Page 81 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Stay away from Eric.”

I meet her eyes. “Why?”

She hesitates. Then, too quickly: “I don’t trust him.”

A beat of silence, the rain dancing across the roof.

“Or maybe,” I say quietly, “you don’t trust me?”

She doesn’t answer.

And that tells me everything I need to know.

Chapter 37

That evening, after my mother has gone home to plot and scheme, the Parkers and I enjoy a long, silent, awkward meal. After dinner, I run outside to retrieve wood for the fire. As I step onto the deck, the dense, dewy air presses against my skin, electric with an impending storm. Overhead, dark clouds churn, swallowing the last breaths of daylight. A low rumble rolls across the sky, distant but growing. The deluge is coming.

I scan the yard to ensure no one’s out there. But it’s just me, the mist, and the whining wind. I jog through the light sprinkle to the woodpile and work fast, my head on a swivel, stacking split logs under a tarp into the wheelbarrow. The scent of freshly cut wood clings to my fingers. As I’m loading up the mix of oak and birch, my gaze snags on the chopping block. The axe is still missing.

I search the ground in the fading light, sift through the pile, circle the chopping block. Nothing. The more I search, the heavier the realization in my stomach. The Parkers’ missing axe is the same axe that killed the Adwanis.

Whoever took it was here, watching…or is inside the house. I wonder if I’m in more danger in the yard or behind four walls.

I think of Eric. The mysterious death of Marjorie Neuman. The flicker of rage when I told him about Vivek.

I think of Olivia’s indifference at Vivek’s and Freida’s murders.

The girls, their laughter ringing as they chased each other around the yard with croquet mallets. I shake my head. They’re too little. Then I remember what Olivia said. There’s probably a harmless explanation: Eric stored the axe in the toolshed so that the girls wouldn’t play with it.

I push the wheelbarrow to the edge of the patio and lean it against the railing. The toolshed stands alone. I glance around to ensure no one is looking. Olivia plays with her phone, while Eric spreads a board game across the coffee table with the girls.

I shuffle to the shed. A Master Lock hangs from a handle, but it’s unlocked. I listen for the sound of someone breathing, sniff for the scent of sweat, but there’s nothing. The door groans open.

Like my bedroom closet used to.

Inside, the air is stale with oil and rusted metal. It’s nearly pitch-black, but I see the outlines of various tools and machines. I grapple in the dark, half expecting my hand to stumble onto the murderer’s face, when I touch a string hanging from a light bulb. I yank the string, illuminating the shed neatly stocked with tools. A chainsaw hangs from the ceiling. Pliers from the walls. Innumerable instruments of torture. But there’s no axe. The axe is missing.

Then something skitters across my foot.

I leap, my heart jumping along with me. I throw myself back against the wall and search the floor. A mouse scurries into the corner, its tiny frame quivering. I exhale and place a hand on my chest, my heart thumping.

Then a voice.

“What are you doing?”

I spin. Eric stands in the doorway, his expression pinched and wary. The sliver of moonlight cuts his face in half.

“Oh, nothing. I was just looking for the axe. Have you seen it?”

“The axe? Why? There’s plenty of firewood.” Suddenly, his tall, toned physique seems less attractive and more intimidating.

“I thought it would be nice to chop up a few pieces to replace what I took.” The lie sounds flimsy even to me.

“Huh,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “It’s not on the chopping block?”

“Nope. I didn’t see it.” I pause and let the implication sink in.

He scratches his whiskers. “Strange.” He thinks a beat, then his face eases. “Well, don’t worry about it now. We can search for it in the morning. The girls are champing at the bit to play Clue.”