Chapter 16
Laelynn paces back and forth, hands pressed together, covering her mouth as if stifling a scream or holding back vomit. I haven’t seen her like this since…
Then, to my surprise, she turns and hugs me, her shoulders shaking with sobs, tears dripping onto my shoulders. I hold her in silence, unsure if I’m comforting her or myself.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Eric says, his voice cracking, his strong, veined hand trembling as he strokes the dog’s fur.
Laelynn puts her weight on me. And for a moment I sense I’m carrying more than the immediate grief of her dog dying.
I’m carrying something else she’s been holding for a long time.
Heathcliff’s silver dog tag glints in the sun, but his chest remains motionless.
The sight of this once vibrant, joyful Saint Bernard so still sickens me.
It reminds me of how my father looked. Chest frozen, eyes lost in purgatory.
“Could he have eaten something in the woods?” I ask, trying to offer some explanation. I scan the backyard while I stroke Laelynn’s back, searching the lawn, the gravel path, the still forest for what could have caused this. But nothing looks out of place.
Eric just strokes Heathcliff, too grief-stricken to be weighing causes of death.
Laelynn pulls away. Her hand lingers before dropping to her side.
Our eyes lock. The pressurized energy I’ve come to expect from her is gone.
She sways slightly, as if the ground might give out beneath her.
Her eyes flick past me, searching, like she’s just realized she’s lost something she doesn’t know how to live without.
I see it then, just for a moment: the woman beneath the armor. Worn thin. Breakable.
“Laelynn, what can I do to help?”
She gasps as if rising from underwater. Wipes her eyes, swallows, and the stiff upper lip returns. She pats me on the shoulder.
“Please take the girls to their room and make sure they stay there. I don’t want them to see Heathcliff.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and head inside. As my footsteps crunch on the gravel, I try to block the image of Heathcliff from my mind so the girls don’t see it in my expression.
I plaster a smile on my face and jog up the patio steps, doing my best to convey an everything-is-normal vibe despite my stomach feeling ripped out.
But when I open the patio door, I notice the girls are gone.
For a moment, I panic, but then I hear faint laughter from upstairs.
They must have gone to their room. They hear their mom scream and see their dad sprint out in a panic and then just head to their room like nothing’s happened? Who are these girls?
I jog up the floating staircase, taking them two at a time, twelve stairs in all. I don’t know where their room is, but I listen for them. High-pitched giggles waft from behind the white paneled door at the end of the hallway.
My hand’s on the doorknob when it hits me: I have no idea what to say. I take a deep breath and decide I’ll just act normal and play. Of course, I’ve never really played with kids, so I don’t know what that entails, but I’ll figure it out.
I knock on the door. The girls invite me in. I force my cheeks upward.
As I enter, I am immediately struck with envy.
White-and-blue Peter Rabbit wallpaper lines the walls, and a floor-to-ceiling bay window overlooks the lake.
The scent of kid-shampoo fills the air. A sailboat-shaped bunk bed runs along the left wall; a bookcase stuffed with children’s books anchors the right.
A tiny desk littered with paper and crayons rests beside the window overlooking the lake.
The girls sit on the floor on an oversize Richard Scarry apple car mat playing with dolls.
As I walk in, they appraise me. “Hello, Ms. Charlotte,” they say in unison. I smile and greet them, but goose bumps break out on my arms. I can’t help the sensation that I’ve entered the hotel from The Shining every time I see them.
I look down to see what they’re playing with, and the tingle moves up my arms to my neck.
Emma, the twin without a mole, holds a doll in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other.
But this isn’t an ordinary doll. It’s antique porcelain with dark eyes, a haunting, dead expression, and a deathly pale face except for blush-filled cheeks.
She wears a yellowed, ruffled dress, ravaged by time, and blond hair.
But it’s the hair that strikes me. Blond hair that looks…
human. And there’s a pile of it on the floor.
Emma turns it and presents it to me, with a smile on her face. “Look, Ms. Charlotte, we made it look like you.” Both girls burst out giggling.
I inspect the doll, and my breath catches. They’ve cut her hair in the same butterfly cut as my hair. It’s like looking at myself as an ancient corpse.
I return the smile but can’t help feeling that I’m being mocked. “That’s very nice, girls. Thank you for doing that.”
“You’re welcome,” Emma says and returns her attention to the haircut while Penelope coaches her.
“Where did you get the doll? It looks old,” I ask, picking up a few loose Legos off the floor.
“It’s Daddy’s,” says Penelope.
“You mean your daddy gave it to you?”
“No, silly. It’s Daddy’s. He collects them.”
More goose bumps. “Your dad collects dolls?”
“Yeah, from the old amusement park.”
“Ah, I see.” I pause, trying to imagine Eric hunting for dolls in the woods. “Do you think you should be cutting the doll’s hair, then?”
They both shrug.
I walk toward the window, not wanting to stare at my ghoulish doppelg?nger any longer than necessary.
I spot Olivia walking into the house from the lake, skin glistening, face tilted to the sun.
My stomach cinches at the thought of her finding out about Heathcliff.
I consider intercepting her, but Laelynn gave me orders, and I don’t want to piss her off any more than I already have.
Plus, Olivia’s parents will break the news to her more tactfully than I ever could.
“So, what do you guys want to do today?” I say, turning back toward them.
“Don’t know,” says Penelope, laser-focused on the doll.
I spot a few board games on the shelves. “We could play Candy Land? I used to love that game when I was a kid.”
Penelope scrunches her face. “No, thanks.”
I grab a Nancy Drew book from the bookshelf. “We could read a story together.”
Emma shakes her head. Not interested.
I shuffle to the desk and pick up a crayon. “We could do some color—” Before I can finish my sentence, I spot what’s next to the crayons.
A plate of grapes.
My mind flashes to Laelynn’s warning about feeding the dog grapes.
A tremor runs through my hands. Is this why the girls were so unsurprised by their mother’s scream? I take a cautious step toward them, uncertain how to proceed.
“Girls, did you feed Heathcliff grapes last night?”
Emma stops cutting the doll’s hair. Sunlight reflects off the scissor blades. She looks up at me, green eyes wide as can be, her eyebrows waved. “No, why?”
I kneel. “You’re sure? If you did, it’s okay. I won’t be mad.”
Penelope raises her chin and recites her words like a declaration. “Mommy told us that grapes are very bad for Heathcliff.”
I open my mouth to press further, but a movement in the doorway interrupts me. It’s Olivia. The red around her eyes tells me she’s heard about Heathcliff. She motions for me to come outside the room and puts her finger to her lips.
“Girls, I’ll be back in a second. You two stay here, okay?”
“Okay,” they chime back, barely acknowledging me.
I step into the hallway, close the door, and hug Olivia. She grips me tight, and a tear runs down her cheek onto mine.
“I’m so sorry, Liv.”
“Thanks.” She pulls back, wipes the tear from her eye, and sniffles. “It just makes no sense. He was as healthy as a horse.”
“I know. He was scratching at my door last night.” I consider mentioning the grapes but decide against it. “It has to be something he ate, doesn’t it?”
Olivia’s face hardens, and she leans so close I can smell her bubble-gum breath. “I told you there was something wrong with this place. I bet it was that fucking psycho, Russ Neuman. I bet he poisoned him.”
“Do you really think he would do that?” As I say it, I flash back to Marjorie Neuman’s obituary. To the crunching sounds outside my door last night.
“You tell me. You saw that note.”
I think of the note. Of Vivek eyeing me at Cov. Are we sure Russ left that note?
“Yeah, maybe he could. Is there anything I can do?”
She pulls her hair back with both hands, her bottom lip quivering. “Not right now.” She sniffs and stiffens her jaw as if willing herself not to cry. “Honestly, I think the best thing would be for you to take a walk. Let us deal with it, talk to the girls, etcetera.”
“Really? I don’t want to abandon you guys when you’re grieving.”
“Yeah. It doesn’t do any good for you to wallow with us. I’ll take care of the girls. We don’t need to bring you into the family drama any more than we already have.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely. It will give us a chance to process it without feeling like we’re ruining your vacation.”
I throw up my hands. “Okay. If you say so.”
“I say so.” She forces a smile and pats me on the back. “Go.”
I give her a hug and then jog down the stairs to my room.
I throw on some hiking boots and grab my metal water bottle, trying to pretend that there isn’t a dead dog on the other side of the wall.
Part of me wants to stay, to help, to make sure everyone’s all right, but the other part of me feels like this is a Parker family issue and I shouldn’t interfere.
But I keep picturing the untouched plate of grapes in the girls’ room, and the way Emma looked, like she knew something I didn’t.
And that doll. That disfigured little doll.
I step outside and take a deep breath of the fresh summer air, glazed with the scent of chrysanthemums. The sun glows and the birds chatter in the forest. Olivia was right. Wallowing over Heathcliff won’t do me any good, but a long hike might.
I try to shift my mind to the present, but as I walk down the gravel path, I catch the sound of Eric and Laelynn talking by the side of the house.
Not wanting to eavesdrop, I quicken my pace toward the entrance to the forest, but the voices follow me.
As I enter the woods, I hear Laelynn’s throaty timbre, grief-stricken, finally articulate what I know is true.
“Eric, this wasn’t an accident.”