Page 31 of Buried in the Woods Below

I turn, half in disbelief at myself. I’m already moving toward the stairs when—

Slap.

His hands slam into my back.

I crash into the bookshelf, ribs jolting. Hardcover spines tumble like bricks.

He stands over me. Sneering.

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that.”

His fist arcs downward. It lands against my cheekbone with the dull thump of bone on flesh. My vision spots. My skin splits.

I brace for more. Sometimes it’s not the fists that hurt the most. Sometimes it’s the breath on your neck. The whispered sorry after.

“Now clean this shit up,” he hisses.

Years of fear, of grief for the man I lost, surge through my veins like stray voltage.

My body moves before I decide anything—feet against the bookshelf, shoulder slamming forward. A jolt of strength I don’t recognize barrels through me. Like I’m stealing someone else’s rage, someone who knows exactly what to do. We crash into the coffee table, onto the floor, limbs tangled.

The world stutters, jumps.

Glass everywhere. He reaches for my neck and squeezes. The oxygen halts.

My hand grabs something. The bottle.

A swing. A slash.

Black.

When the scene flickers back, he’s on the floor. His carotid pulses once, then pours. A dark tributary down his chest. He gurgles. His legs twitch. His eyes—those familiar, tear-shaped eyes—flicker. Then fade.

My hands drip. I stare, waiting for him to move. He doesn’t.

I search my face for a wound. Nothing. I can’t move. My hands are wet. My heart vibrates. My mind blanks.

I hear a creak behind me and turn.

My mother stands halfway down the staircase, barefoot in her bathrobe. Her eyes land on the blood, the bottle, the body.

She raises a hand to her mouth.

Her voice, thin as smoke.

“What have you done?”

Chapter 16

Laelynn paces back and forth, hands pressed together, covering her mouth as if stifling a scream or holding back vomit. I haven’t seen her like this since…

Then, to my surprise, she turns and hugs me, her shoulders shaking with sobs, tears dripping onto my shoulders. I hold her in silence, unsure if I’m comforting her or myself.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Eric says, his voice cracking, his strong, veined hand trembling as he strokes the dog’s fur.

Laelynn puts her weight on me. And for a moment I sense I’m carrying more than the immediate grief of her dog dying. I’m carrying something else she’s been holding for a long time. Heathcliff’s silver dog tag glints in the sun, but his chest remains motionless. The sight of this once vibrant, joyful Saint Bernard so still sickens me. It reminds me of how my father looked. Chest frozen, eyes lost in purgatory.

“Could he have eaten something in the woods?” I ask, trying to offer some explanation. I scan the backyard while I stroke Laelynn’s back, searching the lawn, the gravel path, the still forest for what could have caused this. But nothing looks out of place.