Chapter 12
Nick
I survived the day, but I'm on edge now more than ever, as we pull into the church parking lot. I try my best not to glance toward the woods, the place where I know I left her body to sink below the surface of the lake.
It snowed this morning, so I'm sure that the ice has covered the spot where I dumped her in, but the townspeople have been out searching for her all day. I've been searching for her all day, even though I know exactly where I left her.
"I know you're upset about your friend." Dad says, pressing the button to turn off the engine. "But you need to give it to God and stop worrying. You're letting the devil in with all this stress, son."
I don't tell him that I fear I already let the devil in when I killed her.
It was an accident, and God forgives us all of our sins.
I already prayed for forgiveness last night in the shower, and I woke feeling it had been granted.
Unfortunately, there's no peace to be had when earthly justice is a thing people strive for.
Nikki's mom was at my house by lunchtime, all the kids in tow, on the verge of tears as she begged me for answers I pretended not to have.
I'm not a fucking monster.
I never meant to kill her; I loved her. A part of me always did, and a part of me always will.
She was my first real friend, my first kiss, the first person to understand what my life was really like behind closed doors.
I never meant to kill her, just like I never meant to kill her boyfriend.
But Noah had a way of pressing matters and sticking his nose in places it doesn't belong, and to keep my secrets, I didn't really have a choice.
"I'm sure this is all just some big misunderstanding. She probably ran off with someone and forgot to tell her mom she was staying the night. Or maybe she was ashamed... her mother wouldn't look fondly upon her staying out all night sharing a bed with a man, after all."
"Mm." I nod, content to let him think that she's just off being a teenager, doing things that would bring shame to her reputation. "You're probably right."
"I mean, we both know how she always was..."
I clench my jaw without turning to look at him, and my father must pick up on my irritation, because he sighs. "I know she's your friend, but she was always trouble. Never wanted to do what she was told."
When I stay silent, he sighs again, bracing his hand on the steering wheel as he looks out at the church he's dedicated his life to.
My father is an actor, and not particularly a good one. How he's convinced so many people that he's the simple, God-fearing man he pretends to be, I think I'll never know.
"They'll be calling the search off soon." I say, more to assure myself that they won't find her yet.
I spent hours walking through the woods earlier, but the volunteers were told to stay away from bodies of water and to leave them for the professionals to search when they came in on Saturday.
It's a stroke of luck, on my part, that it all unfolded when it did.
People can only sacrifice so much of their time on Christmas Eve.
.. me included. I stayed to play my part, to make sure they didn't discover her if I could help it, but I left once Alice's questions started to feel more like accusations.
Brant and I discussed this thoroughly, making sure we were on the same page before we parted ways last night.
We confirmed as much through texts earlier today.
Neither of us has tried to reach out to Cole since he abandoned us.
I definitely got the feeling that his plan was to deny until the end, so I'm not exactly worried.
Mostly I'm just pissed that he left us to deal with this mess all on our own.
"I know you want to save everyone, son, but some people are beyond help. She's an adult, and nothing bad ever happens in Church and Lakes. If she's missing, it's because she wants to be. Just pray for her to come to her senses, huh?"
I bite my tongue against all the things I could say in response to that and nod instead.
Just pray.
I doubt I can pray her back to life... and even if I could, I wouldn't. Not after how it ended...
"Yeah." I nod. "I'll do that."
"Good." Dad waves a hand through the air.
"Cause I need your help in there. Faith Methodist had that scandal a few months back with that pumpkin patch incident, so I'm expecting a bigger turnout than ever tonight for midnight mass.
We only have a few hours 'til the congregation is lining up for donuts and coffee, so let's get in there and get set up, hmm? "
It's not a question; those are my marching orders... ones I know not to question.
The church is eerily quiet when we let ourselves in. Dad goes about setting up, turning the coffee maker on in the kitchen area and queuing up his power point. I follow him at first, casually keeping an eye out for anything we may have missed in our haste to clean up last night.
Brant and I scrubbed the security footage, which the police shockingly haven't asked for yet.
I guess having a reputation as an upstanding citizen means they were willing to take my word for it when I told them that she left without me.
I texted her strategically, a series of messages expertly designed to make it seem like I was concerned about her and that I didn't support her going off on her own.
Of course, they'll hopefully never see those texts since we broke her phone to pieces when we got back to the church last night, after we left her body to sink in the lake, and I threw them out in the burn barrels along with all her clothes and shoes, hat and purse.
I scrubbed every trace of Nikki's presence out of this church; Brant made a list using Chad (against my better judgement) and we checked it twice to be sure we'd gotten everything.
In a few hours, the church will be full, and the crime scene will be so contaminated that they don't stand a chance at connecting her to me.
"Go get the decorations from the cellar." Dad says, leveling me with a gaze. "Your hovering is stressing me out."
I don't need to be told twice; anything that gets me away from my father for a bit is fine with me... even if the cellar still creeps me out.
Hundreds of years ago, the church used to bury people down there. They say there are still dozens of bodies beneath the dirt, like the town's founders who were buried beneath cement to keep grave robbers from stealing the jewels they were buried with.
I always hated it in the cellar as a kid, when I'd get sent down here to collect stuff for my father.
When I was a kid, I imagined the bodies breaking through the ground like zombies and feasting on my flesh.
Now that I'm older, I know that's ridiculous and impossible, but it doesn't change the fact that I still get a sense of foreboding every time I touch that doorknob that leads down to the cellar.
This time, though, I don't get a chance to feel the foreboding, because the doorknob sticks, refusing to turn when I twist the handle. It doesn't budge, not even a little, and I throw my shoulder at the door like that may make a difference. It doesn't.
The door is locked.
In all my years, this door has never been locked.
.. there wouldn't be much point to it, since all we keep down there is out of season decor and old clothing for the annual charity drives.
I don't think we even have a key to this door.
It's why I drop to my knees, lining my gaze up with the small keyhole, peering through the darkness like I can see the tumblers and manage to disengage them.
There's nothing to be seen— no locking mechanism, no tumblers, nothing.
"Damn it." I slam the door in my frustration, taking a second to regroup before deciding to try again.
It's as I'm squinting, one eye closed and the other pressed to the keyhole, that I see it— a flash of white.
It's so bright it blinds me for a moment, and so quick as it seems like it rushes toward me that I fall backwards on my ass, breathing heavily and rattled to my core. But as I stare at the door, I hear the small pop of the lock coming undone, and then the door creaks open just the slightest bit.
I hold my breath, waiting to see if someone comes out, but there's no one there. Of course.
I'm jumpy because I'm afraid of going to prison for life.
Realistically, that wouldn't happen. I thought about it a lot last night while I waited for sleep to come take me and even if they manage to find her before the gators do and somehow link her to me, I can't see myself being convicted of anything more than manslaughter.
A good lawyer can negotiate that sentence down to a few years at most, and the right judge— AKA Brant's dad— could ensure fair prison conditions.
I still don't want to get caught, of course, but if I do, it will be okay.
Deciding that hitting the door must have knocked something loose inside the lock, I get to my feet and toe the door open with my boot. There's no one, of course, on the other side, but when I pull the string hanging from the bare light bulb overhead and nothing happens, I curse my bad luck.
I'm still cursing my bad luck as I flip the flashlight of my phone on and shine it down the steps, panning it quickly across the bottom of the stairs to be sure there are no zombies waiting for me.
I take the steps slowly, careful to step around the weak spot on the bottom tread and turn toward the stacks of boxes.
I have to swallow the lump in my throat when I see my mom's handwriting, the thick lines of a marker and a loopy cursive that list the occasion on the outside of each box.
She's been gone for more of my life than she was alive, but I still miss her.
There are seven boxes plus the nativity scene; it takes me five trips back and forth to get it all upstairs.
It's on the final trip, when I'm dragging the manger awkwardly up the steps, that I hear it.