Page 25 of Buried in the Woods Below

My first instinct is to grab my keys, jump into my car, and drive away. Then I remember I don’t have a car here.

I’m trapped.

I slam the window shut and yank the curtains closed. Whoever or whatever’s out there, I don’t want them watching me while I sleep. I crawl back into bed and restart my white-noise playlist, pulling my covers to my chin, grip tight, building an impenetrable cocoon.

As I drift off, the sound of crunching gravel rings in my ears, and I remember what my mom said about the ghost of Big Island.

Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so funny.

Chapter 13

August 31

I snap awake to a sliver of sunlight cutting through the curtains. My head throbs, a dull beat pulsing beneath the haze of Benadryl and booze. What was in those bootlegs? A knot of anxiety twists in my stomach—memories of yesterday tangled with fragments of dreams. I’m not sure which is which.

I hold my breath, listening. No gravel crunching underfoot, no strange rustling outside. Just silence. The mist has lifted, and golden light washes the room in a soft glow.

I drain the glass of water on my nightstand and rub the sleep from my eyes. Slipping into a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and gray shorts—a “groutfit,” as I like to call it—I crack the door and peer out. The hallway is still. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator buzzes from the kitchen. No sign of Heathcliff or anyone else. The coast is clear.

I pad into the living room to start my morning routine, past the new built-in shelves lined with dated family photos, Laelynn’s favorite motivational business books—Good to Great, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Secrets of Closing the Sale—and Eric’s ancient collection of Agatha Christie: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, And Then There Were None. I try to imagine the house before its facelift—before the polish, before the pretense. Before Marjorie Neuman was murdered.

In the kitchen, after tidying up the pans drying on the counter, I rummage through the hunter-green cabinets and find an espresso machine that looks like the Parkers plucked it from an Italian café. I twist knobs until it sputters to life, spitting out a stream of caramel-colored brew. I drown it in cream, take a sip, and absorb the view. The lake shimmers beyond the endless window. The mums in the garden reach for the sun in a rainbow of yellow, orange, red, magenta, and white. Three deer move quietly across the lawn, nose through the grass, then vanish into the trees.

This was the vacation I wanted.

But it’s not.

I perform my standard morning stretching routine in the living room, and my thoughts drift to Marjorie, alone in this house before the renovation, peering out through the mist, wondering what was out there. To the note impaled on the door last night. To the noises outside my window.

Something here feels discordant.

I wonder if I should just cut my losses and ask Eric to take me home.

A splash from outside severs my thoughts. My eyes jump to the lake, where water ripples by the shore. Someone’s awake.

I open the door and step onto the patio. The screen creaks and snaps shut behind me. The cool morning air hits my skin. Another splash echoes across the shoreline. I scan the water and spot a rope swing hanging from a crooked cottonwood to my left.

Olivia.

I watch as she pulls the rope swing as far back as it will go and leaps onto it, careless and free. As she flies through the air, I smile. She wears a soft-purple bikini that highlights her glistening dark skin. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her curly black locks fan out behind her, a halo in the morning light. The rope swing curves inches from the ground and then up into the sky. She holds on to it until it reaches its peak, and just as I fear she’ll hold on too long, she releases the swing and soars, arms spread wide, feet pulled together like she’s flying. As her body approaches the water, she brings her hands together and stretches her legs into a perfect diving position. Zero splash.

I walk toward the lakeshore to meet her, sixty-three steps in all. I step into a depression in the lawn and my ankle rolls, but I catch myself. Nice job, Char-klutz. As I reach the crescent of beach, Olivia surfaces, shakes the water from her face, and spots me.

“CharBar!”

“Good morning,” I say, my arms wide.

“Stay right there,” she calls, and within seconds she’s cutting through the water in an Olympic-level swimmer’s crawl. She emerges like a Bond girl, water cascading from her hair.

She shakes herself dry and sits on a beach chair, tapping on the chair next to her. “Come sit. Now that we’ve finally got some time alone, you have to catch me up on what you’ve been up to.”

“How much time do you got?”

“As much as you need. I’ve got nowhere to go and all day to get there.” She smiles her familiar smile, nose crinkling, a sea of big, white teeth. I notice she’s got a wad of bubble gum wedged in her cheek. She blows a brilliant pink bubble and snaps it with her tongue. Same old Olivia.

The two of us spend the next half hour swapping stories about our lives. I tell her about Boston, about college, business school, becoming a consultant, my checkered dating history. She asks about my family.

She tells me about her life. She’s a documentary filmmaker now. Lives in Venice Beach. She’s done a few small films. Nothing I’ve seen. Her dating life is nearly as bleak as mine. But she’s happy. And I’m happy for her.