Page 87 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Everything okay? Should I get the girls and tell them we’re pushing off?”

“No,” he mutters. “Engine won’t start. Starter’s on the fritz again. I think it flooded during the storm.” He slams a palm against the console. “Damn it.”

The wind howls in my ears. Olivia was right. This island—something keeps you here. Holds you in place, like a spider’s web. Even Eric, and his golden retriever outlook, looks frayed at the edges.

“Can you fix it?” I ask.

He snorts. “I can press ‘start’ and push the throttle, but that’s about the extent of my boat knowledge.” He yanks out his phone and dials. “Jimmy, hey, it’s Eric Parker. What? Sorry, you’re cutting out. Boat won’t start.” He nods as the person on the other end responds. “How long?” A pause. His teeth clench. “Tomorrow? You’re sure? Yeah, the storm. I get it. Okay. Thanks.”

When he hangs up, he lets out a slow breath and clucks his tongue. “Mechanic’s backed up from the storm. He can’t get here until tomorrow.”

Of course, I think. I always liked Agatha Christie stories, but they’re not so fun when you’re inside one. I stiffen my upper lip. “No problem. It’s not your fault.”

He studies me for a second. Then his lips curl. “You know…Tony Mitchell might be able to fix this. His house is just around the bend. Hopefully, he hasn’t left for the season.”

I glance at the sky. “Are you seeing the same weather I am? And it’s going to be pitch-black soon.”

He laughs his melodic chuckle, puts his arm around me, and squeezes me tight. “Oh, stop it. Worst case, we get a little wet.”

“Or murdered in the woods.”

He grins. “C’mon. You think a psychopathic killer is waiting in a storm, hoping two people stroll by?”

“Probably not.”

“Exactly. So, what do you say?”

I relent. Because being near Eric makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t since I left. There’s an effortlessness to him that reaches parts of me I’ve tried to bury. Carlos is my life now. Eric is what I aspire for it to be. I leave my bag on the porch. He grabs an umbrella, and we slip onto the path.

We wind along the shoreline, the storm-dark sky filtering eerie light through the trees. Rain patters against the umbrella, and the wind moans off the lake. I scan the woods for movement, but Eric was right. Everybody, including the animals, has enough common sense to seek cover in this weather, except for us. The cold is sharp, but we walk close enough that our shoulders brush. He hesitates, like he wants to put an arm around me again. But whatever happened the other night—whatever almost happened—holds him back.

As we near the old, rusted carousel, a metallic screech cuts through the wind like a bird of prey.

I think of the ghost of Big Island. Despite the twins’ prank, I still feel a presence here. Like the girl who died all those years ago still hovers in the collective subconscious of everyone on this island, twisting their minds and behaviors. It reminds me of an old movie my mom made me watch once where a group of wealthy guests attend a dinner party, but some unseen force keeps them from leaving the room afterward. Over time, the guests unravel. Death, suicide, and chaos follow. I wonder if that’s what is happening here.

I should be terrified. But walking beside Eric, our shoulders touching, I feel suspended in something ephemeral. Maybe this is what it’s like to exist between two lives: one with Carlos, rooted and possible, and one with Eric, beautiful and doomed.

“I’m sorry this trip has been such a disaster,” he says as we continue down the increasingly muddy shoreline.

“Don’t apologize. The house was wonderful. Your cooking was better. You were an amazing host.”

He flashes that boyish smile, and I wish I could bundle him up in my suitcase and take him with me.

“You mean except for the dead dog and murdered neighbors?”

I laugh. “Dark joke. Yeah, except for that.”

“What will you do when you get back to Chicago?”

I grab a multicolored leaf from the ground and twist it in my fingers. “I don’t know exactly. As awful as it sounds, now that Vivek is dead, I’m hoping I can return to work. I miss Kiara and Tia, my little sisters at Big Brothers, Big Sisters. I’ve sort of been adrift without them.”

I think of Tim Colby, of The Firm. How will they react? Will they take me back?

“How about you? How long do you think you’ll stay on the island?” I ask.

“I’d like to stay a few more weeks until the weather turns. Laelynn returns next week, and I’m looking forward to more family time. It’s so strange that she hasn’t call—”

A gust snaps the umbrella from his hands. It tumbles toward the lakeshore, flipping end over end. We sprint after it, dodging rain and debris. I get there first, lunging.