"Buried up to my neck in my own backyard while pregnant, I listened as my husband laughed from the porch and called it “discipline.”

Late on the third afternoon, the steady, rhythmic chirping of the backyard cicadas is suddenly interrupted by an alien sound.

Clank-clank-clank.

The heavy iron gate at the side of our property swings open.

My heart leaps into my throat. For a terrifying second, I worry it’s one of Julian’s business associates, or worse, a neighbor coming to borrow a lawnmower who might stumble upon my buried head before I’m ready.

“Julian!” a crisp, authoritative female voice rings out across the lawn.

It’s Detective Sarah Miller.

My breath catches in the straw. Detective Miller is a veteran investigator with the county sheriff’s department. Two weeks ago, before Julian dragged me out here, I had managed to slip out of the house while he was at a golf outing and file an anonymous preliminary report regarding financial fraud and domestic intimidation. I gave her my burner phone number and told her that if I ever stopped answering, she needed to look very closely at the Blackwood estate.

“Sarah?” Julian’s voice sounds tight, suddenly strained as he bounds down the porch steps. “What are you doing here without an appointment?”

“I tried calling your cell twice, Julian,” Detective Miller’s footsteps crunch across the gravel pathway leading toward the back patio. “And Clara’s phone has gone straight to voicemail for seventy-two hours. Her sister in Chicago called the station this morning frantic because Clara missed her scheduled ultrasound checkup.”

Footsteps approach the edge of the grass. I can see the polished black toes of Miller’s boots standing just four feet away from my buried skull.

“Oh, Clara’s resting,” Eleanor chimes in smoothly from her rocking chair, her needles clicking together in a steady, unbothered rhythm. “She’s been having another one of her hysterical episodes. Pregnancy hormones, you know. She locked herself in the guest room and refuses to see anyone.”

“Really?” Miller’s voice sounds skeptical, cold. “Because last time we spoke, Clara told me she feared for her physical safety if you and Julian ever found out she was looking into your real estate transfers.”

“Clara makes up stories, Detective,” Julian says, his voice dropping into that smooth, reasonable baritone that has fooled judges and bank managers alike. “She’s unwell. We’re keeping her quarantined for her own protection until her doctor can adjust her medication.”

“I’d like to see her for myself, Julian,” Miller demands. “Open the guest house. Now.”

“You don't have a warrant, Sarah,” Julian replies, his tone hardening. “And I’m not having police officers barge into my home while my pregnant wife is having a nervous breakdown. You’re trespassing.”

A heavy, tense silence stretches across the yard.

My muscles scream in agony. My entire body is begging me to yell out, to scream “I’m right here! Dig me up!” But my rational mind slams the brakes. If I scream now, Julian might overpower Miller, drag me deeper, or spirit me away to some other location before the backup arrives.

Miller is trained. She knows the signs. I can hear the subtle shift in her weight as she scans the perimeter of the lawn—the freshly turned earth near the vegetable garden, the indentation of the pit, the strange, stagnant smell of damp soil hanging heavy in the summer heat.

“It smells awful out here,” Miller murmurs.

“That’s just the compost heap behind the garage,” Julian snaps quickly, his voice betraying a sudden, razor-thin edge of panic. “Now, I must ask you to leave my property, Detective. Unless you produce a signed magistrate’s warrant by sundown, I’m filing a formal complaint for harassment.”

Another pause. Long. Agonizing.

Then, the crunch of gravel as Detective Miller turns around.

“This isn't over, Julian,” her voice echoes back over her shoulder. “I’m getting a judge on the phone right now.”

The iron gate slams shut.

On the porch, Julian lets out a massive, shuddering breath of relief.

“Close call,” he mutters to Eleanor.

Down in the dark, my finger presses firmly against the phone screen in my pocket.