Page 94 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Yeah, so?” I say.

“So, I—I thought you might be in danger too.”

“I’m fine. Eric’s here.” I lie.

He peers over my shoulder.

I tighten my grip on the knife, and he takes another step back but leans in slightly and lowers his voice. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Eric? Why?”

He looks behind him and then whispers, his words nervous and rambling. “Before Mom died, Eric came by her house and made an offer. Told her he wants to buy up the whole island. She told him to pound sand. That this island’s Neuman country. Next thing ya know, my mom’s dead. Thought it was natural causes at the time.” A pause. “Now I just heard the Adwanis are dead.”

I stare at him, trying to read past the deep lines in his pale face. “If you’re so worried about me, why have you been leaving threatening notes on our door?”

His eyes shift. “Well…ya know…that’s why I’m here.”

“What do you mean?”

He kicks the mud and runs a hand through his unwashed hair. “You’re right that I’ve been leaving the notes. But it’s only because Eric told me to, ya know. He wanted to drive down the home prices. Scare everyone away. You see, we’ve got a deal. He said if I left the notes, he’d let me keep my land. Made me put ’em on your door so that it seemed like it was happening to everyone.”

Russ’s words detonate inside me.

Eric’s behind the notes?

The revelation sucks the air from my lungs. I stagger backward, suddenly lightheaded, gripping the doorframe for balance. It can’t be true. Not Eric. Not the man who bakes croissants and wears goofy aprons.

And yet, it makes too much sense. His measured reaction to the first note. Not wanting to call the police. Snapshots of him spin through my mind as I try to grip the man behind the man. I open my mouth to demand more—

The patio door slams behind me.

Russ flinches.

Eric.

He’s back.

Chapter 43

“You need to leave,” I whisper, my voice dry and jagged. I shut the front door and don’t look back.

My hand lingers on the knob. Eric told him to leave those notes. The man who makes bootlegs and grills in funny aprons. The words ricochet in my skull. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to press Ctrl+Alt+Delete and pretend this trip never happened.

Instead, I turn.

Eric stands in the doorway, Laelynn’s body cradled in his arms. Soaked. Lifeless. A hush falls over the room, pierced only by the wet drip, drip, drip of her hair. Her skin is waxy, bloodless. A sweet, rotting stench rides in with the lake water. My stomach flips, but I move toward him. His leaf-green eyes are wide, hollow. Lost.

My horror knots with sympathy. But part of me wonders if it’s real.

Is this what grief looks like? Or guilt?

“Oh my God,” Olivia gasps, standing from her chair. One glance, then she spins away, hand clamped over her mouth. For a second, I think she’s going to be sick. I ignore her and focus my attention on Eric. His chest heaves long, shallow breaths, and his face is somehow both ruddy and drawn.

“Are you okay?” I ask, afraid that if I say the wrong thing, he might shatter.

“Yeah, just tired. Grab whatever ice is left in the freezer,” he mutters, stepping forward like Frankenstein animated by some ephemeral prod. I slide out of his way and press a hand to his back, urging him forward into the house, shielding Olivia from the sight. As he shuffles past, I glimpse his arms. They’re shaking but firm, fueled by resolve.

I load a bucket and follow him into the basement. He heads straight for the storage freezer. It sits alone, powerless, a silent crypt waiting to be filled. I clear out the contents, and then he gently lowers Laelynn’s body inside. Her limbs shift unnaturally, a grotesque marionette. I hand him the bucket, and he scatters the ice over her like a final offering. He exhales and closes the lid, his hands shaking.