Page 76 of Buried in the Woods Below

“I’ll need her contact information.”

I give him her name, phone number, and email.

He hands me his business card. “We will reach out to her, but if you speak to her in the meantime, please tell her to call me.” He holds my gaze to communicate that this is not a request; it’s an order.

“Is Mrs. Parker here?”

“No, she’s on a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters.”

“Do you have her contact information?”

“Well, yes. But there’s no service up there.”

“So, you can’t be sure she’s in the Boundary Waters?”

“I guess not. But she said she was going there.”

“Have you spoken to her recently?”

“Well, no.”

A pause. “I see.” Two crevices form between his eyebrows. “Have you ever been to Big Island before, Ms. Hoffman?”

“No.”

“Ever heard the name Marjorie Neuman?”

“No,” I lie, not wanting to be dragged in any deeper than I already am.

He stands up from his chair and extends his hand. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Ms. Hoffman. If you have any more relevant information, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m going to speak with Mr. Parker and the little ones inside now. Please stay outside the room, but otherwise, go about your day.”

“Okay, thanks.” He lumbers inside, and I stand on the patio watching the rain and trying to grasp the fact that Vivek is dead. I think of what Eric said. Killed with an axe. My eyes flash to the Parkers’ woodpile, and my head goes dizzy.

The axe is missing.

Chapter 35

I step into the house, keeping my movements measured, controlled. The air is thick with tension. The cops sit at the kitchen table, questioning the girls, while Eric watches, his face a cipher. The twins seem to delight in the attention. Gonzalez asks them, “Did you girls see anything unusual last night?” I’d love to stick around for the answer, but the thought of another moment under the detective’s watchful eye makes my stomach churn.

I reach the hallway that leads to my room. Eric’s office sits across the way. I remember what the fortune teller told me. The past haunts your future. Is this what she meant?

What am I talking about? I’m analyzing the ramblings of an antique.

Pigs get fed. Hogs get slaughtered.

I slip into my room, easing the door closed behind me. My window slides open, and I take a deep breath of the fresh forest air, oak, and lilac. A horsefly slams against the screen, frantic, its wings buzzing. I stare at it, thinking of the flies that swarmed Heathcliff’s corpse, now feasting on what’s left of Vivek’s and Freida’s. The grim image sticks in my throat.

I picture the two of them. Their bodies gashed with axe wounds, eyes blank, blood pooling around their corpses. Deep in the recesses of my mind, a voice whispers, somehow, someway, this is my fault.

I pace the room, floorboards groaning beneath my feet. I straighten a tilted picture frame, count the sailboats running along the wallpaper as I try to grasp what the hell is happening. Seventy-four sailboats on the left wall. Forty-eight on the one behind the bed.

It all seems so surreal. Vivek and Freida are dead, and someone butchered them with an axe. Now the axe—which I’m positive was wedged in the butcher’s block when I got here—is missing.

My mind flips through possibilities like a deck of cards.