I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by despair, "John Garcia, it's over between us."
Nothing else mattered now; six of my family were gone.
John’s face showed a flicker of panic, but he quickly masked it with dismissiveness,
"Why are you being so irrational? Okay, I’ll drop the grudge. I'll tell my assistant to send the meds. Are you happy now?"
His voice was laced with sarcasm.
He pulled out his phone and hastily made a call to his assistant,
"James, get Emily the doses she needs—fast."
He ended the call before even waiting for a response, treating it like a mere formality.
He looked at me as though he had made a great sacrifice.
If only he had listened, he would have known they were already dead.
But he never really listened.
Overcome with rage, I slapped him.
"John Garcia, you're a monster."
I stormed down the mountain, fuming with rage.
I didn’t even want to see John Garcia’s face anymore.
But just ten minutes after I left, the cemetery's manager called. He said someone wanted to relocate my family's graves.
A sinking feeling hit me, and I ran back frantically.
The first thing I saw was a scene that made my blood run cold.
John Garcia was there, digging up my family's graves with a shovel!