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I shrug lightly as if the question means nothing. “I just wonder sometimes… you know, if the people we think we know are hiding things. Secrets. Regrets.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. I press on, keeping my voice neutral. “Did he ever talk to you about things that weighed on him? About mistakes he made?”

She stiffens slightly, her hands tightening on the edge of the exam table. “No. He wasn’t like that. He kept to himself.”

“Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Not even when he’d had a drink or two?”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she shakes her head. “He wasn’t a heavy drinker.”

“Oh,” I say lightly. “I just remember hearing he’d stop by The Two Hog Tavern sometimes after work for some drinks. But maybe that was just talk.”

Her face pales, her knuckles whitening. “He worked long hours at the store. He wasn’t the type to waste time like that.”

“Of course,” I reply, nodding. “He was always so… attentive. Especially with the younger girls who came into the store. He always seemed to go out of his way to help them.”

The words drop into the room like a stone into still water. Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly, forcing a faint, shaky smile. “He was good with people. Always willing to lend a hand.”

“Exactly,” I say, my voice softening. “So generous. Almost… protective. Did he ever talk about anyone in particular? Maybe someone he felt needed extra care?” Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I let the silence stretch, watching her squirm. Finally, I lean back, shrugging as if the conversation means nothing. “Never mind. It’s probably nothing. Let me run and get the doctor for you. You need to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You should never put anyone before your health. No matter how much you might love them.”

She nods faintly. “Thank you, Lydia.”

I pause, watching her for a moment. “One last thing,” I add. “No matter what the doctor finds today, if you’re ever feeling off again, come in. I know it’s not like you to bother anyone about yourself.”

“I will,” she says quietly, her voice hollow. “And Lydia, if there’s anything you hear about Virgil, anything about where he might’ve gone. Just… if you hear anything, please let me know.”

I give a stiff nod and leave the exam room with a click of the door. I’m the last person who would ever help her find him. Besides, he’s not lost.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

The shed is cold this morning, but I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s the same way every year. The space heater hums weakly in the corner, barely cutting through the frost. I stand over what’s left of Virgil, the heavy silence pressing down on me.

His body is sprawled on the steel table, pale and bloated. The ruin between his legs has long since scarred over, the blood has darkened, thick, and viscous in the deep creases of his flesh. His torso is bruised from where the restraints bit into him, his wrists raw and oozing. His face… well, there’s not much left of that, not after what I did.

I thought I could drag him to the pen as he is. That it’d be easier this time. But staring at him now, there’s no way. He’s too heavy, too unwieldy. Dead weight is unforgiving like that. I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. “You’re not making this easy,” I mutter, reaching for the hacksaw.

The first cut is always the hardest. The saw’s teeth bite into the skin of the remaining wrist, grating against the bone with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. My gloves are already slick with blood. It coats everything, the saw, the table, my hands. I have to adjust my grip more than once. The hand comes free with a wet snap, and I set it aside carefully. His arm flops uselessly against the table, the stump jagged and glistening, matching the scarred one on his other side. My stomach churns, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

“You didn’t stop, either,” I whisper, my voice low and bitter. “Not when you should have.”

His one leg is next. It will be challenging, not as frantic as last night when he struggled weakly, but still demanding thanks to strength of his bones. I adjust the table’s height, locking it into place, and grip the saw again, its weight familiar in my hands. The first stroke bites into the flesh. The sound is grating. Less of a scream, more a groan, like metal dragging across the stone. The blade hits the femur, and I feel the resistance instantly. The bone is dense, a fortress of calcium, but I press harder, leaning my weight into each pull. The saw catches, the teeth grinding against the thick bone. My arms tremble with the effort, my muscles burning as I fight against its defiance. Sweat beads along my hairline, dripping into my eyes, but I don’t stop. Each breath escapes in a sharp hiss, the cold air doing little to cool the heat rising in my chest.

Finally, the leg gives way. The joints pop with a sickening snap, the sound echoing in the stillness of the shed. I yank the limb free, the connective tissues snapping like taut wires. Blood pools at the edges of the wound, thick and unmoving. How much more blood does he have to lose?

I pause, letting the saw rest on the edge of the table.

The torso is the hardest part, not just physically, but mentally. There’s something about the bulk of it, the way it still resembles a man, that makes the work feel heavier. I thought the worst was over, but now, staring down at what’s left of Virgil Wolfe, the final steps settle on my shoulders like a second skin.

I reach for the boning knife. The blade is narrow, sharp, precise, my favorite for this part. I press it just below the sternum and draw it down in one long, deliberate line, slicing through skin and sinew, muscle and fat. The body opens with a thick, wet sound, the cavity blooming like something obscene. The smell hits immediately, hot and sour, thick with rot and whatever chemical traces remain from the drugs and starvation.

The intestines swell against the opening, bloated and coiled, desperate to escape. I reach in, hands steady, and begin the work. I cut high and low, severing them cleanly before scooping the mass into a plastic bin. They’re obscene in my hands, warm, slick, writhing like snakes still trying to move.

These go to the pigs.

The blood pools beneath him, dripping steadily onto the floor. I’ll have to clean that later. For now, I focus on the task. By the time I finish, my back is screaming, and my hands are trembling from the effort. The room smells of copper and decay, the air thick and stifling. I pause to catch my breath, leaning against the table.

I step outside for a moment, the cold air shocking against my sweat-slicked skin. The pigs gather near the fence the moment I approach, snouts lifting, grunting with hunger. They’ve learned the sound of the bin. I dump the intestines into the trough with a wet slap. The pigs descend instantly, squealing, snapping, fighting over the pile with open-mouthed greed. My stomach tightens, a faint wave of nausea rising with the smell, but I breathe through it. The cold air helps. The entire production is violent, efficient, and natural.