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“I think it could be shock,” I say, my voice low. “On the bluff, the gazebo, what I found.” I swallow. “It was a woman. The remains of a woman. His wife, probably.”
Kit flinches. “Shit. You think he saw it happen.”
“Maybe. He could still have been struck on the head. Knocked out. Covered up. Left for dead. I’m just saying the blood might not be his.”
“All right.”
I reach for the tarp. “We’ll make sure of that. If he’s not suffering from any life-threatening injuries, then we need to leave him and get to the house. Figure out what to do with him later.”
And if that means we leave him in the sights of a killer who might realize he’s not actually dead?
So be it.
I have my priorities, and whatever John Sinclair might have witnessed, however horrible that would be, he isn’t one of them.
I need to get to Madison. Warn Jayla and keep Madison safe.
I tug at the tarp. It sticks, and I pull hard enough that I topple backward. When Kit lets out a gurgling gasp, I scramble up, ready to launch myself at Sinclair, certain he’s attacking Kit.
Kit has fallen back, arms behind him, bracing himself up, as if Sinclair had indeed lunged at him. But the man hasn’t moved. He’s lying there, just as he was, his head tilted toward Kit.
“Kit?” I say. “What—?”
Then I see it. Or I don’t see it. That’s what my brain screams. It shrieks that I am not seeing something I absolutely should be seeing.
My gaze is fixed below Sinclair’s torso, where I’ve yanked the tarp aside, and I should now see the rest of him.
I do not see the rest of him.
I see his torso and then there is nothing below it.
It must be the angle. The leaves. The dead vegetation. Or even the earth itself. It’s covering the lower half of his body. He’d been buried, the tarp haphazardly thrown over the spot. He managed to crawl out, but he’s still half buried.
That is the answer.
It must be the answer.
“Laney?” Kit’s voice is so choked I can barely make out my name.
I shove up to my feet. Change my vantage point. Take one decisive step in that direction, knowing I will collapse with relief when I see that I’m right and Sinclair is only half buried.
I take that step and—
“No!”
Kit shouts, lunging to stop me, but it’s too late. I see what he’s already seen, and I drop to my knees, retching. My brain fires wildly, random electrical flashes of bright light, as if it can erase what it just saw.
I told myself Sinclair’s lower half was buried. Under dirt. Under vegetation. It’s not. Thereisno lower half. It’s gone. As I think that, that inner voice lets out a hysterical laugh.
Gone? Don’t be silly. What do you mean, it’s gone?
I mean there is nothing below Sinclair’s torso except a trail of blood and gore and intestines. My brain tried to erase that image, but it cannot, and even with my eyes squeezed shut, I can see it.
Kit’s arms are around me. He’s trying to tug me away from the sight, but I twist out of his grip and open my eyes.
Sinclair’s torso lies on the ground. His one hand claws the ground again, and his face has turned our way, those blank eyes fixed not quite in our direction. His mouth moves, as if he’s trying to talk. But his bottom half is gone. Not just his legs. His entire bottom half, from the waist down. It’s been ripped away, the flesh as torn as his wife’s fingers, as her neck.
“He’s… dead, right?” I rasp.
