The porch light caught the dark circles beneath his eyes again now that the children weren’t directly touching him. He looked older, but not unattractive. Just worn thin by loving too hard for too long.
“They’re lovely children,” I said.
He laughed softly under his breath. “That feels like an overly generous compliment.”
“No. Honestly.”
He let out a breath that seemed to carry half his defenses with it. Humans always reacted strangely when they were told the truth kindly.
“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “I think this went… surprisingly well.”
“I believe so too.”
Inside the house, Billie shouted, “The geese represent the working class!”
“Ugh, that is not what capitalism is,” Bianca said.
Then CJ, “It is to the geese.”
Conrad closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.
Biting back a smile, I stepped off the porch toward my hearse waiting under the trees.
“Well,” I murmured to myself as I unlocked the door. “I think that went well.”
5
CONRAD
By Wednesday morning, I could say that I’d started sleeping better. I still had insomnia, and I still listened for the kids throughout the night, but I slept a lot deeper than I’d become accustomed to.
For years, I’d had trouble falling asleep. When I did sleep, it was shallow and temporary, my body shutting down while my brain continued to pace the hallways, carrying a clipboard and unresolved guilt. No matter how exhausted I got, I never really got any rest. I woke constantly. Checked doors. Checked monitors when the kids were younger. Checked the time. Checked whether I’d forgotten something important enough to negatively impact the kids.
Now, I didn’t spend the entire night bracing for disaster. I suspected Winnie had something to do with that. Which felt ridiculous considering I’d only known her a few days.
But still.
That morning started with Billie announcing there had been “a death incident” in the upstairs bathroom. I nearly dropped mycoffee, but then Winnie calmly explained, “One of the goldfish-shaped soaps dissolved unexpectedly.”
Lately, every statement coming out of Billie’s mouth sounded like a police report, and I was still learning to take it in my stride.
“Dad,” Billie said over the phone that afternoon while I sat trapped in my office, listening to three executives debating fonts on a presentation nobody would remember in forty-eight hours, “we found a buried body.”
Across the conference table, Peterson was still talking about “brand continuity.”
“Billie,” I said carefully, standing from my chair and nodding at the others to go on, “what do you mean byburied body?”
“A whole body.”
My pulse picked up.
“A tiny one,” she added, which was not helpful at all.
“Where’s Winnie?”
“In the kitchen. Bianca says we should call the police, but I think we should bury it again.”
Jesus Christ.
