Tangled In Time

The Weight Of Truth

Neville shuffled toward the door, his steps hesitant and heavy, like a man walking to the gallows. Blake stayed close behind, his presence an unspoken threat. My dad lingered by the door, his face a mix of confusion and quiet rage, the cricket bat still gripped tightly in his hands. He glanced at me briefly, but said nothing, his focus returning to Neville.

I followed them outside, the rain slamming against my skin and chilling me to the bone. The flashlight my dad had grabbed from the cottage illuminated a narrow path through the woods, the beam bouncing off twisted branches and rain-slick leaves. Neville trudged ahead, his head low, muttering under his breath, his hunched posture betraying his fear.

"Keep moving," Blake barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

Neville stumbled over a root, cursing softly. He turned to glare at Blake, but the cold, unyielding expression on Blake's face made him think twice. He turned back without a word and kept moving.

We reached the clearing where the old swing hung from the gnarled oak tree, its ropes frayed, its wooden seat dark and slick with rain. Neville stopped abruptly, his shoulders shaking as he pointed a trembling hand toward a patch of earth beneath the swing. "There," he croaked. "She's there."

Blake stepped forward, his flashlight sweeping over the ground. The soil was uneven, the disturbances subtle but unmistakable. My stomach churned, nausea rising as the reality of Neville's confession set in.

"Get down and start digging," Blake ordered, his voice cutting through the storm like a blade.

Neville's head snapped up, his face twisted with panic. "What? No! You can't make me—"

Blake grabbed Neville by the front of his shirt, pulling him so close their noses almost touched. "You buried her," Blake snarled through gritted teeth. "You dig her up. Or so help me, I'll make sure you regret every second you're still breathing."

Neville's eyes darted wildly, looking for some kind of escape, but there was none. Slowly, with a pitiful whimper, he dropped to his knees and began clawing at the wet earth with his hands. The rain turned the soil to thick, clinging mud, making the process slow and messy, but Neville didn't stop.

Blake stood over him, his flashlight trained on the ground, his expression hard as stone. I stayed frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from the horror unfolding before me. My dad stepped closer, his free hand resting on my shoulder, a quiet reassurance amidst the chaos.

"You don't need to see this," he murmured.

But I couldn't move. The storm raged around us, the wind howling through the trees, as Neville's hands dug deeper into the mud. Each scoop of soil he unearthed felt like another brick added to the weight pressing on my chest. This wasn't just a grotesque display—it was the truth laid bare, and it was more than I could bear.

The rain hammered relentlessly as Neville's trembling hands clawed at the mud, his breaths ragged and panicked. The sound of the storm filled the clearing, thunder rumbling above as if punctuating every scrape of his fingers against the wet earth. Blake loomed over him, flashlight steady, his presence an unyielding force.

My dad stood a few feet back, the cricket bat still clutched in his hands, his knuckles white. His expression was a storm of confusion and quiet fury, his gaze darting between Neville, Blake, and me. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I don't know what the hell is going on," he said, his voice tight, cutting through the sound of the rain. "But when this is over, someone better start explaining."

Blake didn't even glance at him, his eyes locked on Neville, who froze at the sound of my dad's voice. Neville's trembling hands hesitated, his muddy fingers hovering above the ground.

"I can't do this!" Neville stammered, his voice rising in desperation. "It's—it's too much. I need—"

Before he could finish, my dad turned on his heel, muttering under his breath. He disappeared into the darkness of the woods, leaving me standing in the cold rain, my chest tight with anxiety. Neville glanced after him, his body tensing as if he might make a break for it, but Blake stepped closer, his shadow falling over Neville.

"You're not going anywhere," Blake said, his voice sharp and commanding. "Get back to work."

Neville whimpered but resumed digging, his movements sluggish and clumsy. Every handful of mud seemed to take an eternity to dislodge, the rain soaking the ground into a thick, clinging mess.

A few minutes later, my dad returned, carrying two spades slung over his shoulder. He handed one to Blake without a word and planted the other in the ground near Neville. He gave me a pointed look, his face set with grim determination.

"Go inside, Felicity," he said. "This isn't something you should be seeing."

"I'm staying," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. I wrapped my arms around myself, the rain soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone. "I need to see this through."

My dad hesitated, his gaze softening for a moment before he nodded. He turned toward Blake. "Let's make this faster."

Blake nodded, gripping the spade tightly. Neville shrank back, his hands still in the mud, but my dad's glare stopped him from saying anything. Together, Blake and my dad began digging, the spades cutting into the earth with heavy, deliberate strokes. The rain made the task slow and grueling, the mud sticking to their boots and tools, but they worked in silence, their movements relentless.

The sound of a door creaking open behind us made me turn. My mum stood on the porch of the cottage, a large umbrella shielding her from the storm. Her face was a mixture of concern and confusion as she called out, "What's going on? Why are you all out there in this weather?"

"Annabelle, go back inside," my dad said, his voice sharp but not unkind. He didn't stop digging, the spade hitting the ground with a dull thud. "I'll explain everything later."

"But—"

"Go back inside!" he barked, louder this time, his tone leaving no room for argument.

My mum hesitated, her eyes darting between us, before she slowly stepped back into the house, closing the door behind her. I let out a shaky breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The storm seemed to grow louder, the wind howling through the trees as Blake and my dad continued their grim work.

After what felt like an eternity, Blake's spade hit something solid. He stopped, his breath fogging in the cold air as he crouched down, wiping the mud away with his hands. My dad followed suit, the flashlight illuminating a pale, weathered bundle wrapped in tattered fabric.

Blake's fingers trembled as he pulled the fabric back, revealing the skeletal remains beneath. A rusted locket dangled from a delicate chain, catching the weak light. The sight of it made my stomach churn, bile rising in my throat.

Neville let out a choked sob behind us, his hands covering his face. "I didn't mean for it to—"

"Stop talking," Blake snapped, his voice shaking with restrained fury. He stood slowly, the locket dangling from his fingers, his gaze locked on Neville. "You buried her here, alone, like she meant nothing. And now you want to justify it?"

Neville shook his head frantically, his words spilling out in a panicked rush. "She was gone! There was nothing I could do! I—I was scared! What would people say?"

Blake's knuckles whitened around the locket. "You didn't even try to help her," he said through gritted teeth. "You didn't even care enough to give her a shred of dignity."

My dad stepped back, his shoulders stiff as he watched the exchange. His voice, quieter but no less steady, broke the silence. "We're calling the police. This ends now."