Page 40 of Buried in the Woods Below

I’m wearing a white linen wrap dress that elongates my frame and masks my total lack of hips. She wears a mint-green romper that looks both elegant and effortless, her rich black hair bouncing down to her shoulders. I try to push my minimal boobs up into something vaguely resembling cleavage.

“You mean it?” I tease. “Or are you just saying that to make up for ditching Emma and Penelope today?”

Her face crinkles in an indignant frown. “Of course, I mean it. What are you talking about?”

I turn from the mirror. “You told me to go on a hike and said you’d watch them. Then I get back, and your mom rips me a new one for leaving them alone.”

Olivia waves a dismissive hand and laughs, unleashing her megawatt smile. “Did she really? Oh God, she’s so dramatic. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. They’re eight-year-olds, not toddlers.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry about her, CharBar. She’s just really overprotective of them. She’ll warm up.”

“So everybody says. Where did you go today, anyway?”

She smacks her glossed lips together. “Nowhere. I just stepped out for a second.”

“Did you see the vet?”

“No, why?”

“That vet is going to tell us a lot about what happened to Heathcliff.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, picking at my hangnails.

“What?” asks Olivia.

“I don’t know. I just can’t help thinking that this wasn’t an accident. That someone poisoned Heathcliff.”

“Yeah, I thought that too, but then I thought maybe I was overreacting. You really think someone poisoned our dog?”

“I do. But regardless, I think it’s a little strange that your dad acts as if he doesn’t want to know.”

She chomps on her bubble gum, thinking. “Yeah. I don’t know if he’s worried it’s going to freak my mom out, or…”

“Or what?”

“I don’t know. I got this strange feeling, like he’s protecting somebody.”

“Who?”

Laelynn’s voice cuts through the air from the living room. “Dinnertime.”

Olivia’s eyebrows jump. “I’m not sure. Anyway, we’d better hustle. We don’t want Mom to get mad at you again.” She lets out a high-pitched cackle and sprints out the door. I roll my eyes and chase after her.

Eric sits at the head of the table dressed in khakis and a navy cable-knit sweater that fits him just right. Laelynn perches across from him at the other end, perfect posture, stunning in a colorful Lilly Pulitzer dress. Despite their glamorous looks, frost lingers between them. I plop down next to Laelynn, who stiffens like a duchess next to a street urchin. Olivia sits beside Eric, and we make funny faces at Emma and Penelope on the sly to keep the mood up.

The sun sinks behind a ceiling of clouds, casting an eerie red glow, like the eye of Sauron watching from above. A veil of mist creeps in from the lake, slithering up the lawn. I keep listening for Heathcliff’s trademark sounds: his little bell, the steady panting, the soft pad of his paws on the hardwood, the occasional shake of his fur. Strange how you don’t realize the imprint a presence makes until it’s gone. I barely knew him, and even I miss him. Without Heathcliff, only the delicate clink of serving spoons against porcelain breaks the silence.

As Eric rises to grab the food, Laelynn places her hand on mine and whispers in my ear. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you today.” Tears well in her eyes. “It’s just that…that—Heathcliff was my best friend, you know. To lose him was…and then the girls when I found them alone. And having you back here again. It was just too much, you know?”

I squeeze her arm and nod. “I understand. Don’t give it another thought.”

Eric returns, and she resumes her normal pose, wipes her eyes, and clears her throat. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. He loads our plates with a cornucopia of comfort food. Fresh-grilled steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, buttery biscuits, loaded mac and cheese, and farmers market sweet corn. The aroma alone could tide me over for a day, but the flavor somehow exceeds it. He pours tall glasses of red wine, which pair perfectly with the steak. We all dive in, savoring the tender, seasoned meat and crisp corn, but Heathcliff’s death hangs over the conversation like the island fog. The girls proudly tell their mom how they made their doll look like Miss Charlotte and prattle on about their day. No mention of Heathcliff.

Occasionally, an adult says something banal between bites and sips of wine—“Nice day today, huh.” “Corn is good this year.” But every topic anyone cares about is off-limits. How did Heathcliff die? Did someone poison him? If so, who? Was his death connected to the note on the front door? What did Russ Neuman mean when he said I shouldn’t be here? Why is Eric refusing to acknowledge what’s happening?

The silence suffocates. I shoot a glance at Olivia, prodding her to spark the conversation, but she just shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “What do you want me to say?”

Mercifully, Eric breaks the quiet. Though his choice of topic couldn’t possibly be worse.