Are you about finished?” Alistair asked. He perched on a gravestone, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded over his knee.
Matheus straightened, spine cracking. He rubbed the small of his back, and glared at Alistair.
“This would go faster if you’d help me,” he said. Mud coated his hands, extending up to his elbows. He had enough dirt under his fingernails to grow petunias.
“I’d rather stick burning needles into my eyes,” said Alistair, smiling sweetly.
“Prick.” Matheus bent over the trench he’d carved in the semi-frozen ground. Beside him lay Bianca’s corpse, wrapped in the sleeping bag. He stabbed a stick into the dirt, loosening the earth enough to scoop out armfuls. A small mound sat next to the trench, tiny trickles of dirt leaking into the shallow trench.
Alistair hummed, foot swinging back and forth. “Do you plan on finishing before sunrise, or were you going to follow your beloved murderess into the great beyond?”