The metal edge of his shovel hit something hard.
Fuck. Fuck. Did I hit the woman? He’d tried to be careful while he was digging, but…
Coffin. Wooden coffin. He’d hit that. His head angled toward Sloane.
He found her looking back up at him. It had grown so dark out there, but his phone, Frankie’s phone, and Noble’s all had their flashlights on and were pouring as much illumination as they could into the hole.
“That’s a coffin,” Noble said. “Shit. Shit. That’s a coffin.”
“Bridget!” Sloane yelled. “Bridget, if you can hear me, we’re getting you out!”
The voices behind them rose. The sirens were still shrieking.
Using the muddy edge of his shovel, Preston tried to pry open the slats of wood on the top of the coffin. He was half-in the grave, struggling to get down closer, and he couldn’t attain good enough leverage to pry open the damn thing.
Noble pushed closer to him. The shovel wasn’t working, not at this angle, so they both grabbed the wood. They grabbed and heaved and?—
Crack.
One of the slats on the handmade coffin broke. Preston threw it aside. He grabbed for the broken edge of wood that was still attached and pried it up. Out.
“I can see her!” Frankie leaned over the edge of the hole. “I see her!”
“Everyone, move back! Now, now, now!” Sheriff Tooni’s voice boomed in the night. “Get back!”
He didn’t. Preston broke more wood. Tossed it aside. Chunks of mud fell into the coffin. Rain poured in.
I can see her, too. Bridget Russell. Sprawled inside the coffin. Not moving when the rain hit her. Or the mud. Or when Preston reached out to touch her.
She did not move.
Arms grabbed him. Yanked him back. Up. Instinctively, Preston fought at those arms because he was determined to get back to the woman in the coffin. He had to get her out. He took a swing at his attacker.
“Ouch!” Eugene cried out. He immediately let go of Preston. “Don’t! I’m a deputy! You can’t?—”
Sloane grabbed Preston’s hand. “We need to let them get her.” Low. Sad? She tightened her grip. “Come on.”
He went with her. Eased completely out of that hole. His clothes stuck to him, wet and muddy. His muscles burned because he’d been digging and digging. Digging down so deep. So fast. He stood by the grave, with Sloane at his side, and he watched the water pour inside the gaping hole.
“More lights!” Debra barked.
And there were more lights. Big, bright lights. Searchlights. Bobbing flashlights. So many lights, shining down into the hole. Showing the mud. The streaming water from the rain. The broken wood.
The woman inside the coffin. The woman who was so still. Too pale.
“Jesus.” Eugene’s dazed voice.
Preston’s gaze jerked toward Eugene.
With one hand, the deputy held up one of the broken chunks of wood that Preston had tossed away. With his other hand, the deputy shone a light on the wood. He turned the broken chunk of wood, angling the board. “Damn.” Eugene shook his head. “I think there are scratch marks on here.”
“Out, out, out!” Debra’s voice boomed again. “Deputies, get her out!”
Sloane pulled Preston with her, moving him back a few more feet to the side. He watched, numb, as the woman was removed from the grave. It took four people to get her out.
“That’s Bridget,” he heard another deputy say. Lucinda Chambers. “I went to high school with her. She was always nice, you know? Not one of those mean girls.”
Frankie and Noble had moved back. They watched the scene near Preston. Waiting. Silent.
