Then . . .

Thomas advances forward. Out the front door, down the steps, into the rain, though I don’t feel it right away. I am protected by the rug, lost in a dark world of muffled sound.

He walks forever. At least it feels that way. Wet leaves, tree limbs, smack against my foot, and I realize he has carried me into the woods. Of course, where else to dig the grave?

It comes to me slowly, and with growing horror. If he’s carrying me with both arms, then by definition, he can’t be carrying a shovel. Meaning he’s already been out in the woods. He’s already dug the trench.

Now he’ll drop me straight into it. No more time for me to prepare. No more somedays, maybes, eventually. This is it.

Sure enough.

He stops. His breathing hard and heavy. Then.

I fall down. Down, down, down, into the deep, dark earth.

Do I scream? I can’t scream. I’m already dead, I’m already dead, I’m already dead.

But I am screaming. Deep inside my mind, I’m screaming Vero, Vero, Vero. I’m so sorry, Vero.

The first heavy thump of wet earth. Followed by another, then another.

I close my eyes, even though I can’t see. I fist my hands, even though I can’t move. I am dead, I am dead, I am dead. I am Vero, tucked in the back of the closet, willing myself not be afraid of the dark.

Shovelful after shovelful of earth.

How long does it take to bury a body? I don’t know. I’m too lost in the blackness of my mind. Vero. Vero. Vero.

But the sound stops. The weight of earth settles, remains the same.

Then . . .

I panic. I can’t take it one second more. I wiggle and twist and thrash to and fro. And I scream. Out loud. Full throttle. Long and frantic and high-pitched and wailing.

I was dead, but now I am alive. And my lungs are bursting, crying out frantically for air.

Suddenly, the night sky is above me. I don’t know how I’ve done it, but I’m free. I can feel the rain on my cheeks. I can taste the mud on my lips. I open my mouth and inhale greedily.

Just in time to hear the gasp. As Thomas stumbles back, his hands still clutching the edge of the death-shroud rug.

“You!” he exclaims. “Oh my God! You. I knew it!”

Thomas does not run away.

Instead, he listens to my story. Then he threads his fingers into my own.

And he says, “This is what we’re going to do next.”

*   *   *

“OUCH . . . YIKES, DAMMIT! IS this road over yet?”

Wyatt’s SUV hit another rut; Tessa’s body bounced up, her head banging off the window.

“I don’t think this is a road,” he said. “More like a washed-out drive.”

“Which clearly hasn’t been used in years.”

“Not true. Look at that.” They jounced by another low-hanging tree, its limbs screeching across the vehicle’s roof overhead. “Freshly broken branch.”

“Nicky and Thomas?”

“That would be my first guess.”

“Wyatt, there’s no way another car followed them all the way out here without them noticing. The road is too deserted, this driveway too difficult to find.”

“The second vehicle would have to be right on their tail,” Wyatt agreed.

“In which case, they’d know they had company.”

“Third partner in crime?” Wyatt asked.

Tessa shrugged. “Gotta be someone who already knew how to find this place.”

“So either a third partner in crime, or a less welcoming blast from the past.” He glanced over at her as the vehicle hit another massive rut. “Which’ll make this very interesting, very fast.”

Chapter 40

YOU SAVED ME.” I stare at my husband, the memory so real, so vibrantly alive, I feel as if I should be able to reach out and touch it.

“Did you just hear something?” he asks me sharply. Thomas turns, the beam of his flashlight bouncing along the ruins, but I can’t focus.

I’m breathing hard. My whole body is trembling, which I don’t understand. I’m safe. I’m out of the grave. Thomas pulled me out. Thomas saved me.

Twenty-two years ago, we found each other in the dark.

So why is my heart already constricting painfully in my chest?

“You told me to stay in the woods,” I murmur now. I’m talking to air. Thomas has left me, walking closer to the jumble of granite blocks. He still holds the shovel. Why did he bring a shovel? “You told me to stay out of sight. And that’s what I did.”

It comes to me. Slowly. Like a whisper. The wind against my cheek.

“Smoke.” I turn toward my husband. “There’s smoke in the air.”

The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.

Screams in the air.

Smoke.

I reach out my hand, but once again my husband isn’t there to take it. He stands too far away, the flashlight trembling in his grip.

“When I returned to the house, my mom was waiting for me in the foyer,” he says. His voice sounds funny. Strained. “She started with her usual snapping demands. Don’t track in mud. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Is the body taken care of? Well, is it?

“And . . . I saw her. I finally saw her. She wasn’t my mother. She wasn’t even a person. She was a monster. Like something out of an old horror movie. She would devour all of us. And it would mean nothing to her in the end.

“I told her I was done. I told her I was leaving, taking the car. That was it.

“She laughed at me. Where would I go? What would I do? I was just a kid. I knew nothing of the real world. Now, upstairs.

“But I didn’t. I stood there. I didn’t move a muscle. So she walked up and slapped me. ‘Go to your room!’ she screamed. Like I really was a little kid, and not the son she’d turned into a drug dealer and a gravedigger and God knows what else. I still didn’t move. She slapped me again, then again.

“‘Enough,’ I said, finally blocking her hand. ‘We’re done.’ I pushed past her, up the stairs to my third-floor room. I would grab my clothes and, of course, my stash of cash. Then I planned on doing exactly what I’d said. I’d throw everything in the car and take off down the drive. Then, once I was safely out of sight, I’d pull over and double-back through the woods to grab you. It would be perfect, I thought. She wouldn’t chase me; I was her son. And nor would she chase after you, as she couldn’t afford any more trouble, especially with Vero’s death to still handle.

“But she wouldn’t let me go. Instead, she followed me the whole way up the stairs. Enraged, shouting, screaming. The older two girls came out to see what was going on. On the second-story landing, Mother caught up with me. She smacked the side of my head; then when I still refused to stop, she threw herself at me. Literally tackled me. It was as if she’d gone crazy. Guess that’s what happens when nobody has ever told you no before. We struggled. And then . . .”

Thomas pauses. He stands six, seven feet away. Too far for me to see his face in the dark.

“She fell down the stairs,” he says flatly. “Landed on her neck. We all heard the crack. She was dead.”

I open my mouth. I close my mouth. I don’t know what to say.

“I told the girls to leave. They were the only people left in the house, and it’s not like they were sorry she was gone. I gave them the keys to the car. On their own, they ransacked the china, silver, crystal. Why not? It was the least they deserved.

“Then . . .” Thomas hesitates, seems to be composing himself. “If I just took off, left the body, of course there would be a major investigation. So I figured I needed to do something. It had been an accident; her neck was broken. Maybe if it looked like she’d been rushing out of the house. You know, because she was escaping from a fire.”