Buried As Me

POV: Mara Lane

The first thing I learned after dying was how easy it was to become invisible.

People imagine disappearing requires money, connections, fake passports, and a genius capable of erasing every digital footprint you have ever left behind.

It doesn’t.

Mostly, it requires discipline.

Don’t make friends who ask too many questions.

Don’t drink enough to accidentally tell someone where you grew up.

Don’t post photographs.

Don’t celebrate your birthday.

Don’t fall in love.

And, most importantly, never look over your shoulder.

Because eventually, someone will notice you are afraid of what is behind you.

For six years, I had followed those rules perfectly.

Until Monday morning.

I was walking toward the glass doors of Blackwell & Co. when I saw the car.

Black Mercedes.

Tinted windows.

Parked across the street.

There was nothing unusual about an expensive car sitting in the financial district. Half the men who worked in my building drove vehicles worth more than the apartment I rented.

But I had seen this one before.

Friday night.

Outside my apartment.

I stopped.

Only for a second.

A normal person might have stared.

A normal person might have checked whether someone was sitting inside.

A normal person might have pulled out their phone and taken a photograph of the licence plate.

But I hadn’t survived six years by behaving like a normal person.

I adjusted the strap of my handbag and kept walking.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

My pulse hammered harder with each step.

The revolving doors swallowed me into the lobby.

I didn’t look back.

“Morning, Mara.”

I nearly jumped.

The security guard behind the desk smiled at me.

“Morning, Frank.”

“You okay?”

“Monday.”

He laughed.

I smiled.

That was the trick.

Always smile.

People didn’t question women who smiled.

I tapped my security card against the elevator reader and stepped inside.

Thirty-eight floors.

My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall.

Brown hair twisted into a neat low bun. Cream blouse. Black pencil skirt. Small gold earrings.

Nothing memorable.

That had been intentional.

Six years ago, my hair had fallen nearly to my waist.

Six years ago, I wore red lipstick.

Diamonds.

Designer dresses.

Six years ago, photographers had followed my family to restaurants.

People knew my name.

Then I died.

And Mara Lane was born.

The elevator doors opened.

“Morning!” Sophie called from reception.

“Morning.”

I moved toward my desk, forcing myself not to glance toward the windows overlooking the street.

The Mercedes didn’t matter.

Cars looked alike.

Cities were crowded.

Coincidences happened.

That was what I told myself while switching on my computer.

That was what I told myself while typing my password incorrectly twice.

That was what I told myself when my hands started trembling.

“Mara?”

I looked up.

Sophie stood beside my desk holding a coffee.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I almost laughed.

Instead, I smiled.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

She handed me the coffee.

“You need this more than I do.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I expect you to save me from the Henderson report.”

“Consider this payment.”

“Exactly.”

She wandered back toward reception.

I wrapped both hands around the cup.

Warm.

Solid.

Real.

I breathed.

I was Mara Lane.

Twenty-eight years old.

Born in Perth.

Parents deceased.

No siblings.

Moved to the city five years ago.

Worked at Blackwell & Co. for three years.

Liked black coffee and Thai food.

Hated reality television.

Had never been engaged.

Had never owned a horse.

Had never watched my father bleed to death on white marble flooring.

My throat tightened.

Stop.

I opened my emails.

Eight forty-seven.

Client enquiries.

Reports.

Meeting notes.

Normal.

Normal was safety.

I had spent six years building normal.

At nine fifteen, Sophie appeared again.

This time she wasn’t smiling.

“Mara?”

Something cold crawled down my spine.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Blackwell wants to see you.”

My fingers stopped above the keyboard.

“Now?”

She nodded.

I glanced toward the hallway leading to the executive offices.

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

That didn’t make sense.

I worked in compliance.

Sebastian Blackwell owned the company.

There were approximately three hundred employees between us on the corporate food chain.

I had spoken to him four times in three years.

Five, if I counted the Christmas party when he had taken the champagne glass from my hand before I knocked it onto an investor’s wife.

I remembered that moment more clearly than I should have.

His fingers had brushed mine.

His eyes had held mine for half a second too long.

Dark.

Unreadable.

Dangerously observant.

I had avoided him ever since.

“When did he ask?” I said.

Sophie frowned.

“About thirty seconds ago.”

I looked toward Sebastian’s office.

Glass walls.

Closed door.

Blinds drawn.

My heartbeat changed.

Slow.

Heavy.

Wrong.

“Did I do something?”

“If you did, pretend you didn’t.”

“Helpful.”

“I try.”

I stood.

My knees felt strangely weak.

It was ridiculous.

This was work.

Maybe a report had an error.

Maybe a client had complained.

Maybe he wanted someone moved onto a new account.

There were dozens of ordinary reasons for Sebastian Blackwell to request a meeting.

I walked down the hallway repeating them in my head.

Report.

Client.

Promotion.

Audit.

Report.

Client.

Promotion.

Audit.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice travelled through the door like velvet wrapped around steel.

I stepped inside.

Sebastian Blackwell sat behind his desk.

Every time I saw him, I was reminded that some men seemed born with the kind of face people trusted even when every instinct warned them not to.

He was thirty-three.

Maybe thirty-four.

I had never cared enough to check.

That was a lie.

I knew he was thirty-four.

I knew he had taken over Blackwell & Co. seven years ago after his father died.

I knew he rarely gave interviews.

I knew he lived somewhere outside the city behind gates tall enough to discourage curiosity.

I knew women watched him when he entered rooms.

I understood why.

Sebastian had dark hair that never seemed as carefully styled as the rest of him, strong features, broad shoulders, and eyes so dark they were almost black.

Today, his charcoal suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair.

White shirt.

Sleeves rolled to his forearms.

No tie.

Something about the casualness made him more intimidating.

“Close the door, Mara.”

My stomach dropped.

I closed it.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

His eyebrow lifted.

The corner of his mouth shifted.

Almost amused.

“Do I make you nervous?”

“No.”

Another lie.

“You’re gripping your handbag like there’s a weapon inside it.”

My fingers loosened instantly.

There wasn’t a weapon inside it.

Not anymore.

“I have reports due.”

“They can wait.”

“Mr. Blackwell—”

“Sebastian.”

I stared at him.

He leaned back.

“Three years working for me and you still call me Mr. Blackwell.”

“You’re my employer.”

“Technically, your employer is Blackwell & Co.”

“You own Blackwell & Co.”

His gaze remained on mine.

“You always have an answer.”

“I’m in compliance.”

“That explains everything.”

Despite myself, I almost smiled.

Then I noticed the blinds.

Every one of them closed.

The glass walls usually made his office visible to half the floor.

Not today.

My instincts screamed.

I moved slightly toward the door.

Sebastian noticed.

Of course he did.

“What is this about?”

His expression changed.

The faint amusement disappeared.

He reached into his desk drawer.

My muscles tensed.

Then he placed an envelope on the desk.

Cream.

Old.

Not office stationery.

“What’s that?”

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mara.”

Something in his voice made me obey.

I sat.

Sebastian pushed the envelope across the desk.

I didn’t touch it.

“I need you to look at something.”

“If this is related to work—”

“It isn’t.”

My pulse stumbled.

“Then I don’t understand why I’m here.”

“You will.”

He opened the envelope himself.

Pulled out a photograph.

Placed it face down.

My breathing became shallow.

There was no reason.

No reason at all.

But suddenly I knew.

Not what was on the photograph.

Only that whatever happened next was going to destroy the life I had built.

Sebastian’s fingers rested against the edge of the picture.

“Before I show you this,” he said, “I need you to understand something.”

I stared at him.

“I’m not going to the police.”

Ice slid through my veins.

“What?”

“The police aren’t involved.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know.”

“You know what?”

He studied me.

Not Mara Lane.

Me.

The woman beneath her.

I stood abruptly.

“I have work to do.”

He flipped the photograph.

My body stopped.

Everything stopped.

My breath.

My thoughts.

My heart.

It was a funeral.

Rain fell over a cemetery crowded with black umbrellas.

Flowers surrounded a polished mahogany coffin.

White roses.

Hundreds of them.

I remembered those roses.

My mother loved white roses.

She had insisted they cover the coffin because they represented purity.

A sick joke, considering the family we came from.

I stared at the photograph.

Six years disappeared.

I smelled rain.

Wet earth.

Lilies.

I heard church bells.

Except I hadn’t been there.

I had watched the funeral from a motel room two hundred kilometres away while the news broadcast showed my mother collapsing beside my coffin.

My empty coffin.

My fingers went numb.

No.

No, no, no.

I looked closer.

There were people surrounding the grave.

My mother.

My uncle.

Men I recognised.

Men I had spent six years trying to forget.

But that wasn’t what Sebastian wanted me to see.

Near the back stood a man without an umbrella.

Tall.

Black suit.

Rain soaking his hair.

His face was younger, but unmistakable.

Sebastian.

My gaze snapped to him.

He was watching me.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

“What is this?”

“You recognise it.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“It looks like a funeral.”

“It was.”

I forced myself to laugh.

The sound came out wrong.

“You called me up here to show me a photograph of a funeral?”

“Your funeral.”

My stomach turned.

“I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“No.”

“My name is Mara Lane.”

“I know what your name is now.”

“Now?”

Sebastian rose.

Slowly.

He came around the desk.

I backed away.

“Stay away from me.”

He stopped.

His eyes dropped briefly to my hands.

They were shaking.

Damn it.

“Mara—”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think.”

“Then you’re insane.”

“Possibly.”

I reached for the door.

His next words stopped me.

“Don’t go home tonight.”

My hand froze on the handle.

I looked at him.

“What?”

“Someone was outside your apartment on Friday.”

The room tilted.

Black Mercedes.

My mouth went dry.

“How do you know where I live?”

“Because this didn’t start this morning.”

“What didn’t?”

He stepped closer.

I hated the way my body registered him even while fear crawled through me.

His height.

The heat of him.

The faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne.

Danger shouldn’t have been attractive.

Sebastian Blackwell made it difficult to remember that.

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” he said.

“You have thirty seconds before I call security.”

“You won’t.”

“You seem very sure.”

“Because security works for me.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“You’re threatening me?”

“No.”

His gaze held mine.

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

I laughed again.

“Very funny.”

His expression didn’t change.

“You saw the Mercedes.”

Every drop of blood drained from my face.

He knew.

Sebastian reached into his pocket.

For one insane second, I thought he might touch me.

Instead, he removed his phone.

He unlocked it.

Turned the screen toward me.

A photograph filled it.

My apartment building.

Friday night.

The black Mercedes parked across the road.

My skin prickled.

He swiped.

Another photograph.

Me leaving my apartment yesterday morning.

Another.

Me buying groceries.

Another.

Me standing on my balcony.

Taken from somewhere across the street.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Where did you get these?”

“They were delivered to me.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would someone send photographs of me to you?”

“That is one of the questions I intend to answer.”

I stared at the screen.

The final photograph appeared.

My front door.

Close enough that whoever had taken it had been standing in the hallway outside my apartment.

There was something taped to the door.

A small white card.

I enlarged the image.

Two words.

FOUND YOU.

My knees nearly gave way.

Sebastian caught my arm.

I ripped away from him.

“Don’t touch me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not your enemy.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“I expect you to survive long enough to decide for yourself.”

I stared at him.

Six years.

Six years of fake documents.

Fake history.

Fake memories.

Six years without saying my mother’s name aloud.

Without visiting my father’s grave.

Without letting anyone close enough to realise Mara Lane hadn’t existed before twenty-two.

And Sebastian Blackwell had just destroyed all of it in less than ten minutes.

My gaze returned to the funeral photograph.

Something bothered me.

I stepped closer.

Sebastian watched silently.

I picked up the picture.

Rain.

Coffin.

Flowers.

My family.

Sebastian.

I turned it over.

There was handwriting on the back.

Black ink.

Fresh.

One sentence.

She should have stayed dead.

My fingers released the photograph.

It fell onto the desk.

“What do you want from me?”

Sebastian’s gaze lowered to the photograph before returning to my face.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to stop pretending.”

My chest tightened.

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“You’ve been pretending for six years.”

I moved toward the door again.

He didn’t stop me.

That frightened me more.

My fingers closed around the handle.

Then Sebastian spoke.

Quietly.

Almost gently.

“Go home if you want.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“But before you do, you should know that whoever took those photographs knows Mara Lane is a lie.”

The room felt colder.

“And you?”

His gaze met mine.

For the first time since I entered, I saw something beneath the control.

Recognition.

Something darker.

Something personal.

Sebastian reached down, picked up the photograph of my funeral, and tapped one finger against the coffin.

“So,” he said softly, “should I call you Mara…”

My heart stopped.

“…or Elena?”

My real name sounded like a gunshot.

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Nobody had called me Elena Caruso in six years.

Nobody living was supposed to know where Elena Caruso had gone.

Sebastian leaned against the edge of his desk, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then he delivered the words that shattered what remained of my carefully constructed life.

“Personally, I think the name engraved on your tombstone suits you better.”