Page 49 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Wow, Dad, you pulled out all the stops,” says Olivia.

I echo her. “This is amazing, Eric. What’s the occasion?”

He wears a heavy smile. “Well, everyone has been a little down in the dumps with Heathcliff being gone, so I thought some treats might lift our spirits. And baking’s always been my version of therapy. Grab whatever you like.”

I snatch a plate and work my way around the kitchen island, grabbing one of each. I’d steal another handful, but I’m already toeing the line between guest and glutton. As I pass Eric, I catch another whiff of his cologne and flash him a smile. He smiles back, the spot of flour sinking into his dimples. Now that Laelynn’s gone, I’m really going to have to keep it together.

I take a bite of the croissant. The flaky crust, combined with the warm, chewy center, sends me spinning. This morning’s anger melts beneath a heavenly mix of butter and dough. “Eric, if this is your therapy, I think you need multiple sessions a week.”

He gives his trademark chuckle. “You might be right. But then I’d be six hundred pounds.”

Olivia laughs and grabs my arm and drags me away. “All right, take it easy. We don’t want Dad getting a big head. Let’s see what the little munchkins are up to.” She exits onto the patio, but I linger behind.

Eric glances at his watch. “Shit, I’ve gotta go.” He slams his coffee and undoes his apron. “I’ve got my meeting with Russ Neuman.” He points to Olivia and me. “Can you watch the girls while I’m gone? It shouldn’t be more than an hour or so. If I’m not back by then, call the cops.”

A laugh escapes my lips.

“I’m only half kidding.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I say.

“Great. Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

He jogs out the back door, and I join Olivia out front with my loaded plate of pastries. I replay Eric’s joke in my head. If I’m not back in an hour, call the cops. I think of Russ Neuman smoking his pipe and reciting poetry. Of Marjorie Neuman.

Olivia and I sit down at the French-bistro-style patio table and munch. The girls continue to run around chasing each other, dresses floating in the breeze, playing some game that neither of us can decipher.

Olivia smirks to herself and in a sing-song voice says, “You’ve still got a crush on my da-ad. You’ve still got a crush on my da-ad.”

Despite my best efforts, my face turns beet red, and I start laughing, but then a flake of my Danish catches in my throat and I cough, which gives me away all the more. Olivia points and laughs. “I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.”

I take a swig of coffee to wash down the pastry flake and smile. “Okay, you got me. Yes, I may think your dad is still cute. But c’mon, he’s just an objectively handsome man. You can’t argue with that.”

“You’re gross.”

“I’m not gross. I’m just stating a fact. Don’t tell your mom though. She’ll hate me even more than she already does.”

“I told you. She doesn’t hate you. But I get it. She’s definitely changed.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. I mean, she’s always been a little Type A, but it seems like it’s gone to a whole other level. And that’s coming from me.”

Olivia shakes her head and looks at the lake as though she’s searching for an explanation. “I think it all started when I fell off the Ferris wheel. That really freaked her out, with good reason. And she became super concerned with safety.” She gestures to the girls, who are now rolling in the grass down the hill, the blue of their dresses covered in grass stains. “Then when Emma and Penelope came along, it amped up even more. She should probably see a therapist, but I think my dad’s too scared to have that conversation.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure my being here doesn’t really help the situation.”

“No, I think it’s good. I’m hoping it will help my mom remember the old days. I feel terrible saying this, but I’m kind of glad she went on that trip. You saw my dad in there all giddy about his baking. And look at Emma and Penelope.” She points to the girls rolling around on the ground, giggling. “Our fricking dog just died, and still everybody’s happier with her gone.”

I nod and watch the girls doing barrel rolls. “Yeah, I was surprised they weren’t more upset about Heathcliff.”

She shrugs it off and stands. “Those two are off in their own little world. They’ve always been like that. Sometimes I’ll pop into their room and say hello, and they won’t even acknowledge me. Have no idea I’m there. Anyway, I’m going to grab some more mini doughnuts. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good. If I eat anymore, my digestive system is going to be in ruins. I’ll just watch the little ones.”

“Suit yourself.”

She heads inside, and I watch the girls, who are now holding hands, swinging each other in a circle singing a nursery rhyme. The song has a haunting quality—fragile, off-key, and unsettlingly slow, like strings in a horror movie. I stop chewing to listen to the lyrics.

“Seven little ghosts went out one night,