Chapter 42
While Eric searches for Laelynn, I try to ignore the dread crawling through my chest. I move mechanically through the house, cleaning, organizing, preparing for the coming tornado.
I snatch snacks and bottled water from the storage room, light a few candles in the living room, and jam a flashlight into the pockets of my overalls.
Twilight still bathes the house for now, but it’s fraying at the edges.
Outside, trees bend back and forth, casting jagged shadows on the walls.
The wind whistles through the few seams in the house, and lightning cuts the sky like a scalpel, each crack a countdown to the coming tempest.
Every time I pass through the kitchen, I check on Olivia.
She sits motionless in her usual chair, dressed in a matching tan sweatsuit, staring out the window, watching the lake grow angrier and angrier.
But she’s not really watching. She floats somewhere else.
Not sad. Not blank. Just gone. Like she’s rewinding her mother’s death over and over, searching for a different ending.
The image of Laelynn’s lifeless body slashes through my mind—limp, pale, wet.
And then Olivia’s earlier comment hits me. “Grab Dad’s knife.”
As she remains lost in thought, I tiptoe to my room and grab Eric’s hunting knife. The black handle is solid in my grip, the sharp steel catching the dim light. Would I have the heart to use it? Thunder cracks like a whip, and a voice in my blood answers: Yes.
“That’s my girl,” she says from behind me, her voice eerily calm.
I flinch. A slow, dark smile tugs at her lips—the same look she gave me when she urged me to confront the Adwanis.
“Maybe that’ll help you sleep,” she says and floats back to the kitchen.
The way she says it twists something inside me.
I shake my head and slide the knife back into the bedside drawer with a clink.
I already know sleep won’t come tonight.
Tornado prep. Focus.
We’ll need something soft for cover, and for sleep, if it comes to that. God, I hope it doesn’t. A murderer loose, a storm bearing down, and now, the prospect of spending the night in a basement straight out of a horror movie.
I head upstairs. Olivia’s room is spotless. Not a wrinkle on the sheets. No makeup bag, no toothbrush. Nothing in the trash. No sign of life. It’s like a stage set for a person who doesn’t exist.
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.
“Yeah, so?” I say.
“So, I—I thought you might be in danger too.”
“I’m fine. Eric’s here.” I lie.
He peers over my shoulder.
I tighten my grip on the knife, and he takes another step back but leans in slightly and lowers his voice. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Eric? Why?”
He looks behind him and then whispers, his words nervous and rambling.
“Before Mom died, Eric came by her house and made an offer. Told her he wants to buy up the whole island. She told him to pound sand. That this island’s Neuman country.
Next thing ya know, my mom’s dead. Thought it was natural causes at the time.
” A pause. “Now I just heard the Adwanis are dead.”
I stare at him, trying to read past the deep lines in his pale face. “If you’re so worried about me, why have you been leaving threatening notes on our door?”
His eyes shift. “Well…ya know…that’s why I’m here.”
“What do you mean?”
He kicks the mud and runs a hand through his unwashed hair.
“You’re right that I’ve been leaving the notes.
But it’s only because Eric told me to, ya know.
He wanted to drive down the home prices.
Scare everyone away. You see, we’ve got a deal.
He said if I left the notes, he’d let me keep my land.
Made me put ’em on your door so that it seemed like it was happening to everyone. ”
Russ’s words detonate inside me.
Eric’s behind the notes?
The revelation sucks the air from my lungs. I stagger backward, suddenly lightheaded, gripping the doorframe for balance. It can’t be true. Not Eric. Not the man who bakes croissants and wears goofy aprons.
And yet, it makes too much sense. His measured reaction to the first note. Not wanting to call the police. Snapshots of him spin through my mind as I try to grip the man behind the man. I open my mouth to demand more—
The patio door slams behind me.
Russ flinches.
Eric.
He’s back.