She dug her fingernails into his coat sleeves, hanging on as she lost her footing. For a heart-stopping instant she dangled above her father’s open grave. The man shifted, and she thought he was going to pull her back, message delivered, but he simply switched his grip to his left arm, still covering her mouth while his right hand moved away. He lifted it again, and she flinched as he nicked her neck with the point of a knife.
He was going to kill her. Her stomach flipped, bringing a sour taste of bile to her mouth. She wondered fleetingly if throwing up would make him jump away, or if he would slash angrily with the knife. The thought was aborted by a sudden impact. Something hit him—hit them—from behind. In a blur of black leather, her attacker lost his hold on her and fell to the ground with Donovan on top of him.
Flung from the man’s grip, she staggered forward. A weak cry escaped her as she groped at nothing and fell to her knees.
And kept falling.
Her fingernails clawed briefly at the smooth, hard mahogany of her father’s casket as she slipped past it. Beneath her feet, the tarp gave way, and in a sudden nightmare come true, she slid like a wet noodle down the narrow space between the casket and the dirt wall of the grave.
Pain. Blackness. The smell of damp earth. A bone-deep panic that raked at her chest like an animal trying to get out.
On her hands and knees, Jess clenched her fingers in cold soil, then recoiled. The exposed dirt of the grave seemed far more sinister than the ground above. With a shudder, she lifted her head.
A dirt wall rose on her right, ending in a gray slice of sky. Cutting off most of the view, her father’s casket hung above her on a framework of boards. A view not meant to be experienced by the living. A wild thought flew through her mind: if she survived, how many additional years of therapy would this require?
A sound like a mewing kitten squeaked from her throat, pitiful even to her ears. It didn’t come close to reflecting the depth of her fear. She inhaled deeply, allowing the smell of damp earth to fuel her terrified cry. “Help me! Someone!” Pushing herself to her feet, she nearly collapsed again at the stab of pain in her right ankle. Injured and buried alive. Terror shook her voice as she cried out again, “Help! Help! Help!”
A dark form appeared above her. A man, bare-headed in the increasing rain, dark hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His face was in shadow, but still lighter than the gloom of the grave. Light enough for her to recognize the hard stare and unsmiling face of Tyler Donovan.
“I’ll be back,” he yelled and disappeared from view.
“What? No, wait.” Her only chance at getting out of her father’s grave was about to disappear. Utter fear trembling in her voice, she called out, “Come back. I’m hurt.”
Far above, she heard a vicious curse and the scramble of feet on wet leaves. Seconds later, Donovan’s grim face peered over the edge of the grave above her. “How bad?”
Was he kidding? Was there a sliding scale for open-grave injuries, a one-to-ten gradient? She needed to get out of here. With fear clutching her chest, she yelled back, “Bad. My ankle feels broken.” Actually, she could probably walk it off, but exaggeration seemed warranted if it got her out of here faster.
“Is it bleeding?”
Oh, for God’s sake. Was he really prepared to leave her here alone? “How the hell do I know? Her body shook uncontrollably, and her voice choked with the tears she tried desperately to hold back. “It’s dark as Hades down here and I can’t tell mud from blood. Just get me the freaking hell out of here.”
“Fuck.” But with the decision made, he lay on the ground and reached into the grave. “Grab my hand.”
It was grudging, but it was also the only offer she was going to get. Wobbling on her good leg, she reached up to clasp his wrist. He gave a hard pull, grunting as he rose to his knees. She dangled, feet off the ground and chest against the cold, muddy wall of the grave. Closing her eyes against a flood of horrifying images, she hung on. A second later, matted grass tickled her cheek.
“Grab my other hand.”
She opened her eyes and did as he ordered. With one hard tug, he pulled her up until she slid belly-down onto the wet ground, gasping like a landed fish.
He knelt beside her, rolling her over and gently probing her ankles. Raindrops hit her face, stinging cold. She welcomed the feeling as proof she still belonged with the living.
He patted her cheek. “Are you okay?”
The stupidest question ever. Anger helped her focus and was a good substitute for the terror still pumping through her veins. Narrowing her gaze, she snapped, “No, I’m not okay.” Sitting up, she swiped at the rain on her face with a trembling hand. “I just got shoved into my father’s open grave and you ask me if I’m okay? I am f-freaked out and scared and injured,” she gulped as her voice faltered, “and c-covered in mud. And I am definitely not okay.”