into the dirt. “I’m always the one who’s gotta dig these things up.”
I peek through the cracks between the Angel’s wings. A thin guy, with frail arms and a pointy nose, stands in a hole, shoveling dirt. My journal is inches from the discarded dirt pile. One more scoop and my life thoughts will be buried.
“If I were you, Gregory, I’d watch my tone.” A tall figure hops from the roof of a small marble mausoleum and his long legs stretch as he strides toward the hole. His hair is as pale as the moon and his eyes are like ash. “I can easily find someone else to dig up the grave.”
Gregory mutters under his breath and scoops up a shovel full of dirt.
The taller one cups his ear. “What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
“Nothing,” Gregory mumbles and continues digging.
The other guy’s smile catches in the moonlight and my breath catches in my throat. His face is beautiful, but burdened with sadness and pain, as if he carries the world’s sorrows on his shoulders. I long to reach out and trace my fingers along his full lips, his firm jawline, and erase his pain.
The pages of my journal flutter in the breeze and he bends over and picks it up. I cringe with embarrassment, but then realize that he’s a guy who hangs out in a cemetery, digging up graves, so my penned words of death shouldn’t bother him. He flips through the pages and then pauses on one, studying it, then his eyes skim the cemetery. I crouch down and hold my breath as silence blankets the night, except for the shovel scratching the dirt.
“Where’d this come from?” he asks Gregory.
I peek through the feet of the Angel statue.
Gregory takes the notebook and turns it over. “I’m not sure…” He hands it back. “It says Ember Rose Edwards on the back.”
The tall figure runs his long fingers along my name. “Ember…” His hauntingly melodious voice envelops me and beckons me to move out from behind the statue. I start to step out.
“Hold it right there.” A pale orb of light beams over my shoulders and hits the grass in front of my feet.
I tense as the shovel stops cutting into the dirt and the night grows quiet, except for the hooting of an owl.
“Now slowly turn around,” a deep voice instructs and static cuts through a stereo. “I’m with the suspect now.”
Damn it. They’re going to think I was digging up the grave. This is not my first time getting into trouble, so they won’t go easy on me.
“I said, slowly turn around and keep your hands where I can see them,” the cop orders.
I shut my eyes and slowly elevate my hands to my sides.
“Good, now turn around slowly,” he says.
Yeah right. I sprint off across the graveyard, my legs moving as fast as they will go.
“She’s on the move,” he yells and the speaker statics.
My clunky boots rip against the grass as I hop and maneuver around the gravestones. The cop pursues me, his footsteps deafening, and the keys on his belt jingle. I speed up as the brick fence pierces my view and springing onto my toes, I leap for the top. My stomach slams against the edge and I quickly pull my legs up, but the cop grabs my boot and yanks on my leg.
“Don’t even think about it, you little punk.” He starts to haul me back to the ground by the leg. Images of his death course through me, thick and heavy. A sharp knife. Blood. His body falling to the ground.
I wiggle my foot, trying to slip it out of my boot, but his hands move higher up my leg, just below my knee. My fingertips scrape the brick as they dig down to hold onto the edge.
The cop’s fingers wrap around my other leg. “Just let—”
The cop abruptly releases my legs. My knee crashes into the fence. I scramble to the top and glance behind me. The cop lies unconscious on the grass. The tall, dark stranger stands over him, watching me. The dusky shadows of the trees dance across his face and his untamed eyes smolder like cinders.
“Ember.” His ghostly voice encircles around me like smoke.
I inch forward until the tips of my boots align with the ledge of the fence and my hand powerlessly reaches for him. I’m hypnotized by his beauty, the haunting sound of his voice, and I can’t seem to keep my hands to