Page 39 of Buried in the Woods Below

My eyes shoot skyward. Typical Olivia. She probably got bored watching Emma and Penelope, went for a swim, and now I’m left holding the bag.

It’s not the first time she’s vanished and left me in the fallout.

Once, we went to a movie at the local independent theater. By the time the credits rolled, the place was dark, and Olivia hopped the counter to swipe a bag of gummy worms. I followed her—of course I did—but when the manager came back, she slipped away while I got my foot caught on the edge of the candy case. I was splayed out like a beached whale when he found me. Mom had to buy an annual movie pass just to smooth things over.

But here’s the thing: I still can’t fathom why Laelynn is this angry.

When I was a kid, I played alone all the time, and we definitely used scissors for arts and crafts. They’re eight, not two. Still, something tells me arguing over child-safety guidelines isn’t a battle I’m going to win.

I raise my hands in a gesture of peace.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize scissors were off-limits.”

She snorts, and her eyes dart to Eric, clearly expecting backup. “I don’t forbid it. It’s common sense, Charlotte. You don’t leave eight-year-old girls alone when their dog just died—and you definitely don’t leave them alone with sharp objects.”

I straighten. “They didn’t even know their dog had died when I left. They were having fun.”

“Well, they know now. They heard us talking to the vet.”

Eric takes a step toward his wife and reaches for her shoulder. “Babe, I understand you’re upset, but let’s try to put it into perspective.”

Laelynn wrenches away before he can touch her. The room feels half the size of a minute ago. “You’re not any better, mister. Our Heathcliff dies, and minutes later, I find you flirting in here with her.”

My mouth drops open. Is this woman really going to talk to him as though I’m not even here? My eyes dart to Eric.

A flush crawls up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, a dark, damning color. His hands drop to his hips, clenching. “Okay. No one is flirting with anyone. I was just showing her the Grandmother’s Predictions machine.”

She looks at it in disgust but slows her pacing, losing steam. “Why do you keep this piece of junk, anyway? You know that thing gives me the creeps. And it smells like my grandparents’ basement in here.”

“I know, I know,” he says in a soothing voice. He puts his hand back on her shoulder, and this time she accepts it. He turns her away from the machine and speaks gently into her ear. Their backs turned to me like I’m another piece of furniture. Heat rushes up my neck.

He whispers to her, “This is my fault. I left to check on the twins and got distracted by the fortune teller. Why don’t we go upstairs and see if we can cheer them up?”

I watch her shoulders soften at Eric’s words. The yin and yang of their relationship becomes clear. The two of them move toward the doorway. Eric looks back at me and gives me a small shrug. Sorry.

As they walk down the hallway, I place my hand on my forehead and sigh. I’ve never done well with confrontation. I curse myself for getting into such a compromising position with Eric. Laelynn needs no more excuses for disliking me. But that’s Eric. He pulls you in like a black hole. All I can do is keep a safe distance. I sense a stress rash breaking out on my chest, a keepsake from the fight.

I stare at the card in my hand, and my skin prickles. The card speaks the truth. There’s something toxic running beneath the surface of this island. And it feels like it’s steadily poisoning everyone and everything that’s here. I need to leave. But I can’t bail on Olivia and the family after their dog just died. I can survive one more day. Slipping the card into the pocket of my workout shorts, I step out of Eric’s office and close the door behind me.

I walk down the hallway back to my guest room. I hear Eric and Laelynn talking on the landing upstairs. Eric mumbles something inaudible. But I hear Laelynn’s reply clear as day.

“Why can’t you admit you made a mistake?”

Chapter 20

That evening, Olivia and I get ready for dinner together in my room. A cloud bank has moved in, and despite the air-conditioning, the air is thick with humidity. The hot tempers from earlier today have cooled. Heathcliff’s death still clouds the air, but normality is slowly creeping back through the household. I hear the clink of pots and pans as Eric whips up another five-star meal in the kitchen and the hum of Laelynn’s husky voice as she reads the twins a story in the living room. Olivia and I chatter and gossip just like we did when we were kids.

As stupid as it sounds, I miss this—the simple rhythm of getting dressed with a friend. The floral scent of shampoo, the high whoosh of a blow-dryer, the multiple outfit changes, the chaos of lipsticks, bronzers, and other accoutrements cluttering the bathroom sink. Undoing all your shower’s good work by overheating yourself with the blow-dryer. I don’t even know why we’re bothering. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.

It’s pathetic, but part of me is doing it for Eric. That’s how low I’ve sunk. I’m dressing up for a married man old enough to have changed my diapers. And what makes it worse is that it’s so cliché. I had a fucked-up relationship with my dad. Now I’m searching for validation from an older man. It’s nauseating. But there’s a reason things become cliché; they happen…frequently. I need Carlos to get here ASAP.

I grab my phone and shoot him a text.

Hey! Just checking to see when you’re getting in?

I toss my phone onto the bed and wipe the blow-dryer sweat from my hairline. I run a brush through my hair repeatedly until the last snag is gone.

“You’re looking good, girl,” says Olivia, filming me with her phone. The documentary filmmaker in her never sleeps, apparently.