He laughs a little. “I think Phoebe would have agreed with that.”
“It was actually when I looked her up that I decided it might be worth it to pursue this whole thing. I noticed right off the bat how much we looked alike. And given everything going on in the news about Daniel, I thought, Hey, maybe she could use a friend. It sure sounded good to me. I never had many of those.”
Listen to how altruistic she sounds. She supposes it’s easier than admitting to the not insignificant spark of jealousy that also fueled her journey to Lake Forest. Two sisters, one with everything, including the family name, the other one a bastard, kept in the dark her whole life, destitute. Nadia felt long overdue for a taste of her birthright. It’s what made writing that blackmail note so easy at the time. It felt good to rattle a privileged rich girl’s gilded cage.
“You’ll have to forgive yourself eventually, you know,” he said quietly. “For being afraid to reach out to her when you got here. It wasn’t your fault. It was Daniel’s.”
“So, am I going to get billed for this therapy session?”
“Nah. This one’s on the house.”
More miles pass in silence. Then he asks the question she’s been waiting for all night. “What exactly is the plan when we get where we’re going?”
She already knows he isn’t going to like it. No decent person would. But it’s still their best choice. “There’s a pit for dead livestock on the outer edge of the property. It’s deep and the animals are covered with lime and dirt as they’re piled in. Once the pit gets full, it’s capped off with more dirt and sown with grass seed.”
“You want to bury her in a mass grave with farm animals?” He sounds almost numb now, like someone who’s resigned to the never-ending series of punches that just keep coming.
“It isn’t about what I want to do. It’s about no one ever finding her. If she ever turned up, we would be done for. That means no water, where she might eventually wash up on shore. And no shallow grave out in the woods, where she’d be dug up by animals.”
“Couldn’t someone dig up the pit at some point?”
It is possible the county could force Jim to move a burial pit if they didn’t like where he placed it, especially if it was too close to a water source. But despite Jim’s always complaining about government regulations, he seemed to do a good enough job staying in line. His livelihood was too important to him. The only possibility of discovery might lie several decades, or maybe even a century, from now, if Jim’s land is ever sold off and subdivided. Developers digging deep into the earth may find some human bones mixed in with all the livestock, but by then, anyone who could be directly affected by such a discovery would be long gone. “It’s highly unlikely,” she says.
“Are we ready to bet our lives on it?”
“I am, yes.” She speaks with conviction, but he sighs like he isn’t quite sold. “I can run through some other options at the farm, if you like.”
“Jesus, how is this happening? Sure, might as well lay them all out.”
“Not all the dead livestock gets buried. They compost some of the pigs in big piles, but it’s a slow process and the workers turn them every few weeks, which means someone will find her there.”
“I see.” He sounds like he’s going to be sick, but he also doesn’t tell her to stop.
“There is also a manure lake, but with the drought this summer, there probably isn’t enough rainwater to submerge her, and we would have to keep her weighted, which gives us the same risk of failure as any other water burial. The final option would be to, um . . . feed her to the—”
“Don’t even say it!”
“I ruled that one out for obvious reasons.”
“Yep. Burial it is.”
About an hour later, they pass a sign informing them they have ten miles to go until they reach Monticello, but Jim lives on the farthest outskirts, so familiar sights are already starting to pop up. The park with her favorite swing set. The crooked old house everyone swore was haunted. The Stop & Go, where she used to ride her bike to buy junk food and other wastes of her meager allowance. Sometimes she would get her mom the latest issue of the National Enquirer or the Weekly World News. Mom had loved tabloids, the more ridiculous the better. Jim used to roll his eyes and sip his Wild Irish Rose as she shared articles about the latest in strange creature or alien sightings, pointing to the badly edited photos as irrefutable proof.
They pass the sign welcoming them to Monticello, and Nadia breaks into a cold sweat, like a force field will soon drop down around her, preventing her from leaving again. You got out once. Did you really think you could do it again? Foolish girl.
“So this is Monticello,” Wyatt says.
“Home to about five thousand lost souls.”
“Doesn’t look so bad.”
“It isn’t, I guess.” There are far worse places for a kid to grow up. Fishing and camping at two nearby lakes. Roller-coaster rides at Indiana Beach. Plenty of open spaces and secret places to get lost or make trouble. But she wasn’t able to enjoy it as much as other kids her age did. Responsibilities on the farm took up most of her time, and when she was finally old enough to have relinquished some of those, she was off into other things. Breaking and entering, for instance.
She sees the sign for Callahan Farms ahead. Fresh Meats All Year!
“It’s coming up in a bit. Let’s go ahead and pull off.” Per their plan, Wyatt drives Nadia’s car as far off the road as possible. The feeling is bittersweet. It had been her one major possession, purchased from a private seller with nearly all the savings she’d amassed over the years from money Jim had paid her for her farm work—a pittance compared to what the regular employees there made, but better than nothing. Now it’s just an empty shell. Before leaving, she’d removed all the important items from it: her collection of stolen trinkets, her laptop, the few clothing items she didn’t want to give up, like her leather jacket (pleather, actually, but nice pleather) and her Converse sneakers, both lucky thrift-store finds. All of it is in a duffel bag on the seat behind her.
“Is this on private property?” he asks.
“Probably. Aim for that stand of trees to your right. Cover it with any loose brush you might find.”
“Okay. Hanging up now so I can do this. See you in a few.”
Nadia can’t see the car anymore from her vantage point. Hopefully that means the car won’t be noticed for a long time. She also doubly hopes a cop won’t pass by now. Assuming everything goes smoothly, it could be months before anyone finds the vehicle, and Nadia will be in full ghost mode by then. And in the unlikely event the Chicago police ever get hold of it, they won’t find much in terms of new information. Even the address on the registration is from a UPS Store mailbox that she abandoned months ago. It’s a two-ton dead end.
A few minutes later, he emerges from the trees and climbs into the passenger seat. “I found plenty of fallen branches to cover it with. Wiped it down really well inside.”
“Thank you.”
“You are going to tell me why this was so important, correct?”
“I am. But for right now, you need to brace yourself a bit. Things are going to get pretty bumpy.”
“Metaphorically or physically?”
“Probably both.”
She drives a mile or so past the farm entrance until she finds the narrow service road that she sometimes used for make-out sessions with local boys during her briefly tumultuous teenage years. It was always nicely secluded, but also close enough to the house that she could send them on their way and then walk back home with no one suspecting a thing.
Once she turns onto the packed-dirt lane, she switches off the headlights, confident enough in the terrain without their aid. In the distance to her right, she sees the farmhouse lights and shudders. Jim could still be awake now. Nadia wonders if he’s alone or if he’s already found himself a repl
acement, one who will give him a bit less grief over his drinking and other bad habits. For whatever reason, no matter how old they get, men like Jim always seem to have women willing to hitch their wagons to them. She once asked her mother why she never left Jim when he treated her the way he did. “Sure, I could leave him,” her mother said. “Start over in a new place, find another man. But it will always be the same.” Nadia asked her how that could be possible. The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head, like she always did when she thought her daughter was being intentionally dense. “Because I will always be the same.”
She wonders what Vera would think of all this. I’m not going to be the same after tonight, Ma.
The shovels rattle in the back as she drives along the dips in the road, rocks pinging the undercarriage, branches from the trees to her right slapping against the windshield. She glances over and sees Wyatt gripping the handle above the window, his face a drawn mask in the green dash lights.
“How can you even see?” he asks.
“I’ve used this road a lot. Besides, it’s better to drive in the dark than for him to look out his bedroom window and spot headlights where they shouldn’t be.”
“What would happen if he did?”
“You know many rural fellas who take kindly to trespassers?”
“But he was your stepdad, right? I doubt he’d shoot you.”
“I’d rather not bet my life on that. He only tolerated me because he loved my mother. I doubt I’ve crossed his mind at all since I left.”
Wyatt says nothing more. The burial pits are at the top of a short rise, and she brings the car to a stop just shy of the crest. “Let’s be quick about this,” she says, and gets out. Immediately, she stifles a gag. Though Jim uses plenty of lime to speed the decaying process, the smell is still world-endingly bad out here, especially from this vantage point. Nadia remembers how it would sometimes catch on the wind just the right way and blow into the house like a putrid ghost. But there is no breeze tonight, and it makes the stench feel thick enough to coat her skin. She brings her hand up in a futile gesture to shield her nose and mouth. Wyatt gags too, and it has a bit more oomph than hers. Respirator masks would have been a good idea, but it’s too late for that now. “If you need to throw up, do it in the tall grass over there.” She points to a patch about ten feet away.
He nods and stumbles off in that direction. A few seconds later, she hears him quietly retching and decides to start scouting around while he’s busy.
She grabs the flashlight from the passenger floorboard, hooding it with the bottom part of her T-shirt to cut the glare, and scans the surroundings. The trench can’t be too far; the smell is too thick. But she hasn’t been out to this patch of land in a couple years, well before she left here, and a little bit of low-lying fog has crept into the landscape, swallowing her feet and limiting her visibility even more. After about twenty paces, she starts to feel disoriented. It’s too dark, and the gravity of their errand weighs heavier than ever. She calls out to Wyatt in a grated whisper. Seems like it’s been a minute since she last heard him. The only response is the distant chatter of frogs and crickets.
She turns around, peering as best she can into the distance. “Wyatt, you okay?”
Still nothing. Goddamn it, where is he? A voice in her head, cool and wispy like the fog swirling around her ankles, speaks up: He’s got you now. Killed the wife and then played you just long enough so you’d bring him to a place where he can easily dispose of you both. Well done, Nadia. But hey, you’ll get to spend plenty of time with your long-lost sister now.
No. She refuses to believe that, even if it makes a sick sort of sense. It’s just her fear talking, making her think the worst. “Wyatt!” Louder this time. Too loud, but she doesn’t care now with panic beating down her door, demanding entrance.
On her next step, her foot comes down on empty air. She lets out a terrified yelp before plunging down a short hill, skidding to a stop on her belly within kissing distance of a hump of rotting carcass. The soil is wet with what can only be liquefying remains.
Horror finally overwhelms her, making her lose the ragged remainder of her calm as well as her stomach, but she vomits in lieu of screaming. Afterward, racked with shudders and exhausted nearly to the point of passing out, she isn’t sure what to do next, or if she can even stand. This is it. This is where they’ll find her. Where Wyatt will find you, that wicked voice corrects. And finish you off. He’ll bury you where you sit, in this stinking sludge.
“Oh, shit, are you okay? What happened?” She looks up to see Wyatt’s pale face highlighted by his own flashlight. His genuine expression of concern silences the voice in her head.
“So . . . I think I found the trench,” she says. For a moment, they say nothing, and then they begin laughing. It’s equal parts humor and terror, a painful partial exorcism of this singularly mad day. It also gives her the ability to find her feet, though she’s still more than a little wobbly. He reaches down to help her up, and she hesitates for a moment, checking her wracked gut before dismissing her earlier thoughts as the emissions of an overworked mind. She takes his hands and lets him hoist her back up to level ground again.
Once she’s sure her knees will hold, her momentary gratitude morphs into anger and she yanks her hands out of his. “Where the hell did you go?” she demands. “I was calling out for you. Didn’t you hear me?”
“I grayed out a little after I puked back there.” He drops his eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
She sighs. The morbid weight of all this is still nearly unbearable, but her irritation dissipates. “It’s fine. Are you ready to get this over with?”
“God, yes.”
“I’ll need help moving her down into the hole. I can do the shoveling part if you want, though. I’m used to the smell now that I’m covered in it.”
Wyatt shakes his head. “We both need to do this, I think.”
Together, they open the trunk and lift out Phoebe’s wrapped body, which feels even heavier than before. Now that Nadia’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she has a better sense of the slope and where to place the body.
The soil is wet and sandy, which makes for easy digging. After thirty minutes of quiet but frenzied work, they scoop out a hole that’s about six feet long, three feet wide, and three feet deep. They look at each other, faces streaked with dirt and sweat, the whites of their eyes bright with the horror of their deed. “This is good enough,” she says.
A few minutes later, it’s finished. Nadia can see no evidence of either a canvas or newly disturbed ground. She looks at Wyatt. “Is there anything you want to, you know, say?”
He’s silent for a moment, and then shakes his head. “She knows.”
On their way back out of the pit, Nadia uses her shovel to erase their footprints.
CHAPTER 18
SHE STIRS AWAKE with a sore body and a groggy, unrested mind. The combination of yesterday’s events and the spatial disorientation of being in a real bed made it impossible to keep her eyes closed for more than a few seconds at a stretch. By the time sleep finally found her and stole her away for a little while, daylight was beginning to kiss the horizon. The sun now pouring through the blinds has the quality of early afternoon, which she confirms after glancing at her phone. One thirty. She smells food. Is Wyatt cooking down there? Before investigating further, she gets up and heads for the bathroom.
Although she showered immediately after returning here last night, she can’t resist doing it again. With all the jets in the walls, and the enormous showerhead hanging above, she feels like she’s standing in a misty Amazonian hideaway. She covers herself in more of Phoebe’s exotic soaps and shampoos, making up for dozens of speedy washups in homeless shelters and YMCAs, where time, comfort, and hot water are always limited. Now she has as much as she can stand. And not just for one or two days. This is hers.
Every time she has that realiza
tion, her mind lights up like a winning Vegas slot machine, but the feeling doesn’t last more than a few seconds. Despite all the work she and Wyatt put in last night, it’s all still under threat with Phoebe’s killer out there. However, there’s one question neither of them has quite grappled with yet. If they do figure out who did it, what will they do next? Is she prepared to face another deadly fight for her life? Will Wyatt be able to do the same? And that leads to her remaining doubts about him as the killer, and an echo of her brief but terrifying thought that when he disappeared on her at the farm last night, he’d been planning to jump her. That he didn’t do so could signal either innocence or incompetence, even though her instinct still leans more toward the former.
Even so, until she learns anything more definitive, she’ll stay the current course while making sure to keep both eyes open. He could be having the very same conversation with himself.
She shuts off the water and quickly dries off before throwing on a black tank and a pair of yoga pants. Today, she’ll need to make arrangements to touch up the roots of her hair. They’re increasingly peeking through, and it’s more important than ever that, at least for now, she passes as a natural blonde. In the kitchen, she finds Wyatt standing at the stove, his back to her. A large stack of pancakes looms on a plate next to a skillet where he’s cooking what smells like bacon. Jazz spills at a low volume from a small Bluetooth speaker perched on the nearest countertop, and he’s whistling along a little.
“Uh . . . hey,” she says, unsure of what to make of the sight before her.
He looks over his shoulder. “I hope you aren’t gluten-free. I made roughly a thousand pancakes.” He sounds almost chipper.
“I see,” she says cautiously. This behavior is incongruous to say the least, given what happened in this room yesterday. She thought it would be weeks before eating seemed normal to either of them, let alone cooking and eating in here.
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