He doesn't answer her. He doesn't even look like he can hear her voice. If he wants to watch her, that's fine. She isn't surprised to find the spade leaning up against the scarecrow. As if someone had placed it there, knowing she was coming. Knowing what she was looking for.

The depression in the earth is easily recognisable, when you know the signs. A body decomposes and leaves a cavity as the organic material is washed away. The ground sinks in on itself, and in the constant humidity, the faint scent of putrescine mingles with the smell of wet earth and green grass.

She's planted roses before. She knows how to dig a hole. The sharp blade bites into the mud, and she puts her foot on the back end, using her weight to turn up the first shovelful of earth. Decomposition stains the soil a darker shade, making it look richer. Good things are supposed to grow from soil like this, but no. She's uncovering a grave, here. Another shovelful, and another. It won't take much. Whoever interred this body did not bury the poor soul beneath very deep.