Page 28 of Buried in the Woods Below

“I doubt that. But regardless, I’m leaving tomorrow, so it’s your call.”

“Don’t put this on me, Laelynn. This isn’t my call. This is for both of us.”

She opens her mouth to fire back, but I swing open the screen door and interject, so it doesn’t look like I’ve been eavesdropping.

“Morning, everyone,” I say, waving awkwardly.

Eric turns, his mouth curving into a welcoming smile. “Charlotte! Good morning. Perfect timing. We’re just sitting down for breakfast.”

The seating arrangement is tricky. Laelynn’s throned at the table’s head, flanked by the twins on one side and Eric on the other. After her stay-away-from-my-man kiss the other night, I’d like to keep my distance from Eric. But I’m also not about to square off with her at the other end of the table like we’re in an M&A negotiation, so I sit beside Eric. Laelynn gives me a closed-mouth smile that could cut glass. I’m not sure I made the right choice.

“Girls, say good morning to Ms. Charlotte,” says Laelynn to Emma and Penelope as she stands and scoops berries onto their tray. She sprinkles a few edible flower petals on their French toast and gives each of them a loving kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning, Ms. Charlotte,” say the girls in perfect unison, grinning widely through gapped teeth, their moss-green eyes alight with curiosity.

“Good morning,” I say, though something about the tone in their voices puts me on edge.

“This is Penelope,” says Eric, gesturing to the girl with the cheek mole. “And this is Emma.”

The twins resume eating their French toast but keep their eyes locked on me, studying me. They’re beautiful, unsettlingly so, and there’s something in their expressions that chills me. I make eye contact with each girl in turn, and that’s when I notice the subtle differences between them. Penelope reminds me of a queen—eyes bright, chin up, a judgmental posture. Emma is the queen’s adviser—softer, observing eyes, chin down, a humbleness to her. Yet I feel more comfortable with Penelope. Her, I can see coming. Emma would wield the knife from behind.

Eric places a crisp piece of brioche on my plate and drizzles it with syrup. No flower petals for me. “Ms. Charlotte’s going to stay with us for a little while and help out while Mom’s on her retreat. Does that sound good?”

The twins nod in unison, puffs bouncing, their mischievous jack-o’-lantern grins growing, like they’ve found a new victim.

“Why is your arm so red?” asks Penelope, her voice sharp and commanding for someone so young.

I glance at my sunburned forearm. “Oh, I drove up here yesterday and had my arm out the window. I forgot to put on my suntan lotion.”

“It looks funny because the rest of you is so white,” mumbles Emma under her breath, and the two of them laugh.

“Girls, be nice,” says Laelynn, smirking.

“It’s fine,” I say. “That’s part of why I’m here. I need some sunshine.”

I turn my attention to the French toast, trying to ignore the sensation of their eyes boring into my skull. The buttery brioche melts in my mouth, followed by a decadent cornflake crunch.

“What do you think?” Eric asks.

“This might be the best French toast I’ve ever had.”

“Dad owns a bakery,” says Penelope, beaming with pride.

“I know. I used to go there with my mom when I was a kid.”

Laelynn places another piece of French toast on each of the girl’s dishes. “Charlotte is Auntie Julie’s daughter.”

Emma slurps orange juice. “We like Auntie Julie. She drinks a lot of mom juice.”

My forehead scrunches. “Mom juice?”

Laelynn mouths “wine” to me, and I stifle a snort.

“Yes, Auntie Julie does drink a lot of mom juice.”

“Why can’t we have mom juice?” asks Penelope.

“The government,” say Eric and Laelynn simultaneously. We all burst out laughing, much to the twins’ confusion.