Page 101 of Buried in the Woods Below

But the stroke never comes.

I force my eyes open. He hovers above me, frozen, his hair dripping black, his knife hand trembling in the air. His face twists into something between grief and rage, his emerald eyes warring with themselves. Tears carve paths through the stubble on his cheeks. The oaks loom above us like silent witnesses.

“What did you say?”

I seize my moment.

Yanking my arm free from beneath his knee, I rake my fingers across his cheek, nails digging deep. The skin gives way, raw flesh under my fingertips. He jerks back with a guttural groan, but my nails catch, dragging deeper as he wrenches away.

His weight shifts.

I slam both fists into his chest. Hard. A solid, satisfying thud. He tumbles backward into the mud, and I scramble to my feet, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. My head darts in every direction, searching for an escape. I spot my knife. A few yards away, half buried in the mud, water dancing off the blade.

Eric pushes himself up. His gaze flicks to the weapon.

Our eyes meet. For a breath, neither of us moves.

“Don’t do it,” he warns.

I ignore him and bolt. Three strides. The handle is within reach.

A crushing blow slams into my shoulder.

I hit the ground hard, rolling through the muck. Wet earth, choking me. I fight to get back on my feet before Eric makes his next move.

He rises slowly, deliberately, bending to retrieve the other knife. Now he holds one in each hand. Blood soaks his white T-shirt, turning the fabric a deep, violent pink. Emma’s and Penelope’s blood. The grief on his face is gone. The rage has won.

A sharp pulse of sickness rolls through me. My breath shudders. My mind scrambles for a rational explanation, some clue to this madness.

“Please, Eric,” I whisper. “Don’t.”

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle missing a piece. His grip tightens around the knives. He steps forward. “How could you do this?” he asks softly. His voice is so disarmingly childlike, so fragile, that for a second, I don’t understand what he’s saying.

“Do what?”

His throat bobs. His voice trembles. “My beautiful baby girls.”

A slow, creeping horror unfurls in my chest. “Eric, what are you talking about? I woke up to a scream. I ran upstairs. I—I found them like that.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying! I thought you—” I choke on the words. “I thought you killed them.” I point to the knife in his hand.

Eric’s fingers flex over the handles. “I grabbed the knife because I heard a noise. I heard you.”

The words rock me like a car crash. No. No, that’s not right. That’s not how it happened. I know what I saw. I know what I heard.

Except…

A flicker of doubt ignites deep in my brain. Just for a second. What if I—no.

Olivia. Her words echo in my head, rising like a whispering chorus from the grave.

They got what they deserved.

I’m happier when my mother is gone.

I wish they were gone too.