when I was really little. I know all about it. Nobody talks about it, but this shit happens all the time. Not everyone gets thrown in the ocean. She’s probably from the city. Somebody who saw something she shouldn’t have, or something. I dunno. Maybe she owed them money.”
“She was wearing mascara,” said Jack. Numbness settled over him. The fog from the road must have invaded his brain, because he couldn’t think.
“That’s so fucking sad,” said Boris, staring out into the trees. “Fuck. I-I shouldn’t have done this.”
“It’s my fault,” said Jack. “Don’t blame yourself?—”
But Boris shook his head. “It was my idea. I wanted to know what you were banging on about. I should’ve known better.”
“It sounds pretty ridiculous,” Jack admitted. The dead woman’s face floated before him every time he so much as blinked. He saw her in the silver moon, in the puddles on the road, in the bright lights of the streetlamps. The hole in her head taunted him, kept expanding until there was nothing but a massive cavern that engulfed her forehead, exposing brain and bone.
But the mascara clinging to her eyelashes…
That was the worst detail. Worse than the tiny mole by her right nostril, the creases in her lips, the dirt in her hair. She’d gotten up and put on mascara like it was just another day, and then she’d fucking died.
And someone stuffed her in the ground without so much as a burlap sack. Somewhere police, her family, her friends would never find her.
Then Jack came along and desecrated her grave.
