Page 92 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Where is he going now?” asks Olivia, sulking down the stairs. Her voice is removed, dreamlike.

“He went to get your mom’s body.”

“What? But what about the storm? You said it wasn’t safe.”

“It’s not, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

She shuffles to the patio doors. “We have to go help him.”

I chase after her. “We can’t. We need to stay with the girls.” Her eyes look through me.

She blinks slowly, then relents and slumps onto a kitchen stool. Her gaze never leaves the lake. It’s as if she knows there are answers buried underwater and that if she looks long enough, they’ll rise from beneath the surface.

“Who’s going to take care of my chrysanthemums?” she says. Then she starts laughing. It starts with a subtle giggle, light and wispy, then steadily rises and rises into hysterical cackles. I glance at the water to see if she sees something, but there’s nothing. Only her grief.

“Liv, don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Break down on me. Your dad and the twins need us right now. A tornado’s coming, and we need to prepare for it.”

Thunder shakes the house. A glass crashes to the floor. I flinch. Olivia doesn’t even move. I stoop to clean it, but she interrupts me with a bark.

“Leave it.”

I continue cleaning it up.

She raises her fist, eyes still trained on the water, her voice as calm as a schoolteacher’s. “Charlotte, leave it.” Then silence, like a lead weight. “What does it matter, anyway? If the tornado doesn’t kill us, whoever murdered my mom and the Adwanis will.” More laughter. “They probably knocked off Heathcliff too.”

I ignore her and scoop up the shards of glass with a paper towel and toss them in the trash. A jagged piece catches my index finger. A trickle of blood runs into my palm. Just like it did the day my dad died.

“Liv, we’re going to survive. I promise,” I say, not sure if I really mean it.

She clicks her tongue in a slow, rhythmic beat. Like an antique watch. “I doubt it. But you know what you should do?”

“What’s that?”

“Grab Dad’s knife.”

Chapter 42

While Eric searches for Laelynn, I try to ignore the dread crawling through my chest. I move mechanically through the house, cleaning, organizing, preparing for the coming tornado. I snatch snacks and bottled water from the storage room, light a few candles in the living room, and jam a flashlight into the pockets of my overalls. Twilight still bathes the house for now, but it’s fraying at the edges. Outside, trees bend back and forth, casting jagged shadows on the walls. The wind whistles through the few seams in the house, and lightning cuts the sky like a scalpel, each crack a countdown to the coming tempest.

Every time I pass through the kitchen, I check on Olivia. She sits motionless in her usual chair, dressed in a matching tan sweatsuit, staring out the window, watching the lake grow angrier and angrier. But she’s not really watching. She floats somewhere else. Not sad. Not blank. Just gone. Like she’s rewinding her mother’s death over and over, searching for a different ending.

The image of Laelynn’s lifeless body slashes through my mind—limp, pale, wet.

And then Olivia’s earlier comment hits me. “Grab Dad’s knife.”

As she remains lost in thought, I tiptoe to my room and grab Eric’s hunting knife. The black handle is solid in my grip, the sharp steel catching the dim light. Would I have the heart to use it? Thunder cracks like a whip, and a voice in my blood answers: Yes.

“That’s my girl,” she says from behind me, her voice eerily calm. I flinch. A slow, dark smile tugs at her lips—the same look she gave me when she urged me to confront the Adwanis. “Maybe that’ll help you sleep,” she says and floats back to the kitchen. The way she says it twists something inside me. I shake my head and slide the knife back into the bedside drawer with a clink. I already know sleep won’t come tonight.

Tornado prep. Focus.

We’ll need something soft for cover, and for sleep, if it comes to that. God, I hope it doesn’t. A murderer loose, a storm bearing down, and now, the prospect of spending the night in a basement straight out of a horror movie.

I head upstairs. Olivia’s room is spotless. Not a wrinkle on the sheets. No makeup bag, no toothbrush. Nothing in the trash. No sign of life. It’s like a stage set for a person who doesn’t exist.