Page 65 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

I don’t respond and continue inspecting the damp clothes. His winter jacket has several dark spots. I press my fingertips against one and pull away, noticing the red stain it leaves on my skin. Bringing my fingers to my nose, I sniff the smell of iron. I know exactly what it is, because only one thing smells like that.

“Laura,” Brian says, poking his head out of the shower.

My gaze meets his, and he practically deflates.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

He shakes his head and grabs a towel hanging from a hook on the wall. “It’s not my blood.” He dries himself off quickly.

I stare back at him, narrowing my eyes, but all I can see is a shadow. A looming black figure, floating through the steam toward me. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Brian says, wrapping the towel around his waist. “You did this.”

“What?!” The word comes out as two syllables, the first sharp and angry, the second a forced whisper, realizing the time and that the kids are asleep. “How didIdo this?”

Brian walks to the mirror and swipes his hand over it, clearing the condensation. He finger combs his hair while his reflected eyes lock onto me. “When you staged Emma Harper’s bicycle at the Dead End.”

I clench my jaw and fold my arms across my chest. “Yeah, so? I wasn’t going to sit around and let an innocent man rot in prison for something he didn’t do.”

Brian turns to face me. He wears a look of frustration mixed with disappointment. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore... because Charles Gallagher is dead.”

THIRTY-SIX

BETH

Mom’s funeral was yesterday, and I think it’ll always feel like it was only a day ago. That’s how Dad’s disappearance still feels: like it was yesterday. The moments that change us forever always feel recent, because we carry them with us whether we want to or not. I tape up a box markedDonationsand set it in a stack with the others. The house is quiet, not peaceful, just quiet. Michael and Nicole left for Beloit about twenty minutes ago. She was getting shaky and needed her methadone treatment. If she went another day without it, I worry she’d relapse. I know she’s been skipping days, trying to get clean faster, but it’s only making things worse.

I get to my feet and survey the living room. It’s all neatly packed away in boxes. We’ve gone through everything except the kitchen. I still have to decide on the furniture and the house. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m leaning toward selling it to Michael. He did offer well-above market value (I checked), and that money would be life-changing for me. I could pay off debt and visit my daughter in person instead of playing phone tag with her endlessly, always losing. And Nicole would have a place to live—although, I don’t think it would make her any less of an addict. As much as I don’t want Michael to get his way, I’ve realized that resenting him won’t help me. Resentment only poisons the person who consumes it, not the one it’s intended for. Michael and I are proof of that.

Knuckles rap against the front door. I get to my feet and make my way to it.

“Hey,” I say, pushing the squeaky door open.

Lucas stands on the porch, holding a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing a faint smile. “These are for you.”

I take the flowers from him and bring them to my nose, inhaling their bright scent.

“Thanks. Come in,” I say, moving aside for him to enter.

He hesitates before crossing the threshold. Lucas hasn’t been inside this house since he was eighteen. It must feel like stepping back in time. As I pull a vase from an open box and fill it with water, he kicks off his boots at the door. My eyes keep going to him while I unwrap the flowers and snip the ends.

Lucas walks into the kitchen and glances around, taking in his surroundings. The way his eyes bounce to every corner, to the ceiling, to the floor, it’s like he’s standing in a museum rather than my childhood home. I arrange the yellow roses in the vase and set them on the kitchen table. They seem out of place, at least to me. We lock eyes, and I wonder how I ever looked away from him to begin with. He looks a little rough, and I can tell he hasn’t slept well. But he’s still handsome to me. My fingers tingle as I imagine running them through his soft, scruffy facial hair, over his broad shoulders and down his firm pecs. I wonder if his fingers are tingling too, just at the thought of grazing them along my skin. Or am I the only one having these thoughts?

“How was the rest of the funeral?” he asks, delivering a sympathetic look. His hands grip the back of the kitchen chair in front of him.

“It was how she wanted it.”

He slightly nods. “Sorry about my mom...”

“There’s no need to apologize,” I interrupt.

My eyes flick behind him to the VHS tape set on the VCR in the living room. It sits there, so unassuming. It’s the only thing I didn’t pack up. I just couldn’t bring myself to. How do you pack up a secret like that? I force myself to look away, and my eyes land back on Lucas before he notices my split attention.

“Where are your siblings?”

“They went into town,” I say, not offering any further explanation.

He nods, glancing around again, almost like he’s looking for something. “It’s kind of weird being in this house.”

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