Chapter 9
Gristle and gore that wasn’t visible from the window becomes immediately apparent as soon as I get close.
The thin skin of Clarence’s face and the white hair on the right side of his head are painted with blood.
There’s a crevice in his skull. Everything that was once kept safe inside is now spilling out.
It feels like a violation—almost lewd—to be able to see inside a person’s skull. Illustrated, the scene would be in color with his head replaced by a cloud of black scribbles. The blood on his clothes and the grass would be in grayscale. It’s too private, too intimate for color.
Ripley inches forward to smell his shoulder. How many dead bodies does your dog have to interact with before you’re certified as a bad dog parent? If it’s three, I’m fucked.
There’s something happening in the cavern of my head. A swarm of bees has moved in where there used to be a brain. This is a man—a man who was kind to me. Who tried to protect me. Because I chose to come here today, he’s gone. Didn’t he say he had a daughter?
Just as the weight of what happened to this man begins to settle, a car tears down the road. It passes the driveway before I can even think to duck or hide or run toward it to ask for help. A dust cloud lingers in its wake.
The car’s crappy brakes squeal when it comes to a hard stop on the gravel road. There’s a beat, another. And then it reverses just as fast as it drove by.
My instinct is to flee, so that’s what we do.
We’ll go inside, lock up, and put something in the sliding glass doorframe so it can’t be bypassed. I called 911. We’ll hide. It’ll be fine.
Or it would be, if the front door would open. But it doesn’t. Clarence knew he was leaving. He must have locked the knob. I didn’t check before we went outside.
The car is in the driveway now. A few seconds and they’ll see us.
The shed at the side of the house. We run for it. I fling the door open and we duck inside.
Immediately, I trip on something and thud to my knees. It’s dark, but I can still make out the vague shape of a workbench. Shadowed lumps that must be tools hang on the opposite wall. Humid heat wraps a death grip around my throat.
The brakes screech again, this time much closer. Two car doors slam shut.
I scooch until my back is up against one of the workbench legs. Ripley immediately tries to sit on my lap. I push her off in case we have to run again but keep my arm around her so she can’t wander.
People are talking. Yelling, really. The yelling gets closer.
Ripley squirms. I tighten my hold.
“—whole thing has been a disaster! I said it would be. No one listens to me. No one cares what I’ve got to say about anything!”
“Calm down, Greg. You don’t need to yell.”
“Calm down? Are you for real? This is not a ‘calm down’ situation!”
Ripley’s ears twitch like tiny satellite dishes. She tries to move away again. I dig a treat out of my pocket and hold it in front of her snout. She noses at my fist, suitably distracted, and I thank my compulsive habit of stuffing dog treats in my pockets.
“The sheriff is dead; there’s another dead guy on the lawn; and we have no idea where she is! I will not be calm, Leah!”
Greg says her name with disdain that can only exist with familiarity, then keeps yelling.
“We need to figure out our next steps. We can’t be split up like this. It’s not smart! Why is everyone so stupid. We have to stick together and find her.”
There’s a drawn-out, pointed silence. Greg asks, “What?”
“Can I FT you?”
“Now? Seriously?” A pause. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” Leah does not sound like she’s thankful at all. “It’s not your role to question the plan. It’s your role to support it, and to trust that what happens is what is supposed to happen. You’re choosing to have a stressful experience. Choose something different.”
“Okay … harsh. I’m not questioning it. I just think—”
“Stop thinking.”
“I just—”
“If you keep on this path,” Leah says, voice hard, “I’m going to have to bring it up in a session. For your own good. Emotional parasites need to be purged and, frankly, you clearly have a big one.”
It’s quiet again.
“You don’t need to do that.” Greg sounds small. Maybe even scared. “I trust the plan. I do. I apologize.”
“No apologies—”
“—only change. Yeah.” Greg clears his throat. “Can we check out the house? Being next to the woods gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“It’s perfectly safe.” Suddenly, Leah’s voice is much closer. “Let’s open the shed first. I want more people with us when we go through the house.”
I scramble toward the handle. I get to it barely a second before it turns. Maybe from her side, it feels like it’s locked or jammed.
There’s a moment of charged silence.
“There’s—”
I throw myself into the door and collide with the two people who are standing on the other side. We all go down in a sprawling pile.
Leah’s on her back, gasping, the air knocked from her lungs. She’s white and older than me, possibly in her late twenties, early thirties. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by her appearance, but I am.
I guess I was expecting a version of the sheriff. White, older, angry, radiating internalized misogyny. Not a millennial wearing Chaco sandals and a shirt with a pride rainbow on the chest pocket.
I try to get up, then fall flat with an “Ooph!” Greg’s hand is wrapped around my ankle. I kick and connect with his head. He digs his nails in. I kick out again—miss. My thoughts go pinball wild. I’m caught. Hooked in a bear trap. I can’t get away.
Everyone thinks their dog will protect them when something horrible happens. They imagine a robber breaking in and their best canine friend chasing them out of the house. Nine times out of ten, that is not the case.
It’s not the case this time either, but she is a scary-looking pit with a deep bark, and sometimes that’s enough.
Ripley lunges, barking at his face. Greg lets go to throw his arms up reflexively. I manage to get to my feet, then crank my leg back and land a five-star punt against his jaw. His head snaps to the side. He stays down.
I grab Ripley’s collar and pull her with me toward the tree line. It’s just in time too, because Leah is working her way up to standing, her hands in her pockets, searching.
The sound of a Taser kicks up just as we breach the tree line.
Leaves slap against my face, and I trip over fallen branches.
We run. I tumble down the hill, fall to my knees, and run some more.
Cold creek water splashes my thighs. I flail on algae-covered stones, then clamber up the bank to the other side.
Mud squelches between my fingers and leaves my legs streaked with brown.
The underbrush is thick on this side of the creek. Running turns into stumbling after Ripley down one deer trail to another. I go until I can’t breathe—until my legs shake and I have to brace myself on a tree to keep upright.
It’s when I let myself slide down the trunk to the ground that reality truly sinks in.
There are people, not just some corrupt cop or a stranger stalking me for fun, but multiple people trying to kill me and I have no idea why.