Page 62 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“I don’t know.”

“What does the report say?” I ask, glancing back at the road.

“Exactly what we found in the newspaper clippings. The police thought she was a runaway, so there wasn’t really any sort of an investigation.”

“All right then.” Michael readjusts himself and faces forward. “It’s settled.”

“No, it’s not. We still don’t know what happened to Emma, and Charles Gallagher went missing too,” she says.

I find her eyes in the rearview mirror. “What do you meanwent missing?”

Nicole holds up a thin folder. “Casey cross-checked cases connected to Emma Harper’s disappearance, and pulled this one. His mother reported him missing on December 28, just a few weeks after he was acquitted and released.”

“He probably just skipped town,” I say, pulling off the interstate into Delavan. Compared to Allen’s Grove, this place looks like a city. It has a Walmart, Starbucks, Kohl’s, and a McDonald’s, all the staples of a Midwest town.

“That’s what the police thought, so they never looked into it. But the statement his mom gave casts a lot of doubt that Charles just left on his own accord.”

“What’d she say?” Michael turns to look at her again. I can’t tell if he’s actually interested or just humoring Nicole.

I park the car on the street in front of Monroe Funeral Home and kill the engine.

“She said Charles walked over to the Boar’s Nest for a drink the night of December 27, 1999. It was the first time he left his house since his release. The next morning she realized he had never come home. His working vehicles were all accounted for and none of his belongings were missing. She said there was no way he just up and left because he would never abandon her.”

Nicole looks up from the paper, her eyes seeking some sort of response from Michael or me.

I glance over to the funeral home. It sports the facade of a real house with brick exterior on the first floor and white panel siding on the second. There’s a front porch and an American flag is mounted to the railing. It flaps and twirls in the wind. If it weren’t for the large Monroe Funeral Home sign affixed in the yard, I would have thought it belonged to a family, like every other house in this neighborhood. But it doesn’t. It’s meant to look like a home, to appeal to the living, so that the business of death feels personal, not cold and commercial.

“Neither of you think it’s odd that Charles Gallagher went missing?” Nicole asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“No,” Michael says. “From the sound of it, the only person that cared about him was his mother. Can you even be considered missing if no one misses you?”

“Yes, Michael, you can,” Nicole scoffs. “What do you think, Beth?”

I let out a sigh and push open the car door. “I think today isn’t about Christie Roberts or Emma Harper or Charles Gallagher. Today’s about Mom, and I’m going in to get her, so we can take her home.”

I slam the door closed behind me and breathe in the scent of fall—the crisp, sharp air mixed with the decay and rot of withering plants, dry leaves, and trees hunkering down for the season. It has a musky-sweet smell to it. Just like death, it’s all-consuming.

THIRTY-FOUR

NICOLE

The black long-sleeve top and pair of slacks I’m wearing are two sizes too big because they’re not mine, they’re Mom’s. It feels strange to wear her clothes to her own funeral, but I didn’t have any other options. I hold the urn close to my chest. She’s inside of it, or at least what’s left of her. Michael emerges from the hallway, looking polished and pulled together.

“Nice suit,” I say.

He readjusts his cuff links and says, “Thanks.”

“How much was it?”

Michael rolls his eyes and smooths the sleeves of his jacket.

As much as I resent him for having so much more than me, it hasn’t been all bad having him home again. He buys the good liquor, he’s kept the fridge full this week, and he protected me... just like he did when we were kids.

Beth’s footsteps click down the hallway, growing louder. She’s dressed in a black top, skirt, tights, and a pair of heeled boots that extend to her knee. Her clothes mold to her curves and most of them look new. Even her hair is swooped and clipped up. Her makeup is minimal but it’s clear she took her time applying it. I can’t remember the last time I saw her put any effort into her appearance. But I wonder if the effort is for Mom or for Lucas.

“You look nice,” I say.

She nods and beelines to the bottle of scotch set on the countertop. Beth splashes more than a shot into a coffee cup and slams the whole thing.

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