Page 18 of Buried in the Woods Below

Eric grins, his gaze drifting over the water. “That’s the appeal. Only accessible by boat. Escaping all the modern distractions. Just being a family.” He gestures to the thick tree line. “And half the island’s a nature preserve. Adds to the isolation.”

His words, meant to evoke freedom, instead encircle me in doubt. The promise of isolation feels more like entrapment now. The outside world can’t reach you here, but neither can help. We approach the island, and the caws of the crows crescendo.

“But what if a storm hits? Don’t you want to be able to drive somewhere?”

“No way.” Again, the long o. “That’s the best part. Here, you hibernate and shut out the world. You stop thinking about being somewhere else and just focus on being present where you are. It’s great to catch up with family and old friends. Don’t tell the kids, but one of my favorite parts is there’s no Wi-Fi and barely any cell service.”

We press forward into the mist, and the chill engulfs me.

“Where is the family, by the way?”

“They’re hanging back at the house. It’s the twins’ bedtime, and you know Laelynn. She’s fanatical about staying on schedule.”

I bite my lip and nod. Yes, I know Laelynn. She’s fanatical about everything.

Chapter 8

Eric drives us through the mist, past the gloom of the forest, toward the inhabited part of Big Island. The trees lean toward the lake as if they’re reaching for us. Shadows slice through the water like blades. He points to a break in the tree line that reveals a sprawling lawn running down to the lake shore.

“There it is. Casa de Parker.”

The boat swings past the elms. Through the fog, the house comes into view. It’s a stunning gray shingle-style house with white trim perched atop a gentle slope overlooking the lake. Dense forest wraps around it. A white bench swing and a smattering of Adirondack chairs rest on a wraparound porch. In front sits a giant pile of firewood with an axe wedged into a chopping block. I allow myself to briefly imagine Eric shirtless and sweaty, chopping wood, then pull back to reality. Get it together, girl.

Smoke curls from the stone chimney in soft, silvery ribbons. A narrow wooden staircase spills down from the house to the dock, dissolving into the lake. The only sounds are the soft splash of water and the occasional crow’s cry. Otherwise, everything is still. I draw in a deep breath, crisp air laced with the tang of barbecue smoke, and then I catch something else.

A scent.

Faint but unmistakable.

Chrysanthemums.

They’re everywhere.

Through the fog, I spot a riot of color: brilliant blooms lining both sides of the house like a battalion, a multicolored army holding back the creeping forest. More cluster in front of the deck, anchoring it like a floral retaining wall. The earthy sweetness of the blossoms rushes up to meet me, and suddenly, I’m eleven years old again. At the Parkers’ old house. Olivia, grinning wide, gathering stems in both arms. She’d place them in a jelly jar by her window every August, like clockwork.

They were her favorite.

I understand now what Eric meant about Big Island being an escape. The hush. The water. The wildlife. The world beyond feels miles away, irrelevant.

And yet…

There’s something about the house that unsettles me. Set deep in the trees, flanked by those stubborn chrysanthemums, it doesn’t look peaceful; it looks trapped. A coffin in the sunlight.

Laelynn sits on the front porch with a Saint Bernard resembling a giant stuffed animal by her side. The two are quite a pair. She wears black yoga pants and a matching tank top, revealing smooth, toned mahogany arms and rippling abs on a tiny frame. Her jawline is cut from stone, and her legs shake with coiled energy. A jumbo pink scrunchie holds her black braided bun, and the skin on her forehead is so tight I wonder if she can form an expression. Her dark, almost black eyes shine with intelligence.

Her Saint Bernard, on the other hand, is warm and cuddly. He has big, floppy, sloppy jowls and soft brown expectant eyes like saucers. His face tilts up in welcome, his mouth panting with excitement at the new guests. I want to run up and give him a big hug, but then I remember my allergies.

She gives an awkward wave and marches down from the patio toward the dock with the jolly dog in tow, her back arched, chest puffed, and hips swaying. Eric swings the boat alongside the shore, and I steal another glance at her. She’s barely aged a day. Well-lotioned skin and jet-black hair without a trace of gray. A beauty mark rests beside her nose, the one incongruity in a perfectly symmetrical face. She’s still gorgeous, but there’s a weight to her now. She used to bounce; now she strides. Reaching the dock, she waits for us, her arms crossed, toe tapping, biting her lip.

This is why I hesitated to come here. When we were growing up, there were the regular moms, and then there was Laelynn. The regular moms were soft and bosomy, but she was lean and hard. They baked brownies; she served fruit. The other moms allowed us to play in the street, but Laelynn insisted we stay in the backyard where it was safe. From what? I never knew. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be controlled. Just right.

Maybe she reminded me too much of myself.

I remember her expression when they loaded Olivia into the ambulance. It said, “How could you let this happen?” I see her now, and I’m struck with the same sensation. Her gaze, sharp and appraising, peels back my skin. I stiffen, as if her beady stare alone could turn me to stone.

Eric cuts the engine and drifts toward the dock. I stir Mom from her snooze. As the boat floats closer, Laelynn grabs it and ties a rope around the cleats. The dog jumps in the boat and sits on the back seat, slobber dripping from his brown-and-white chin, misguidedly thinking he’s going for a ride. He’s so cute I’m half tempted to turn around and take him on one.

“Hi, babe. Look who I found wandering around Wayzata,” says Eric, pecking her on the cheek.