Page 25 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Think about it, Beth. Do you want to be known as the daughter of Brian and Laura Thomas, the couple that may have killed a child and then got rid of the body? If this gets out, you’ll never be anything else.” Michael swigs his drink.

“I don’t care,” she says.

“Well, I do.” He sets the beer bottle down with a little force. It thuds against the table.

I’m about to agree with Michael, but Beth cuts in. “Oh, screw off, Michael. You’ll scurry back to your big home in California, sip your expensive fucking scotch, and go on with your life, never having been affected by this, just like you did before.”

He hangs his head. A single tear runs down his cheek. It falls slowly, like a person trudging through land that has never been traversed. It zigzags a little, touches the corner of his lip, then dribbles the rest of the way to his chin, clinging to his jawline, refusing to drop.

“I agree with Michael,” I say. “I don’t want to be known for that.”

“It’s a step-up from being a junkie,” Beth mutters.

I stand abruptly from my seat, sending the old wooden chair reeling backward. It smacks against the hardwood floor, causing one of the spindles to crack and break into two pieces. “Screw you, Beth. You think you’re so great? You work on an assembly line, putting bags of frozen vegetables into boxes. Your own daughter won’t even talk to you, so I’d say it would be a step-up for you too.”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about my daughter, you crackhead,” Beth shouts, pointing her finger at me.

“Enough!” Michael slams his fist against the table, startling the both of us.

Beth’s eyes are wide, and her mouth is partially open like she’s about to yell at him too, but she doesn’t. Michael’s tear has disappeared, either fallen onto his shirt and absorbed by the expensive material or evaporated into thin air. I take a deep breath, pick up the broken chair, and retake my seat, leaving the splintered spindle on the floor.

“Fighting with each other isn’t going to help. Let’s just finish going through everything, and if we find enough to give us an idea of what actually happened to Emma or where her body is, we’ll report it. If not, we’ll move on with our lives and forget we ever saw that tape,” he says with a firm tone.

Beth closes her mouth and purses her lips.

Michael’s eyes flick between us. “Deal?”

I nod because that sounds right to me. Why tell anyone when we really don’t have much to tell?

Michael looks to Beth, waiting for a response. She chugs the rest of her drink and sets the glass down with force. “Fine,” she says reluctantly.

“And if we find nothing, we take it to our graves just like Mom did, right?” he adds, ensuring she agrees and understands.

Beth stares back at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Okay.” The word comes out raspy with very little conviction. I’m not sure I believe her. She’s never stopped loving Lucas, even when she was married, even after all these years, and even though she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade before today. I trust Michael though. He’ll honor whichever way this goes.

“Good, we’re all in agreement then.” He nods.

I leave the table and make my way to the living room where the box labeledJournalsis located. It’s one of the few things left specifically to me.

“What are you doing?” Beth calls out.

“If there are any clues as to what happened to Emma Harper, it’ll be somewhere in here,” I say as I take a seat on the floor and pull open the cardboard box.

She delivers the faintest smile as though she’s thanking me for helping her. But I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for me.

FIFTEEN

LAURA

JUNE 15, 1999

It’s just after noon, and the sun is set high in the sky, shining bright on our little event. Perfect weather for a perfect day. I slip eight one-dollar bills into the cashbox and smile back at a family of four I’ve never met before. They collect their raffle tickets and make their way around the admission booth to the park.

A hand taps my shoulder. “Great turnout,” Susan says, beaming.

Her blond hair stops an inch below her chin, and her blue eyes look like two robin eggs sitting in a nest, waiting to hatch. We’ve been next-door neighbors since 1990, when she, her husband, and their two children moved into the house across the street. I remember liking Susan right away. She has one of those warm personalities that makes you feel like you’re standing directly under sunlight, even when you’re not.

I nod and glance out at the park. It’s around the size of a football field, located in the center of town, sprinkled with large ash and white oak trees. Today, it’s buzzing with people and excitement. The Grove feels like one of those big cities I’ve seen in movies and TV shows. Hundreds of people from surrounding towns have descended upon our small unincorporated community to attend the Groovin’ in the Grove fundraiser.

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