Chapter 27
GRANT
When I reach the location, the sun is diving toward the San Juans.
It highlights them in a dusty ribbon of pink I would normally find beautiful but right now doesn’t even register.
The entire world might as well be painted in black and white for all I care.
The only important thing at the moment is whether or not I’m at the right spot.
Return to the place where love first bloomed.
Where two hearts joined much too soon.
You vowed a love without regret.
But instead you broke, and your path was set.
Be there at seven.
I run the words through my head once more and then, with a hard swallow, I open the door and get out. Needles of apprehension lace down my spine as I grab the shovel from the trunk and yank it free. Questions churn through my head in rapid succession, one after another, none of them good.
Why do I need this? Is it to bury Avery? Or is it to dig a grave for myself?
Acid bubbles at the base of my esophagus and threatens to boil up my throat as I round the car.
The meadow beyond the fence is as beautiful as I remember, swaying with tall banks of grass in between clumps of sagebrush and bunches of juniper.
Beyond them, closer to the center of the field, is a tall stand of cottonwood overlooking a small pond.
A rope swing hangs from a branch near the water where I used to sit and feed the ducks.
I have so many memories of this place, so many recollections of good times.
And it’s chilling how staring at it now makes me shiver. This is definitely personal.
I cross the road and lean the shovel against the fence.
And then I wait. This far out in the country, there aren’t many cars or houses around.
Outside of the odd McMansion every few miles, there’s not much in the way of civilization.
The only home I can see from here is the one beyond the meadow, looking sleek in the distance, fronted by a massive front lawn.
It’s a house I once loved because I loved the girl who lived there. A girl who’s long grown and gone.
I turn my attention back to the pond, sweating even though the temperature has cooled to a comfortable seventy degrees. I don’t know why I’m here. All I know is every moment since that van rattled out of the forest yesterday and swallowed my wife has led me to this place.
Where I continue to wait.
And wait.
Until the phone I took from the abortion clinic in my pocket finally rings. An overwhelming sense of dread overtakes me as I pull it out and hit answer.
“I’m here. What now?”
“Go to the center of the field,” the robot voice orders. “Past the willows toward the hill. Keep the phone on.”
“Why?” I ask. But no answer comes.
I toss the shovel over the fence and clamber after it, holding the phone in one hand.
Even here this close to the road the grass is tall and wild, coming to my waist. The ground is lumpy and uneven beneath my feet as I walk.
Every step is an effort, every movement feels like swimming through sand.
It takes me five minutes to reach the willows and then another five to push my way through.
When I finally break free, a wave of gooseflesh ripples down my back.
There’s a small white cross planted at the top of the hill—one I didn’t see until now.
I raise the phone to my ear. “What is this?”
“This is where you dig.” The phone clicks off.
Dig. The word leaves me shaken. They’re watching me.
I can feel their gaze boring through my skin as I trudge higher toward the cross.
The man with the blue eyes is out there somewhere.
Maybe Gunn and Holston, too. But I can’t see them, can’t see anything except the meadow draped in the soft light of the slowly setting sun.
I pause at the top of the hill, my palms sweating as I grip the shovel.
I don’t want to dig, don’t want to uncover whatever they buried here for me to find.
It takes everything I have to heave the first shovel full of dirt to the side.
The earth is loose and comes free easily.
I follow it with another shovel full, and another, digging as a floating sensation overtakes me.
It’s like I’m hanging above myself, looking down as the hole grows deeper and wider, the dirt rising to the side.
Thunk.
The shovel strikes something solid, and the vibration carries up my arms. I bend and scrape away handfuls of soil, heaving it out with both hands. Beneath the grime is a brown, mirror-smooth surface. Richly grained. Shining and wet. It’s a casket. One that’s too small to belong to Avery.
But not too small to belong to a baby.
Christ, help me.
I push back to my feet, frantic, and scoop free thick shovelfuls of clay until I can see the entire thing.
My arms feel like rubber by the time I reach down and take hold of the casket and drag it free.
And then I drop to my knees and stare at it—unable to move.
The casket is about two feet long and one foot wide, with a silver plate stamped in the center.
On the plate is an inscription partially concealed by dirt, which I brush off. And then I read.
To everything there is a season:
A time to weep, a time to mourn.
A time to lose, a time for war.
A time to kill, a time to hate.
A time to die, die, die, die.
It’s a verse from Ecclesiastes and the lyrics to a song by the Byrds.
I know them both by heart, but this—what I’m staring at right now—is all wrong.
The words are garbled and out of order—no positive counterbalance to the negative.
No, a time to be born or a time to heal.
Not a time to laugh or a time of peace. Just a mangled version of the original verse repurposed in a warning.
Especially the last line which doesn’t belong at all.
It makes me want to run and never look back because I know what I’ll find inside when I open the lid.
But I can’t run. I have to look. I don’t have a choice.
I reach for the latch with trembling fingers, feeling sick, and it takes all the strength I have left to flip it up and lift.
The lid rises, my breath leaving my body as I peer at what lies inside.
There is a dark crimson pall.
And a snow-white satin pillow.
But there is no body. No alien-eyed, bleeding fetus the size of a plum.
No child.
Tears fill my eyes as relief pours through me.
It means Avery is alive, that my baby is still alive.
Maybe. I don’t know for sure, but the thought is a lifeline I use to pull myself back to the moment.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and study what the casket contains.
There’s a stuffed bear with fur I can tell was once white but has gone brown with age.
One eye is scuffed, the other hangs by a thread.
Placed next to the bear is a child’s Captain America mask along with several Avengers figurines.
And there are pictures. Pictures everywhere—scattered throughout the coffin.
I pick one up. It’s a photo of a boy with straw-blond hair and wide, bright eyes.
He’s looking up at the camera with a shy smile painted on his face and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
There are more. A picture of the same boy on a swing set.
Another of him eating a sandwich, his lips coated in jam.
Several photos show the boy as an infant, and then as a toddler, his face shining like a star.
There are images of him racing over a green lawn wearing the Captain America mask.
There are pictures of him posing with the captain’s plastic shield.
But these aren’t the only photos in the coffin.
There are shots of a man as well. He has the features of someone perpetually young.
His thick brown hair swoops low over his eyebrows.
His cheeks are full and dimpled, split by a straight but rounded nose.
He has a smile that’s wide and infectious.
The smile of a guy who looks like he’d be fun to grab a beer with sometime.
The same smile as the boy’s. This man must be his father, and as soon as I make that connection, all I can think is, what the fuck is going on?
I turn my attention to the last item in the coffin—a box resting on the pillow wrapped in satin-black paper and tied with a silver bow.
There’s a card in a white envelope pressed beneath the bow that reads, Open Me. I take it, slide it out, and read.
Hello, Grant.
Or should I call you Adrian? Or Logan or Miles? Lucas?
Or maybe I’ll just use your real name, Reed.
Three and a half years ago, you took everything from me.
Today, I will take everything from you.
Everyone will know what you did.
The police are on their way.
Love, Bailey
Reed. The name rings like a bell in my head—cold and clear—and I can barely move, barely form a thought. It’s a name I’d hoped to never hear again, tied to a past I’d worked long and hard to bury.
But someone found me.
And it’s why they took my wife.
I scan the horizon again. There’s still nothing out of the ordinary—just the sharp evening air in my nose and the gentle rustle of the breeze skimming through the grass.
There are no sirens or man-made sounds of any kind.
No police rushing forward with guns drawn, shouting for me to get on the ground.
There’s only that name—Bailey. It’s a hook that sinks deep into my brain as I set the card down and unwrap the gift.
It’s another picture. This one is a framed portrait of a family with an unnaturally large tree stretching away behind them toward a peach sky.
I recognize the man from the photos in the casket along with the boy, who is once again striking a pose in his Captain America mask.
But it’s the woman in the photo that sends all the blood in my body rushing to my feet.
She has blonde hair in place of the red I know so well, and her eyes are light brown instead of green.
Her face is fuller than I’m used to, not as defined.
And her nose is different, too. There’s a bump in the bridge and it ends in a sharper tip.
But it’s her. I know it’s her.
The woman in the photo is Avery. The woman in the photo is also Bailey Nichols.
And I know, I know, I know what I’ve done.
And who I’ve done it to.
The earth shifts beneath my feet, everything spinning violently.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense.
Avery’s ruined face in the pictures from the envelopes rip through my mind.
The bruises and blood and the way her eyes lolled drunkenly in her head in the video call when we spoke.
The severed finger wearing her wedding ring.
Was it all faked? And if it was, why? My brain smokes as I try to slot the pieces into place.
It had to be. There’s no other answer. But again, why? Why go to all of this trouble?
To punish you.
It’s the answer. It’s why Avery did this. All of this. From the very beginning. From the first moment I met her.
I don’t have long to feel the shock before the bullet slams into my back.