Seraphina #2
Shift that body to the sandy wastelands, and the coarse grains will thirstily drain away the moisture, starving the usual rot and leaving a hollow, dried shell behind, whereas fine, suffocating clay packs tightly around the remains to choke out oxygen and create a stagnant, slow-brewing pit of unique microbial decay.
Now Peat bogs are fascinating little places.
Cold. Waterlogged. Starved of oxygen. Most people think nature is always trying to erase the evidence, but peat bogs occasionally decide to do the exact opposite.
Instead of allowing the body to disappear, they preserve it.
Skin darkens into something almost leather-like.
Hair can remain. Even facial expressions sometimes linger, frozen for centuries as though the person simply closed their eyes for a nap and forgot to wake up.
Archaeologists adore them. I imagine detectives would have rather mixed feelings.
Nature has a peculiar sense of humour. Sometimes it hides your secrets and sometimes it keeps them forever. .
Every variable acts as an invisible puppeteer, where shifting temperatures either breathe furious life into the decay or paralyze it entirely, soil chemistry quietly melts away bone structure, and the vegetation above flares with sudden, unnatural growth, fuelled entirely by the rotting tragedy hidden just beneath the surface.
But in all seriousness, it depends on the killer whether they want the body found or not. Oh well, fun fact for the day.
Now writing a Character like Joey, on the other hand... She's much less patient than I am. Forty-nine bodies have yet to be recovered. So much research and she still complains that the research doesn’t help but evidence or lack thereof speaks for themselves.
Characters honestly, they're impossible to please. I shake my head as another bloom finds its way into the basket. Sometimes I think my readers worry about me more than they should. Every book tour ends the same way. Someone raises their hand. Tilts their heads and asks...
"How do you come up with these things?"
I always laugh. They always laugh. Then... For just a second…Neither of us is entirely sure whether I was joking. That's my favourite part. The uncertainty. After all, the safest place for monsters has always been inside stories.
Hasn't it?
I reached toward another branch as movement caught the corner of my eye. To the house next door, the front door opened then there he was.
I sighed.
Detective Elias Reed stepped onto the porch; one hand wrapped around a steaming mug while the other absentmindedly rubbed the sleep from the back of his neck.
His dark T-shirt clung to broad shoulders that looked as though they'd carried far more than moving boxes over the years.
Faded jeans. Heavy work boots. Hair that clearly hadn't agreed with the idea of a comb yet.
Somehow...It suited him.
He stood there for a moment, letting the cool morning air wake him properly before taking a slow sip of coffee, Max, however, had no interest in peaceful mornings.
The German Shepherd burst through the doorway like a furry missile, skidding across the porch before launching himself into the garden with all the grace of a runaway wardrobe.
A tennis ball bounced from his mouth. Once, twice then disappeared beneath a rose bush.
"Seriously?"
Elias sighed.
"I threw that yesterday."
Max barked once. Innocent. Entirely unconvincing.
"You know where it is."
Another bark.
"I can see you looking at it."
The shepherd shoved his nose beneath the rose bush before emerging triumphantly, tail swinging hard enough to water half the garden with morning dew.
"There we go."
Elias chuckled.
"Good boy."
That voice had absolutely no business sounding like that before seven in the morning. I blinked. Why did that sound so attractive? Gerald would have had a field day. Good thing he was still sulking inside. Max bounded back toward Elias, proudly presenting the slightly muddy tennis ball.
"You've murdered another one."
The dog sneezed.
"I suppose that's a confession."
Max leaned against his leg with the complete confidence of someone who knew he was incapable of doing anything wrong. Lucky. Very lucky. Elias crouched beside him, scratching behind one enormous ear.
"You're staying here today."
Max tilted his head.
"No."
"Yes."
A whine.
"I know."
Another whine.
"I'll only be gone a few hours."
Max sighed. Actually sighed. Drama queen. Elias smiled to himself.
"I know. I'd rather stay home too."
There it was again. That smile. It didn't stay long. Just enough to soften the sharpness around his eyes before disappearing as though he'd remembered he wasn't supposed to smile.
People smile with their mouths. Happy people smile with their eyes. His… Had forgotten how. Without thinking, I lifted my phone.
Click.
The camera caught him exactly as Max nudged his hand for another pat. Neither of them noticed. I looked down at the screen. The photograph wasn't remarkable. Just a man. Just a dog. Morning light spilling across the porch. Yet somehow… It felt like the beginning of something.
"That's going to be a painting one day."
Lily glanced up from the roses.
"He looks lonely."
I looked back at him. He did. Not the sort of lonely that came from being alone. The heavier kind. The sort people carried around inside them. The kind that unpacked before they did.
Max barked again, dragging Elias from whatever thought had stolen him away.
He laughed softly, tossed the ball across the garden, then disappeared back inside.
A few minutes later, the front door opened once more.
This time he emerged carrying a leather satchel over one shoulder and a ring of keys twirling around his finger.
"Come on, mate."
Max followed him to the truck. Another pat on the head.
Another quiet, "Be good."
The engine rumbled to life. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres as he backed carefully down the driveway. I watched until the truck disappeared around the bend.
Only then did I realise… I was still smiling. I tucked my phone into my pocket.
"That certainly isn't concerning."