I knew none of this as I cleared the final layer of soil.
The shovel struck wood and I dropped to my knees and brushed the dirt away from the lid, my heart pounding harder with every movement. The coffin was intact, its dark wood weathered but undisturbed, and the brass nameplate still bore my father's name.
I pried the lid open.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
My father lay inside, dressed in the black suit he'd worn at his funeral, his hands folded over his chest. His face had deteriorated with time, but there was no mistaking the body.
Richard Blackthorne was dead. He had never left that grave.
I stared at him, waiting for the impossible to happen, for his eyes to open or his mouth to form another cruel smile.
Nothing happened.
The wind moved through the oak branches above
