“Where are you going?” she asked with a tinge of sadness.
Samuel rubbed his thumb across his jacket. “I don’t know.”
Claudette’s voice got sharper. She held herself. “What does that even mean? I don’t understand. Every time I come to see you … ” She paused. “It’s not your fault, Samuel. None of this is your fault. You don’t have to run away.”
“I killed him,” Samuel said.
“What?”
“The mayor. I killed him. I did it.”
“You killed him?”
Samuel nodded.
Claudette came closer. She took his face into her hands, her touch sending chills. “I don’t care,” she said evenly. “He was a bad man. He was cruel. What he did to my father? To yours? He deserved to die.”
She embraced him.
“I’m glad you did it, Sam. Can’t you see? I’m happy. Please. Don’t leave me.”
Samuel’s mouth puckered. He tasted bile, his jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he had the strength to do it. He didn’t want to leave her. He wanted her to hold him. He wanted a life with her. But none of those things were possible. He couldn’t lie to her anymore. She needed to know the truth. To see him for what he really was.
“No,” Samuel said firmly. “I have to.”
“Don’t say that!”
“I lied about your father. I was there. I watched him die.”
Claudette released her hold. Samuel stepped back and slouched his shoulders. He couldn’t bear to look at her. “That day. The mayor brought him to the jailhouse. I was there.” Samuel nibbled on his tongue. “I watched him die.”
Claudette put her hands near her stomach. “What?”
“I didn’t do anything to stop them. I didn’t try.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Claudette said. She shook her head forcefully, tears running down her cheeks. “I know you didn’t. That’s not who you are. I know it was the mayor. What did he do? Tell me.”
Samuel couldn’t say anything else. Zei was the one who held the knife, but that blood was on his hands. He owned it.
Claudette’s lip trembled. “Tell me. Please. Just tell me.”
The room grew silent until Claudette’s feet struck the floor. She reached her hand back and slapped it across Samuel’s face. Her eyes sweltered with a fresh wave of tears.
“Tell me!”
Samuel’s cheek throbbed. He wanted to throw his arms around her waist and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to confess everything. But she deserved better. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He knew he couldn’t stay with her. He couldn’t stay in Haid. It was more than the sheriff’s warnings about superstitious citizens. There were too many ghosts. This town had brought out something dark in him. He tried not thinking about it, but his mind always found its way back to death. She couldn’t understand that. He hoped she never would have to.
The snow-laden graveyard was littered with rows of erect wooden sticks. Some of the stripped branches had fallen over, while more had been buried underneath the white powder. Samuel followed Charles, his backpack bouncing. His boots stepped on snow and dried wood. His arms dangled by his sides as he tried not to move any of the sticks still mounted in place.
Samuel hadn’t said a word since leaving Claudette alone at the estate. Charles allowed him time to sit in silence on the drive to the burial grounds. The 250 acres of reserved land was deep on the north side of Haid. The grounds were far away from the neighborhoods and square and tucked between the eastern and western woods.
“It’s a little farther back,” Charles said, zigzagging in between the posts.
“How do you know?”
“I oversaw the burial.”
Samuel nibbled on his cheek. “You sure you’ll remember where it is?”
Charles sighed loudly. “I marked the stick. Trust me.”
Samuel wasn’t paying attention, and his elbow accidentally struck the tips of several mounted sticks, knocking two of them over. Samuel stopped. He bent down, and his body tingled with pain. He repositioned the sticks, turned around, and continued following Charles. This time, he shoved his hands inside his pockets. The sun’s rays managed to seep through his jacket, and his arm throbbed wildly. He tried not to contort his face. It was almost like it was being burned all over again.
No one was supposed to mark grave posts. It was specified in the Laevis Creed. Politicians, citizens, clerics, even foreigners were to be buried with one another in the same communal burial grounds. If Charles had marked his father’s stick, then he’d willfully broken the law on Samuel’s behalf. He swore to himself he’d never forget that.
Charles stopped by a cluster of sticks. He bent down and nodded. Samuel tried widening his strides, ignoring the pain in his leg. The stick in front of him was stripped of its outer bark. He thought of his father’s frozen body underneath the snow and hard dirt. He squatted beside Charles, slid off the backpack, and placed it beside the post. He retrieved the hunting knife.
“Thank you,” Samuel said. “For everything.”
“It’s no trouble when you’re the mayor,” Charles bragged. He kicked up a bit of snow. “Crazy how things happen. I always hated my dad. But now that he’s gone. I don’t know. It’s weird. I didn’t think your pet monster would actually kill him. I mean. I guess it had to happen one way or the other.”
Samuel swallowed. “Yeah.”
“I know what my dad did to yours. And I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me. I care a lot about you.” Charles looked down. “I love you.”
“I know.” Samuel forced a grin, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He didn’t know if the sheriff was rambling nonsense or telling truth. Either way, he loved Charles. He was a better person than his father. And he didn’t want to hurt him. “I don’t hate you. I swear. I care about you a lot. That’s why you need to stay away from me.”
Charles tsked. “You’re so dramatic.”
He lit the tobacco inside of his pipe and sucked. His face seemed somewhat older as he allowed the cloud of smoke to roll out his open mouth. It reminded Samuel of the last mayor, but he pushed the thought aside.
“Guess I’ll go ahead. Be waiting for you with the sheriff.”
“Okay.”
“Take your time. Do what you have to do.”
Samuel bowed, and Charles waved as he made his way back to the sheriff’s jeep.
For a long while, Samuel stood still, his ungloved hand gripping the knife’s handle. The weight felt heavy. The last time he held a knife, he slit a man’s throat with it. He curled the blade up and looked at his father’s grave.
There was so much he could have said. His cheeks started aching. He blinked heavily, refusing to let out the tears. Words and tears wouldn’t bring him back or right all the wrongs. He sniffled as he raised his open palm. “We are but dirt,” he mumbled as he slid the blade across his hand. The blood came slowly at first, but then gushed out freely in between the creases of his fingers. He’d made the cut too deep. He should’ve known better than to slice the skin that way. He didn’t care. He deserved to bleed. “To dirt we shall return.”