Nick tried to convince Maggie to stay in the Jeep. They had stopped the bleeding for now, but there was no telling how much blood she had already lost. She could barely stand on her own, had completely lost all color in her face. Perhaps she was delusional, too.

“You don’t understand, Nick,” she continued to argue with him.

He was ready to pick her up and throw her into the Jeep. It was bad enough that she wouldn’t let him drive her to the hospital.

“I’ll go check what’s in the stupid crate,” he said finally. “You wait here.”

“Nick, wait.” She dug her fingers into his arm, wincing with pain. “It may be Timmy.”

“What?”

“Inside the crate.”

The realization struck him like a fist. He leaned against the Jeep’s hood, suddenly weak in the knees.

“Why would he do that?” he managed to say, though his throat strangled the words. He didn’t want to imagine Timmy stuffed into a crate. Timmy, dead. Yet, hadn’t he already thought that? “That’s not his style.”

“Whatever is in the crate might be for my benefit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember the last note? If he knows about Stucky, he may have resorted to Stucky’s habits. Nick, it could be Timmy inside that crate. And if it is, it isn’t something you should see.”

He stared at her. Blood and dirt streaked her face. More dirt and cobwebs filled her hair. Those beautiful full lips held tight against the pain. Those soft, smooth shoulders slouched from the effort to hold herself up. And still, she wanted to protect him.

He turned on his heel and stomped back up the hill.

“Nick, wait.”

He ignored her calls. Surely she wouldn’t—couldn’t—follow without his assistance.

He hesitated at the steps Maggie had uncovered. Then forced himself back down into the earth. The entire space reeked with the stifling smell. He found a steel rod and Maggie’s revolver, which he slid into his jacket pocket. Then he tucked the rod and flashlight under his arm and hoisted the crate, lugging it slowly up the steps. His muscles screamed at him to put it down. He ignored them until he was out of the hellhole, until he could breathe fresh air again.

Maggie was there, waiting, leaning against a headstone. She was even more pale.

“Let me,” she insisted, reaching for the rod.

“I can do this, Maggie.” He shoved the rod under the lid and started pumping up and down. The nails screeched and echoed in the silent darkness. Even with the breeze and in the cold the smell of death overpowered all other senses. Once the lid snapped free, he hesitated again. Maggie came beside him, reached around him and pulled open the lid.

Both of them took a step backward, but it wasn’t because of the odor. Tucked carefully inside and wrapped in a white cloth was the small, delicate body of Matthew Tanner.