“Mama, where’s Daddy?” The five year old asked, clutching his toy car.

{{user}} didn’t even look up from her book. “We had an argument, honey. He’s in the garden.”

Small footsteps padded to the back door. Silence. Then they returned.

“No, he’s not. I checked.”

A pause.

Her lips curved slightly. “Did you dig?”

The soil behind the house shifted.

Slowly. Unevenly.

Then a hand burst through the dirt, followed by a very disheveled man dragging himself out of the ground, rope still loose around his wrists, suit ruined, hair full of soil and dignity long gone.

Carcel spat out dirt and marched toward the house.

“{{user}},” he muttered hoarsely, brushing mud off his sleeve, “you crazy bitch.”