Chapter 31
Thirty-One
“Eugh!” I jump back, dropping the cloth and shovel. Valencia startles and looks back at me. Then at the piece of fabric that’s
covering the bones. I point. “Dead. There’s bones, a skull, something dead.”
Valencia reaches out and pulls up the cloth. And there it is. The bones are smaller than my brain originally recognized. All
I saw were the eye sockets and teeth of whatever animal it was and my brain panicked.
But now I feel ridiculous, because it’s obviously some rodent. Maybe a squirrel that a cat killed, then buried? Do cats bury
their food to save for later? I’ve heard horror stories about people waking up with dead presents from their cat on the front
porch or on a pillow.
“Aw. It’s one of your guinea pigs.”
“One of?”
“Yeah. You had a guinea pig phase when you were in kindergarten. Your teacher, Ms. Rafkin, brought one in as a class pet and
you wanted one so bad. I wonder if this is Frank. Or was it Murray?”
My skin crawls looking down at the bones of one of Nate’s first pets. “Murray?”
“I think Murray was your second. Frank was first, because that was also the class pet’s name.
And then I think after Murray died we let you get one more, but I forget his name.
After the third we stopped getting them for you.
I thought those things would have lived a little longer, but apparently they only live five to seven years, and who knows how long the pet store had them before we came in. ”
“They all died?”
“Peacefully in their sleep like old guinea pigs do. But honestly I probably should have let you learn that lesson once and
called it a day.”
“I guess every kid learns that sometime.”
My pet was a little turtle my dad bought me on my sixth birthday. Looking back, I think it was because he and my mom might
have forgotten my birthday that year. I remember my dad coming home from work and him and my mom talking quietly before he
had to go back out for “something from the store.” He came back with a green plastic water tray with a little island in the
middle and a turtle sitting on top.
I got lectured about keeping his habitat clean, how to feed him, and a number of other things.
Kept him alive for a few months, too. But then one day when I was at school, he escaped from his shallow green prison, and
the next time I saw him he was dead behind the couch.
From there I got another lecture on responsibility and eventually, from Mom, I learned that animals have no souls, which means they don’t get into heaven.
That was when I started thinking this religion thing was a little suspect.
Why wouldn’t innocent creatures get into heaven?
Adam and Eve were supposed to be in paradise until they ate the apple and realized they were naked—something that I learned in seventh grade was a metaphor and there was never a literal apple.
But animals were “pre-apple,” and they weren’t aware they were naked all the time, so why wouldn’t they always have a place in heaven?
Asking those questions only got me more lectures, and once I started looking into it all myself, I turned to the dark side:
agnosticism.
I wonder how Nate was raised on the subject.
“Are we religious?” I ask.
Valencia stutters a moment, then says, “We . . . Not really, I guess, is the short answer. Marcus was raised Catholic, I was
raised Presbyterian, but we never took you boys to service. Gramma Sharon doesn’t really do church anymore either. Why? Do . . .
you want to go to church?” She asks it like she doesn’t want the answer.
“No,” I say, maybe a little too quickly.
“Did you go to church before? With the . . .” She doesn’t say people who took you but I know it’s there. She shakes her head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t ask—”
For some reason I decide to answer her. Interrupting before she can finish her apology.
“I think so,” I say. “I know guinea pigs don’t go to heaven.”
“Bullshit.”
I turn to her, and she seems annoyed. Then she softens when she realizes I might believe in heaven—which I don’t even know
if I do. If there is one, though, I definitely won’t get in because I’m lying to a family whose son has most likely been murdered.
And, yes, I’m trying to solve his murder, but even my motivation for that is selfish.
She puts a gentle hand on my upper arm. “I mean it’s bullshit that your pets wouldn’t be in heaven.
I don’t know what I believe, honestly. Some days I think life is random and meaningless, other days—like the day we got the call that you’d been found—” That actually breaks my heart.
She’s so sincere, and I can’t look at her while she says the next part.
“Those days I believe maybe there is something out there. And if there is, and it involves the afterlife, why wouldn’t the people, and animals, you love be there with you? ”
The sincerity in her voice comforts me. My real parents were always quick to talk about people who wouldn’t be in heaven, but for Valencia, it’s an open place for all our loved ones.
And that does sound nice.
My mind allows that thought for exactly three seconds before clouding over with suspicion. Because someone here knows I’m
not Nate. If they killed him, they know I’m faking it, so they’re manipulating me. They’re dumping paint on cars, and killing
flowers, and leaving the gas on so I look careless. Framing me for small things to raise suspicion.
Or they’re sincere, and maybe Easton moved the paint and didn’t want to get yelled at. And maybe I was careless and left the
gas on a teensy bit. And maybe the flowers really were blighted. Then I’m being a complete dick for no reason. But I don’t
let myself think that for long because that’s how I’ll end up dead.
“Well, if there is an afterlife, I hope you’re all cool with me bringing guinea pigs around all the time.”
“Of course. It was Marcus who hated them anyway. But if it is paradise, I’m sure he’ll have worked through whatever rodent
revulsion he has.”
The red flags are up in an instant. Marcus again.
She laughs but avoids looking at me, instead turning her attention back to the remains of Nate’s three beloved dead guinea pigs. If guinea pigs are supposed to live five to seven years, it is strange that Nate lost three of
them. If he was in kindergarten when he got the first one, he was five, then he disappeared when he was six, so he had three
dead guinea pigs in a year. Dead pets. Sure, that’s not suspicious at all. But also, why doesn’t Valencia think so? If she
did, she wouldn’t be telling me all this.
It reminds me again why I’m here. I’ve gotten too comfortable with Valencia and forgotten that something bad happened to the
real Nate. And now there are dead animals to add to that.
Maybe the guinea pig deaths were payback. A way for Marcus to get rid of the rodents he hated and take something his son loved
as punishment for making him angry. Physical abuse could be reported. But guinea pigs dying in their sleep . . .
Definitely something a psychopath would do. And he’d know how to get away with it. Just like he’d know how to get away with
murdering a person.