Page 93 of Buried in the Woods Below

The Olivia I knew lived in chaos. One year, I even asked if I could clean her room as a birthday gift. And now she’s perfect? No, something’s wrong. She’s not okay.

I strip the mattress from the guest room she’s using, dragging it down the hall. The twins’ voices drift from the next room, high and animated as they impersonate fancy tea-party guests. I remember being their age—cocooned, protected from the real world. And then one day it breaks, and the real world comes knocking at your door, drunk and angry. Part of me wishes they could stay in that cocoon forever.

Hauling the mattress downstairs is a battle of muscle and gravity. It’s a two-person job, but I don’t have the energy—or the nerve—to ask anybody else.

I wedge open the basement door and shove it down. A stale odor rises from below—of history, of Marjorie Neuman, of death.

I flick on my flashlight, and I picture her. The loving grandma who died in this home. This is the one part of the house that Laelynn hasn’t touched: unfinished walls, cobwebs, concrete floor, metal shelves stocked with canned goods, a chest freezer looming in the corner. The house’s history vibrates from these walls. Secrets buried here. I move the canned goods to the floor, wary of what might become a projectile in the storm.

I check the freezer. Lift the lid slowly, breath held.

It’s empty.

Then I hear a pounding on the front door upstairs. Slow, thick, angry blows against the hardwood. I wait for a beat, hoping I misheard. Hoping it will go away.

But it doesn’t.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

I creep up the stairs to the first floor and slide into my room. I peek out my window, and my heart skips.

It’s Russ Neuman.

He’s soaked—jeans sagging, poncho plastered to his skin, pipe clenched between his teeth like it might snap in half. His boot taps the porch. His hands are jittery but empty. No weapon.

I grab the knife from my nightstand and approach.

I steel my voice. “What do you want, Russ?” I shout through the door.

“Miss Charlotte. Is that you?”

I step back, struck by the softness in his voice.

“Yeah, it’s me. What do you want?”

“I came by to—” The wind steals his voice.

“What?”

“I said I came by—”

Again, I can’t hear him. I snap open the door and flash the knife.

“Good Lord,” he says and backs away. Droplets bounce and scatter off his raincoat. His eyes twitch. A gust of wind rips through him, nearly knocking him over.

“What do you want, Russ?”

“I came by to make sure you’re okay.”

“What? Why?”

“The police came by.”

I squint and search his eyes for an angle. Blink. Blink.