Page 47 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Dear,” he says, turning to her, “I’d like to introduce you to Charlotte Hoffman. She’s a colleague of mine at Winthrop. She was just paddling by and saw us having a coffee, so she stopped by to say hello. Charlotte, this is my lovely wife, Freida.”

She extends her hand and offers a warm, unsuspecting smile. “Charlotte, it’s so nice to meet you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

I shake her hand. Static fills the air. I want to tell her the truth about her husband, but her eyes are too fragile, and my voice won’t come.

“No, thank you, Freida. I have a friend waiting for me, so I should get going.”

“Okay, well, it was lovely to meet you. A bit of a relief, really.”

“Why’s that?”

“For a second, I thought you might be the psychopath who attacked my poor Vivek.” She wraps her arm around him and gives him a squeeze.

I bite my lip and nod, saying nothing, afraid of what might slip if I opened my mouth.

Vivek, realizing that he’s dealing with a live grenade, turns to his wife. “Dear, my coffee is a little light on cream. Would you mind adding a touch more?”

“Of course.” Freida turns to me. “Charlotte, are you sure you don’t want some coffee to go?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

She wanders back into the house, oblivious.

The second the door clicks shut, I grab him by his right arm and twist. His body tenses. I lean in, my lips grazing his right ear.

“You should leave the island.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth.

I turn and walk away, feeling his gaze burning into my back the entire way down to the canoe. As my feet hit the warm sand of the beach, I hear his voice, and a prickle runs up my spine.

“You should be more careful, Charlotte. Now I know where you live.”

Chapter 23

I jump in the canoe and shove offshore, my grip tightening with each paddle stroke. I detect a vein rising near my temple and the pounding of my pulse. Olivia sits in the canoe’s front facing me, watches me, but says nothing, waiting patiently for me to spill the tea. But I’m at that point in the anger spectrum where talking about it won’t help; it will only spin me out into a full-blown rage. I drive the paddle deeper into the water, rowing faster and faster.

The burn in my arms dissipates the anger. A speedboat zooms by us, the engine roaring, sending a wake. I attack the waves head-on. The canoe rocks, and water splashes around us.

Finally, Olivia can’t take it any longer. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. He is just literally the worst person on earth.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. Not right now.” I accelerate my strokes, sweat rising on my face.

Olivia nods knowingly. She gets me. She gestures to the lake. “Well, this is a terrific place to forget about him.”

I temporarily push my angst to the side and soak in the scene. The sun rises over the trees, sending flocks of mourning doves hopping from one oak to another. Cottonwood leaves shimmer in the breeze like sequins. Now that the speedboat is gone, the water lies still, and a faint mist hovers along the shoreline. The quiet won’t last. In an hour or two, the vacationers will arrive, music blaring. But for now, everything holds.

The memory of Vivek spoils the tranquil scene like black ink on a watercolor canvas. His smug smile. His condescending tone.

Olivia catches my eye but says nothing. She just offers a soft smile, then turns her gaze back to the lake, letting the silence stretch between us like a warm blanket. No questions. No sideways glances. Just presence.

When we were kids, that’s what set her apart. Most girls treated each other’s lives like chewable gossip, something to gnaw on and spit out when the flavor ran dry. They had finely tuned gossip radars and could sense when you had something titillating. They poked and prodded until you spilled the beans, reveling in sharing the news. But Olivia ignored all of it. She floated above it all. If you wanted to talk, she would happily listen, but if you didn’t, that was okay too.

Still, I can’t shake Vivek. He’s lodged in my brain like a shard of glass. That’s his gift—no, his weapon. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t shout. He studies you. Waits. Watches for the moment your guard drops and then slips a verbal scalpel between your ribs.