Chapter 43
“You need to leave,” I whisper, my voice dry and jagged. I shut the front door and don’t look back.
My hand lingers on the knob. Eric told him to leave those notes. The man who makes bootlegs and grills in funny aprons. The words ricochet in my skull. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to press Ctrl+Alt+Delete and pretend this trip never happened.
Instead, I turn.
Eric stands in the doorway, Laelynn’s body cradled in his arms. Soaked.
Lifeless. A hush falls over the room, pierced only by the wet drip, drip, drip of her hair.
Her skin is waxy, bloodless. A sweet, rotting stench rides in with the lake water.
My stomach flips, but I move toward him.
His leaf-green eyes are wide, hollow. Lost.
My horror knots with sympathy. But part of me wonders if it’s real.
Is this what grief looks like? Or guilt?
“Oh my God,” Olivia gasps, standing from her chair. One glance, then she spins away, hand clamped over her mouth. For a second, I think she’s going to be sick. I ignore her and focus my attention on Eric. His chest heaves long, shallow breaths, and his face is somehow both ruddy and drawn.
“Are you okay?” I ask, afraid that if I say the wrong thing, he might shatter.
“Yeah, just tired. Grab whatever ice is left in the freezer,” he mutters, stepping forward like Frankenstein animated by some ephemeral prod.
I slide out of his way and press a hand to his back, urging him forward into the house, shielding Olivia from the sight.
As he shuffles past, I glimpse his arms. They’re shaking but firm, fueled by resolve.
I load a bucket and follow him into the basement.
He heads straight for the storage freezer.
It sits alone, powerless, a silent crypt waiting to be filled.
I clear out the contents, and then he gently lowers Laelynn’s body inside.
Her limbs shift unnaturally, a grotesque marionette.
I hand him the bucket, and he scatters the ice over her like a final offering.
He exhales and closes the lid, his hands shaking.
A shiver crawls up my spine. This is where we’re supposed to sleep tonight. With her.
Eric turns, face drawn, creases etched in his brow, the stench of death still clinging to him. Russ’s words echo as I search his eyes for something darker, but all I find is a mask of grief.
“I don’t know how long it’ll stay cool without power, but I don’t know what else to do,” he says.
I reach out to hold him, but then pull back. “You did the right thing,” I say, the words strange on my tongue. I want to believe him. I want the man I’ve imagined to be real. Even if Russ was telling the truth, that doesn’t make Eric a killer.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell the twins,” he says, raising a hand to his lips, his voice crashing with each word.
“Sleep on it. You can talk to them about it in the morning. You’re exhausted.”
“Thanks. You’re right,” he murmurs.
“I keep trying to call the police, but there’s still no signal. Should we try the neighbors?”
“It’s not safe. I almost died a few times out there. Plus, I don’t trust anyone on this island anymore. Let’s just get through the night, and hopefully the network will be up by morning.”
“Okay. Well, at least you were able to bring her back.”
His gaze lingers, something unspoken crackling between us. “It was hard. It was really hard.”
He staggers upstairs. “C’mon. I’ll shower up and make us some tea.”
But I don’t follow. Something in his voice keeps me frozen in place. The way he said it.
It was hard. It was really hard.
Like he wasn’t just talking about carrying her.
My mind races back to the rope burns around her neck. The ropes Eric so effortlessly tied when he docked the boat. The axe that split the Adwanis in two. Eric swinging it, splitting logs like butter.
Upstairs, a drawer slides open.
The scrape of metal against wood.
Then, click. Another click.
Front door locks. Back door locks. Bolting shut.
With each bolt, a gunshot in my mind.
I step back from the freezer, pulse pounding, breath shallow.
Eric’s footsteps slow above me.
And I wonder…
Have I just locked myself in with the murderer?