Moonlightaholics

“I thought you were meant to be protecting me from the rest of the camp, not them from me,”

librarian_7 wrote:You got it, gl...you're on my list.

Lucky

librarian_7 wrote:The first shovelful of dirt to hit the body was always the hardest, Josef thought. It had to be done. This time, and the multitude of other times he’d performed this task. He almost wished he were the heartless monster he’d been accused of being, so many times and places. If he could have walked away and left this body to be tossed out like garbage, perhaps he would have. But he’d been taught in a hard school that there were obligations to be carried out. And if nothing else, six feet of earth and stone would surely keep anyone from finding telltale marks on a body. That’s it. It was practical, just practical. The memory of that white skin, those beautiful china blue eyes, had nothing to do with it.

Josef tossed the shovelful of dirt, on her feet. No reason you had to start with the face, after all.

“Mr. Constantine,” Sally said shyly, “shouldn’t we cover her face? Before—well. Before.” She held out the scrap of lace handkerchief she’d picked up earlier, and extended it to him.

Josef twisted the fabric in his hands. “Yes. She’d—she’d appreciate that kindness, Mrs. Watkins.” And he dropped one last time into the grave, to spread the lace over Iris Beaumont’s still face. No one heard him breathe to her, “Goodbye, sweetheart. Rest well.” This time he ignored Weston’s hand, and regained his place by the grave alone.

“I can understand how you’d be curious.” Slade twisted the piece of grass in his hand. For the product of a long summer in the sun, and a dry autumn, it was remarkably resilient. He had no real wish to go into the thirty-four years of bad decisions and lousy luck that had brought him to where—to what—he was now. “The long story isn’t very pretty. Short version, I got into it pretty much the same way I’ve gotten into everything. I drift. And when you drift, you don’t have much control over what you drift into.”

Sally covered her thoughts by renewing her assault on the unpalatable biscuit. If only they’d used a little of the salt from the beans in the dough, she thought.

From across the way, she could hear the horses shift and snort, and somewhere a guitar played and a few voices sang a sad camp song. She watched the smoke drifting into the air, scenting the night air. It was pleasant, peaceful