The rain hadn't stopped.
The scent of damp earth clung to the night air as Officer Lyne stepped forward through the mud, removing his soaked police cap and fixing his stern gaze on the group gathered near the disturbed grave.
Aside from Peter, three other men had helped lower the coffin earlier that day: Louis's two strapping nephews and his younger brother, Martin.
Lyne addressed them directly. "Gentlemen, was there anything unusual during the burial? Anything that seemed... off?"
Martin, the younger brother, shook his head. One of the nephews spoke up. "I don't think so. We carried the coffin to the grave, like usual. Father Norma—sorry, the officiant—was waiting by the hearse with his son. Big guy. Everything seemed normal."
Lyne exhaled heavily, brushing rain off his brow.
"What's happening now certainly isn't normal," he said darkly. "Smallville hasn't seen anything like this in years. Someone stealing a body—that's no petty crime."
His eyes flicked toward Peter, narrowing.
"Patrick, anything to add?"
Peter met his gaze and shook his head. "No. I didn't see anything strange."
"Is that so…" Lyne stepped closer, muddy boots squelching in the wet grass. "Walmart shooting. Six years ago. Still open. Still unsolved."
Peter's brows furrowed. "You're still investigating that?"
"I don't stop until I find the killer," Lyne said evenly, then turned away, slipping his hat back on.
Peter watched him retreat with narrowed eyes, uneasy. The officer's words rang louder than the storm itself.
---
Later That Night
Peter drove his cousin's family home in his black Toyota SUV, the windshield wipers pushing away sheets of rain.
In the back seat, Louis sat in a trance, barely reacting to the bouncing motion of the car. His eyes were hollow, vacant—the look of a man trying to stay conscious while his world slipped further from reality.
Vanessa sat beside him, hands clasped tightly, eyes flicking toward her husband with deep concern. She looked as though she wanted to speak... but didn't.
Peter glanced at them in the mirror.
"I'm sorry this happened," he said quietly.
"I'm fine, Peter," Louis murmured. "Thanks for driving us."
Louis tried to offer a smile, but it faltered.
After a long silence, he asked, "How's John? I mean… Adam."
Peter smiled faintly. "He's alright. Already asleep when I left."
"You're a good father," Louis said with a sigh. "Adam isn't your blood, but you've raised him as your own. I heard you even put your own marriage on hold for him."
Peter didn't reply at first.
What was he supposed to say? That marriage meant little when you could outlive nations?
With his immortality, Peter would still look thirty when Adam hit fifty.
"I've got time," Peter said casually. "Plenty of time."
Ten minutes later, Peter pulled into his cousin's driveway.
---
Inside Louis's House
The warmth of the house was comforting, but couldn't chase away the tension.
Louis handed Peter a hot mug of coffee while Vanessa fetched herself a glass of water. The living room was dimly lit, quiet except for the ticking of an old wall clock.
"I believe the police will get to the bottom of it," Peter said, settling into the couch.
"I hope you're right," Louis replied, cracking open a can of beer.
Then, unprompted, he began to talk.
"It's my fault, Peter," he whispered, eyes on the floor. "If I'd been watching Terry closer... he might not have run into the road."
Peter held up a hand. "Don't do that to yourself. You'll tear yourself apart."
Louis exhaled sharply. "Terry was six. You know what he was like? Curious. Thoughtful. Always asking if angels had birthdays. Always inventing weird games…"
The man's voice trembled.
He continued talking—recounting warm, heartfelt memories of Terry: chasing fireflies in the backyard, building Lego fortresses, drawing superheroes with capes too long to fit on paper. Moments Peter never got to have with Adam.
Peter sat in silence, letting the man speak, though his patience was running thin. The stories were sweet but endless, and his instincts were nudging at him—telling him something was wrong.
He was just about to excuse himself when—
Clatter!
The beer can fell to the floor with a metallic ring.
Peter turned just in time to see Louis slump sideways in his chair—passed out cold.
Peter stood.
The tension returned instantly.
Something felt... off.
He looked toward the front door, then stepped outside onto the lawn.
Rain still pattered lightly over the grass.
Peter's sharp senses picked up a subtle but distinct trail—the lawn was flattened in a single direction, as though something had been dragged across it. And scattered specks of moist soil, thick with a fishy, iron-like odor, were sprinkled over the grass.
Peter crouched and sniffed.
This dirt wasn't from Louis's backyard.
It was cemetery soil.
The trail led back to the house.
Peter's expression turned grim.
---
Inside Again
He entered quietly, boots wet on the wooden floor.
Louis was still passed out. Vanessa was nowhere in sight.
Following the scent trail like a hound, Peter made his way upstairs.
The odor changed—sharper now. Like overripe fruit. The scent of decomposition just beginning.
He passed the guest room, then paused outside the master bathroom.
The door creaked open.
Behind the shower curtain, a strange shadow swayed.
Peter yanked the curtain aside—
Nothing but a canvas, muddied and stained.
But the smell was undeniable.
Peter's brow furrowed.
It was the burial canvas—the one Terry's body had been wrapped in before being placed in the coffin.
He turned toward the window just as lightning illuminated the night sky, lighting his face with eerie clarity.
Whoever stole the body had brought it here.
And not just anyone…
It had to be someone in the house.
Peter's mind whirred.
Could it be Louis?
He seemed broken—grieving, yes, but truly lost in sorrow. His emotions weren't fake.
Which left—
Vanessa.
Peter stepped out of the bathroom.
The trail was still faint, but growing clearer.
He followed it down the hallway, toward the far end of the second floor.
---
Storage Room – 2nd Floor
Inside the small, dusty storage room, Vanessa stood motionless, her back to the door.
Her hands trembled.
She clutched a dagger, a kitchen blade she had snuck upstairs earlier, hidden in her sleeve.
Behind her on the floor, wrapped in a new canvas but unmistakably cold and lifeless, was the body of her son.
She had dug him up with her own hands.
The very act had broken her—yet now, another fear consumed her:
Peter was coming.
His footsteps approached slowly, echoing off the hallway like a grim countdown.
She gripped the dagger tighter.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
She didn't want to hurt anyone. But she couldn't let him find out.
Couldn't let the police take her son again.
Couldn't let them bury him like trash, like something to be forgotten.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Peter's footsteps stopped outside the door.
She froze.
Thump-thump-thump—her heartbeat crashed in her chest like thunder.
The doorknob turned.
Click.
Peter was about to step in.
Vanessa raised the blade, her fing
ers shaking, teeth clenched, every instinct screaming—
Don't let him open that door.
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