Quiet.

Empty.

Lonely.

Was that why I’d come here? I knew they were partying here tonight. Was I looking for him?

I walked between the headstones, moving silently over the grass and barely noticing the engine that purred, growing louder and closer second by second.

I blinked, looking up, and then stopped.

A matte black car creeped down the small lane, its headlights off and the driver invisible through the dark tinting of the windshield.

My heart skipped a beat, and I darted back a couple of steps, shielding myself behind a ten-foot-tall grave marker.

They didn’t speed up, turn on their lights, or stop, just kept crawling down the path toward me until it got close enough that I could tell it definitely wasn’t my brother.

They stopped, and after a moment, I saw the trunk pop open and a man exit the car, the hood of his black sweatshirt drawn over his head. I watched as he rounded the car.

Who was that? The cemetery was closed.

Of course, that didn’t mean anything, since the ground was littered with red Solo cups, candles, and other shit. Maybe he was cleaning up.

He lifted open the trunk, pulling something out over the edge, and I caught sight of bare feet dangling.

A cool sweat hit the back of my neck. What the…?

He lifted the body out, throwing it over his shoulder, her long black hair falling out of the sheet, down his back, and her long legs bare in her outfit.

I squinted, seeing the black strapless costume—like a ballerina or something.

Was she dead? I covered my mouth with my hand, my legs fighting with the urge to bolt, but fear kept me rooted.

Walking to the grass, he leaned over and threw her to the ground, her body hitting hard right next to the already disturbed soil around McClanahan’s grave.

I reached into my pocket, not taking my eyes off him as he trudged back to his car and pulled a shovel out of the trunk.

But my phone wasn’t in my pocket. I blinked, feeling the key, but I didn’t have my cell. I searched the other one, coming up empty, as well.

Shit.

I didn’t know if I wanted to call for help or record this, but either way, I was out of luck.

He came back to the grave and started digging up the soil again, and I clutched the sides of the tall headstone, watching him.

Who was he? God, was he crazy or just stupid? We lived on the coast. Take a boat out, weight the body down and toss it overboard, for crying out loud.

I blinked, remembering myself. It wasn’t like I’d thought about it or anything.

The wind kicked up, blowing the sheet off her face, and I looked down at her, my mouth going dry. She didn’t look familiar, but I wasn’t really close enough to tell. At first glance, she looked my age, but the way the skin fit around certain parts of her body told me she wasn’t. Maybe twenties or thirties.

I looked around, hoping the caretaker might be making the rounds or kids would be coming back to party some more, but we were completely alone out here now.

He dug for another minute and then stopped, his shoulders slumped as he stared down at the body, almost in a daze.

And all of a sudden, I was him. In his shoes, standing where he was. I’d just killed someone, and I was getting rid of the evidence.

Raising his black boot, he slowly lowered it to her neck and pressed down, watching her and baring his teeth.

Anger.

He was angry.

And despite everything in my head telling me this was a horror, I couldn’t run. I couldn’t stop watching.

He could be a serial killer. A rapist keeping her quiet forever. A predator of innocents.

She might not even be dead yet. I could run, get help, and save her life. At the very least, put him behind bars.

But then he started sobbing, shaking and gasping, and I was him. I would be him if I let Martin push me enough.

Someday, at some point, it was coming. I’d lose my mind and just fight. Fight until either he or I stopped breathing.

A breeze swept through the trees, his hood blew off his head, and I blinked, seeing Damon Torrance standing there with the shovel in his hand and the body of a dead woman at his feet.

I sucked in a breath and his eyes shot up, his whole body freezing as our eyes locked.

Shit.

My blood drained, and I couldn’t inhale.

He dropped the shovel and headed toward me, charging hard and steady down the small hill as I stumbled backward, too scared to take my eyes off him.

Something caught my eye, and I looked behind him, seeing the woman’s hand flop over and her head move.

“She’s moving,” I choked out, hitting the back of a crypt.

He stopped about two feet from me, holding my eyes for a moment.

Slowly, he turned, looking over his shoulder at her. Her finger twitched, and I noticed the tears still hanging at the corner of his eyes.

The wind continued to glide over the headstones, the scent of his cigarettes wafting around me, and at this moment, I thought I would’ve liked to be him.

He was going to get away with this. What would we all do if we could get away with it?

Maybe I was lucky to never have to find out. Maybe he was because he could escape his pain.

“Who is it?” I asked softly.

I took in their hair. Hers and his. The same jet black, so dark it almost shimmered blue in the moonlight. The same skin, pale and translucent like they were made of marble.

I looked at her costume. “Your mother?” I whispered.

I’d heard she was a ballerina back in the day.

He turned back around, guarded but trembling a little.

I tried to catch my breath. “Did Will have any part of that, Damon?”

He shook his head.

He stepped toward me, and I held my breath, closing my eyes and waiting for it.

But he didn’t touch me.

He just closed the distance and hovered, and I couldn’t move if I tried. My head swam.

“Not going to fight me again?” he murmured.

It took a moment, but I raised my eyes, meeting his. “It’s easier to pretend that we’re in control of everything that happens to us.” I repeated his words. “It’s almost peaceful. To just let it be.”

He stared at me and then… nodded. He touched my face, and I jerked away, but then he brought up his hand, showing me the blood he’d wiped off.

I touched my face, too, patting the scratch. Was that from Martin or the escape?

“Does Will know?” he asked, rubbing my blood between his fingers.

“No.”

He lifted his gaze to mine. “Because he’s the one pure, beautiful thing untainted by ugliness,” he repeated his same words from the shower. “And we love him for it.”

I remained still despite everything shattering inside and the ache in my throat from the cry I held back.

Turned out that maybe the Horsemen weren’t what I’d thought, and while money may pay off the consequences, it still didn’t prevent some kinds of pain.

He turned his head, looking at the body again. “She started fucking me when I was twelve,” he whispered. “After a while, you get tired of pretending that you’re in control of everything that happens to you.” He paused, turning to me again. “And you start being what happens to everyone else.”

Spinning back around, he walked over to his mother, crouched down next to her body as he faced me, and wrapped his hand around the front of her throat.