Page 41 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

Michael stands from his seat and tilts his chin. “Are you sure you don’t want to come, Beth?”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But I do hope you find him.”

“Will you be fine here on your own? Given the break-in...” His eyes scan the living room and then land back on me.

“Yeah.”

Michael nods, accepting my answer. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed in my response, if he understands it, or if he’s happy that I took a stance. He leaves the house without another word. And that silence is exactly what I need.

TWENTY-TWO

NICOLE

Michael’s rental car drives smoothly, absorbing the shock from bumpy roads and streets riddled with potholes. I think that’s how his life has been too, equivalent to a ride in a luxury vehicle, untouchable from the ups and downs of existence. I haven’t owned a car in a while, but I did have an old Toyota Camry, before I couldn’t afford the insurance or even the gas in the tank, and I remember the drives were never smooth.

His hand rests on the bottom of the steering wheel while his other lies in his lap. There’s no tension, no worry, nothing. It’s all very laid-back. We’re maybe five minutes away, and we haven’t spoken the whole ride. I’m not sure either of us know what to say. What do you say to a person you used to know? It’d be easier to talk to him if I didn’t know him at all.

“Thanks for coming,” I finally land on.

Michael glances over at me. “Of course. I couldn’t let you go alone.”

“Beth could.” I briefly meet his gaze before breaking away and looking out the passenger-side window.

A blur of harvested cornfields and pastures scattered with dairy cows pass by. The sky is a light gray, like a dirty sheet has been pulled over it. It’s looked like that since Mom passed. Maybe she took the sunshine with her.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” he says. His eyes are back on the road ahead.

“How else am I supposed to take it?”

“Did you take it personally when I stopped coming around after Dad went missing?”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned his absence.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“Why?”

“Because we’re family, and we needed you.”

“Mom didn’t.”

I study his profile. He has Dad’s nose and chin, strong and pronounced. His eyes are a mix of both our parents’, not blue, not green, but hazel. His hair is dark like Dad’s with specks of gray, but he keeps it cut short on the sides and a little longer on top.

“What do you meanMom didn’t?”

He clenches his jaw slightly, like he’s chewing on the words that he hasn’t uttered yet, clasping them with his back molars and deciding whether or not to release them.

“She told me not to come back,” he says.

“Why would she tell you that?”

He swallows hard; his Adam’s apple rocks up and down, covering nearly the full length of his neck.

“Because when she called to tell me about Dad leaving, I said it was probably for the best.”

“Why would you say that to her?”

“Why wouldn’t I say that? She said he left a note. That means he chose to leave, and honestly, he and I hadn’t been good for a long time. Ever since I moved out to California, he lost interest in my life. I think he resented me for doing more than he ever did, which is pretty fucked up. Our parents pushed us to be the best, but when I did better than Dad, he shut me out.”

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