Westcliffe leaned against the fence and observed his surroundings, left to right. Made sure there was no flickering light. Most people went to the cemetery in broad daylight, not at night. When the clouds sheltered the moonlight and brought the storm, he took his first step and climbed the fence. Climbing fences was not his forte. In fact, this was his first time. When he was ten feet up, the loose wires of the fence caught the tail of his raincoat. He tried to reach it, but it was beyond his grip unless he descended back to where he started. The harder he pulled, the tighter the raincoat hooked onto the wires.

Three miles to the right, alongside the fence, headlights appeared from the corner of the road. He knew he needed to get off the top of the fence fast, as he was like a sitting duck. Without any sign of the hook letting go of his raincoat, he was forced to unbutton the coat and throw himself to the mud. He grazed his knee upon landing. With a hand pressed to his mouth; he grimaced in silence while the car moved past him. Although his raincoat was hanging midway down the fence, he wasn't worried as the black raincoat was camouflaged in the darkness. In such tempestuous weather, it would be difficult for anyone to spot it.

He cleared his throat when the car vanished faster than it should under the pouring rain. As soon as everything turned dark, he stood; his soaking wet shirt covered in mud. He withdrew a half-torn paper from his pocket and scrutinized it. It was wet and the ink almost faded. With the letters in black ink, he searched for a glimmer of streetlight. Once it was legible, he brought the paper closer to his face and his lips moved with the letters written on it. East of the cemetery on the second to last row.

He dashed off with a shovel on his shoulder and in no time had reached the end of a straight path. The surrounding spooked him as he stood in the sea of headstones, especially alone, midnight. He quickened his strides and swung his restless gaze wildly. A slight splashing sound caught his attention.

Damn frog.

He shuffled between the headstones when he arrived at the east side of the cemetery. For the fifth time he grunted in pain as he stubbed his foot against the tiny square-lampposts dotted along the pathway. Another flash of lightning would be nice to illuminate the floor so he could walk faster without having to feel his way when most of the lampposts served no light.

On the headstones the lettering was badly worn and almost illegible. The night further limited his sight and left him with no choice but to wipe each headstone so he could read it. He apologized when it was not the headstone he was searching for.

"Gordon Thomas," he read on a clean headstone without lichen. He stuck the shovel beside the grave and closely inspected the headstone. "Forgive me," he said. He knew what he planned was not right and against any morals, but he had to. It was the only way to dig out the truth.

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Wiping the droplets of rain off his weather-beaten face, his haggard features and dim eyes became visible in the darkness. In a hollow voice, he apologized again and bowed. He dared not look back at the headstone while digging the grave. On his seventh strike, something rammed into him, knocking him to the wet dirt beside the grave.

"What are you doing?" shouted a man in a black coat. He snatched the shovel from the ground and refilled the hole without wasting a second.

Lightning flared and lit up the furious face of the man.

"Benson," he murmured. "Don't! I need to know the truth!" He jumped up and tried to snatch back the shovel from Benson.

With Benson's vast experience in self-defense during his career as a detective, he was able to dodge every attack launched on him. Benson grasped Westcliffe's shirt and pushed him away from the shovel. "Get yourself together!"

"I need to know the truth!" he yelled. The truth had haunted him for months and had maneuvered him into madness.

"I'll help you. Now let me—" Benson stepped back and observed Westcliffe for a second, assessing whether he had calmed down.

"No, you can't. You don't understand. This is the only way to confirm everything." He tried again to grab the shovel.

"He was your friend!"

The word stunned him, his childhood memory flashing back. How Gordon approached and sat beside him when he was marginalized by the others during school break.

"You won't find Herocus from a dead body." Benson added.

His eyes twitched and he stopped fighting to reach for the shovel. "I'm sorry." He wept, eyes averted from Benson and from Gordon's headstone. His action was unforgivable and the guilt clung to his heart, unrelenting.

"Look." Benson bent down and met his eyes. "I know you're worried about Adel. But I need you to tell me everything that happened between her and Herocus."

"Are you spying on me?" His tone was soft.

"What? No, no... I mean, yes, I followed you here. But it's not what you think… Look, I will help you to save Adel."

"How do you know that the next victim is Adel?"

"I only realized today. So here I am. I went to find you this evening, and saw you leaving the house." Benson continued patching up the grave.

"When is the date?" Westcliffe asked.

"What date?"

"It has already been six months, there are no leads, no whispers from Herocus. I have nothing but the burned marks on Adel's wrist. I want to know or maybe… prove... that the burned mark is just a minor injury. Not a mark from him." He wiped the tears from his cheek, or maybe it was just raindrops. "I... want to know whether Herocus is still alive. Can you tell me that he is dead?"

Benson let out an exasperated sigh and leaned on the shovel. He turned to face Westcliffe. "I'm sorry that Adel was chosen. But you have to know that you're not alone in this. Never were." Benson walked to him and extended the shovel to him. "You should go back home to Adel."

Go home?

How could he sleep when Adel was a constant reminder of the whisper? Knowing someone was going to die was hard, especially his loved one...

Benson squatted beside Westcliffe. "September 16."

"What?"

"The date."

Westcliffe checked the date on his illuminated watch. "Leaves a week for me to find the truth…"