Page 29 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Miss Charlotte grew up with your sister Olivia,” says Eric.

I chime in. “Yeah, your dad used to take us tubing out on the lake and make us treats and make a big mess.”

The girls nod, unimpressed. Laelynn’s smile fades. An awkward silence follows.

She rises from her chair and tosses her fork, clanging against her plate. “I’m going to take Heathcliff for a walk.”

“Honey, you barely touched your French toast.”

“I’m not hungry. Too much charcuterie last night. Go ahead and finish breakfast without me.”

She snatches a dog leash off the kitchen island and strides toward the patio. The door slams shut behind her. I watch as she stomps down the steps, chest puffed out like a drill sergeant.

“Daddy, why is Mommy mad?” asks Emma, her tone sweet but her eyes sharp, like she already knows the answer and just wants to stir the pot.

Eric forces a pained smile. “She’s not mad, kiddo. She’s just got a lot on her mind with her big retreat coming up.”

Emma tilts her head, considering his words, exchanges a glance with Penelope, then shrugs and resumes eating. I think I spot the corner of her mouth edge upward.

The next few minutes pass in uncertain silence, broken only by the occasional clink of forks and the soft chime of wind rustling through the trees outside. That’s the Laelynn effect I remember. Her mood is your mood, whether you like it or not. I try to ignore the chill that remains and focus on the warm kitchen, the birdsong, and the heavenly breakfast.

Then, a scream shatters the peace.

Laelynn.

We all freeze, questioning the sound. My eyes meet Eric’s.

Another scream.

He leaps from the table and bolts toward the patio. “Girls, stay put,” he says. I chase after him, my heart in my throat as I try to fathom what could have gone wrong.

He bursts through the door, then down the stairs and onto the lawn; I follow closely. My heart sprints and my mind fires with possibilities of what could have happened. Did she step on a nail? Discover another note on the door? It’s not that. I know it’s not that. The scream was something deeper. A visceral agony. A scream I’ve heard before.

We dash around the house, Eric just steps ahead of me. When he turns the corner, he freezes and gasps. I stop beside him, and my mouth falls open in horror at what’s in front of me.

Heathcliff lies sprawled on the gravel path, unnaturally still.

His bright, beautiful brown eyes closed.

His magnificent coat of coffee-and-cream fur motionless.

I watch his chest. It’s not moving.

I see foam gathered around the corners of his mouth. Vomit on the gravel.

Flies buzz around his head, crawling toward his teardrop eyelids, trying to burrow underneath.

Those eyes.

They remind me of my father’s eyes.

I try to shake the memory, but it captures me.

Chapter 15

Fifteen years ago

It’s winter in Beacon Hill. Outside my bedroom window, snowflakes the size of silver dollars drift down in slow spirals. Inside, I’m tucked into bed, face pressed against the cool cotton sheets, comforter pressed between my legs. The creamy warmth of tonight’s chicken potpie still lingers in my belly. The remains of woodsmoke seep under my door from the downstairs fireplace, mingling with the faint trace of pine from our Christmas tree. I drift toward sleep, dreaming of Ryan Gosling and the boys at school who don’t know I exist.