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The beam of phone light illuminated the space.

The interior was exactly as I remembered: a double bed with a sagging mattress in one corner, its thin blanket a patchwork of pretty flowers that Alice had loved.

A tiny table and two mismatched chairs were pushed against the wall with a rusty kerosene lantern in the middle.

Fishing and crabbing gear hung from hooks near the door.

Using matches next to the lantern, I touched the flame to the wick, and the shack took on a warm glow.

In the tiny kitchen, I opened a cabinet. A few tins of food lined the shelves . . . baked beans, tuna, peaches. I moved to the fridge, pulling the door open. It wasn’t running, but inside, five bottles of XXXX beer still sat on the racks.

I grabbed one, twisting off the cap. The warm, bitter liquid burned pleasantly as it slid down my throat, and by the time I’d drained half the bottle in one go, the tension in my chest had eased enough for my thoughts to sharpen again.

With the beer in hand, I stepped outside. The moonlight cast a soft glow over everything, giving enough light to see all the way to the ocean. Crossing the small patch of grass, I was surprised to see the hammock still hanging between two leaning trees, its fabric weathered but stubbornly intact.

We’d strung it up together twenty years ago. I could almost feel the warmth of those long afternoons, the two of us swaying gently in the breeze, our sun-kissed skin cooling as we lost ourselves in our books.

I pushed the memory aside and made my way to the narrow strip of sand. The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, untouched and pristine. Rocks jutted up from the shallow water like the backs of resting turtles.

The sight tugged at a memory, pulling it to the surface. Alice and I had stood in this very spot, watching a sea turtle lumber her way up the sand to lay her eggs. Alice’s eyes had sparkled as she’d stayed with that turtle for hours.

Moments like that had been rare. Too rare. And now, they were gone.

She was gone.

“How can I live without you, Alice?”

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the moonlit beach.

I blinked them away and took another sip of the beer, forcing down the bitter warmth as I stared out at the ocean.

The waves were small, rolling into the shore like liquid whispers, their rhythm soothing in a way that felt at odds with the storm raging inside me.

How had it come to this? Decades together, only to end like this—both of us alone. The hell we’d fought through, the punches we’d taken, the bastards who’d tried to break us .

“Maybe I should write it all down,” I murmured. As I took another sip of the beer, the idea grew clearer with every heartbeat. “That’s what I’ll do. Detail everything. Every person I killed. Where I buried them. Why they deserved it.”

I nodded to myself, the resolve settling into place.

I didn’t give a shit whether or not the world understood me, but I wanted them to know what they did to us .

. . especially Alice. She wanted that. She’d hated the secrets.

They’d eaten away at her. Maybe writing it all down would finally set her free.

I wish I could see their faces when they read my notes. Let them call me a monster. Let them choke on their outrage. But what did that make the bastards who had violated us while hiding behind their spotless reputations? They were monsters long before I ever became one.

It’s time their families knew. It’s time the whole world knew exactly who they are . . . and the cowards who helped bury their vile crimes.

I returned to the shack and sat the empty beer bottle on the top step. The kerosene lamp inside cast a dim glow through the window, the flickering flame pulsing like a heartbeat.

I squatted by Alice’s body and rested my hand on her shoulder, hating how rough the tarp was beneath my palm. I inhaled a shaky breath.

“The beach is still perfect, Alice. Just like we left it.” My throat tightened, but I smiled through it. “You’re going to have the best view for the rest of eternity.”

A chuckle escaped me, soft and bitter. “And guess what? I’m finally going to write down our story. Every last bit of it.”

I straightened, and my knees protested the movement as I stepped inside the shack. I grabbed the tiny table and carried it out to the back porch, setting it so I could write and watch Alice and the view. The night air was cool, and the moonlight and waves were perfect.

In the kitchen, I opened the bottom drawer, which used to hold maps, fishing guides, and a takeout menu from the local shop, and the one thing I needed .

. . a notepad and a pen. The top page had a list of contact numbers scrawled on it: the local store, the shack’s owner, a local fisherman. Ambulance and the cops.

“I won’t be needing them.” I chuckled.

I tore off that page, tossing it aside, then grabbed the pen, another beer, and the lantern and took them outside.

Now for the shovel. It had better still be there.

I walked around the side of the deck where the weeds brushed against my legs and found the shovel leaning against the shack, next to the hose and water tank. It was like it hadn’t been moved since I’d put it there. The wooden handle was weathered by time, and the blade was covered in rust.

This had better bloody work . . . because I didn’t have a plan B.

As I carried the shovel back to the steps, I pictured Alice laughing as we buried fish heads and crab shells in the sand with her long blonde hair blowing wild from the sea breeze.

“It’s like we’re feeding the beach,” she’d said, grinning. “We take, and we give back. Balance.”

I smiled at the memory, yet a pang of loss stabbed through me. Gripping the shovel, I headed back toward the beach.

The middle of the night was the perfect time to dig a grave. The air was cool, and the moonlight gave me all the light I needed. Digging this grave would take hours, but that didn’t bother me. I’d dug plenty of graves in my life.

I found the perfect spot just beyond the shack, at the edge of the sand, overlooking the water. Alice would have liked it here.

I pushed the shovel into the ground, grateful that the earth was soft. But as I leaned into the motion, my back spasmed, sharp and unforgiving as searing pain shot up my spine.

Gasping, tears sprang to my eyes. “Fuck!”

I gripped the shovel for support, my breaths coming shallow and uneven. The tears spilled down my cheeks, but I didn’t wipe them away.

“Goddamn it, Alice,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice cracking. “I can’t believe I’m burying you for a second time.”

Saying it out loud shattered something deep inside me, and my sobs came fast and hard, tearing through me like a storm. They hollowed me out, leaving me trembling, gasping for air, consuming me with anger and a sorrow so deep it felt endless.

I crumbled onto the sand, and as grief crushed me, I howled—a raw, guttural sound that ripped from the depths of my soul. Just like I’d howled the day we found out Alice’s cancer had returned. Just like I’d howled the day she made me put an end to her pain.

The grief tore through me, wild and uncontrollable. But, as it always did, the tears slowed, the sobs softened, and silence settled over me.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, dragging myself upright. My legs wobbled beneath me, and I leaned on the shovel for support, heaving a shaky, uneven breath.

“Get it together.” I moaned.

Gripping the shovel, I steadied my stance and dug. Again. And again. And again. Each thrust of the blade into the earth felt like both a punishment and a release.

When the pain in my back and shoulders flared to unbearable, I retreated to the porch.

Slumping into the chair, I wiped the sweat and tears from my face with trembling hands.

My body ached, but my mind was a red-hot mess of dates and names of bastards and the evil things they’d done to us. And how I’d eliminated them.

I reached for the pen with stiff, aching fingers and pulled the notepad closer.

“Here we go, Alice,” I muttered. “The story of our lives.”

The first words came easily as if they had been waiting for this moment all along:

This is a story about love.

And monsters.