Lila and Thomas
Lila reached for the shovel, but it wasn't there. She'd left it leaning against the wall of the shed. "Thomas must have it," she said. Had Thomas seen what she'd been burying? "Stupid cunt," she said. "I should have considered that. Thomas might just be in trouble." She was burying all the video tapes. She was too much afraid to destroy them. She would bury them, and keep the secret.
The sky was scarlet on the western edge and black behind her as she stormed toward the cabin. They lived on a solar farm, and in the field the collectors were all angled up to catch the very last glimpse of the sun, the edges raised in black triangles for acres.
Thomas was inside, enjoying a slab of meat slathered in a speckled white gravy. "Hey doll."
"Yo." Lila flung herself into a chair and grabbed the bottle of whisky. "I'm missing my shovel. I was using it."
"I don't know." Thomas chewed. "Fix a plate to eat, hon."
She poured a short glass of whisky and drank it, got up to get the food. "I was working on something."
"What was you doing?"
"Did you use the shovel?"
"I ain't used shit. Now eat."
Lila had video-taped the death of a child, had not interceded, had not saved the kid, just watched her totter on the edge of the pool, slip in and drown, and had not put down the camera.
Lila was feeling anxious, these weeks, about that.
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