Page 59 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Where’s the service being held?” Casey asks, grabbing my attention.

“Home. That’s where she wanted it. She lived and died there, and that’s where she wanted to stay. It’ll be small.”

He nods, and his eyes skim over my face. I wonder what he sees. The way I looked when we first met? Young and vibrant, with our whole lives ahead of us. Or does he see me as I am now? Someone who threw so much of her life away.

“Were you able to get the file?” I ask.

There’s no sense in beating around the bush. I want to know what happened to Emma and Christie, and maybe it’s for selfish reasons, but I don’t care.

“Yeah,” he stammers and turns away from me to open the passenger-side door of his cruiser. Casey rummages through a bag and pulls out two folders.

“This one is Christie Roberts’s case file.” I take it from him. It’s thin compared to Emma’s.

“Thanks,” I say.

He holds out a second folder. It’s even thinner than Christie’s. “And there’s this.”

“What is it?” I ask, taking it from him.

“I cross-checked Emma Harper’s case file, and it pulled a missing person report.”

“For who?”

“Charles Gallagher.”

THIRTY-TWO

LAURA

DECEMBER 16, 1999

The brick house on the corner sits quiet and dark. No Christmas tree with twinkling lights in any of the windows. The wordmurdereris scrawled across the two-car garage door, spray-painted in blood red. Cracked eggs are splatted on windows, yolks frozen against the panes. My shoes crunch over snow that’s been packed down by trespassers and vandals. Clutched in my mitten-covered hands are a casserole dish and an assortment of baked goods. It’s the least I can do after what Brian and I did. I still don’t know why we got rid of Emma. When I bring it up, Brian tunes me out or just walks away. So, I started doing things that would make me feel an ounce better. Like this... bringing a hot dish and sweet treats to the man whose life we ruined.

The air is sharp and icy, pricking the sides of my throat as I breathe it in. A faint taste of blood enters my mouth as the capillaries seem to swell, bursting with the cold, then thawing on the exhale and trickling out of the fissures. At the door, I hesitate and notice the bell has been ripped clean off. He clearly doesn’t want any visitors, and I don’t blame him. I glance at the side street through the trees, the same one our house is on. Then I take a quick look at the park behind me that sits across from the main road, making sure no one is watching. I’m not sure how I’d explain bringing baked goods to Charles Gallagher.

I pound my fist against the door. It’s a muffled knock thanks to my thick mitten. The wind whips against my face, stinging my skin. I knock again, this time harder. The drawn curtains on the front window flick and then settle into place. I know someone’s home, but I don’t know if they’ll answer. Heavy footsteps grow louder as they clamor inside. A chain lock jingles. Three dead bolts click. The handle jerks. This type of protection is unusual for a small town, but not with what he’s been through. Finally, the door swings open and on the other side stands Charles Gallagher.

I haven’t seen him since the day Emma went missing, and he seems to have aged years in the past six months. He’s still a tall, gangly thing but he wears a hardened face. Prison will do that to you, I suppose. He wasn’t in long... only a month or so, but it was long enough. His dark hair is buzzed short. The same goes for his facial hair. A pair of thick glasses with silver frames rests on the bridge of his nose, and fresh pink scars stretch across his right cheek.

“What?” he asks. It’s not a greeting, but I didn’t expect one. He’s been out of prison for ten days, and coming back to the Grove probably isn’t much of an improvement. Although Charles was acquitted in a court of law, the court of public opinion said otherwise.

“Hi, Charles. I’m Laura. Laura Thomas. I live at the end of the street.”

“Yeah,” he says. His gaze dances all around me like he’s readying himself for a fight-or-flight response.

I lift my hands a few inches, showing off the ceramic dish and stack of Tupperware containers. “I made too much, and I have extra casserole and baked goods.” I don’t want him to think I specifically made it for him, even though I did.

“And?”

“I thought you and your mother might enjoy them.”

He eyes me and my Tupperware with suspicion and then scans the landscape behind me.

“Otherwise, they’ll go to waste,” I add, lifting a brow.

Charles squints as he studies my face. When he’s finally made up his mind, he nods and beckons to follow him. I take a deep breath before crossing the threshold, reminding myself that he’s not the dangerous one.

A tube television sits in the far corner of the living room, playing a rerun ofGarfield and Friends. Charles glances at the screen, pausing for a moment to watch Garfield scarf down a pan of lasagna. He smiles faintly before continuing into the kitchen. I notice he walks with a limp now, and I’m not sure I should follow him, but I do. His house resembles what I’ve made of his life—a mess. A putrid scent of cat urine mixed with cigarettes permeates my nose. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, stacked a couple feet tall. Piles of old newspapers and ashtrays chock-full of stubbed-out Camel cigarettes clutter the kitchen table. Several cats meow from somewhere deep in the home but they don’t make an appearance. Charles clears a small area on the table.

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