Another honk from outside, this one longer. Gramma Sharon takes an annoyed breath through her nose and shoves me toward the door. I kiss her on the cheek, then run out to Miles.
As I shut the door, Gramma Sharon’s phone dings again.
“Jesus,” Miles says. “Put that thing on silent.”
I do. It’s another text from “Nate Beaumont.”
Be careful. I love you, kid.
I love you, too, I send back.
Forty-Four
When we get back to our block, the unmarked car is gone. “Where did he go?” I ask Miles. He shrugs as he pulls into his driveway.
“I heard a bunch of sirens on the way over to Sharon’s, so maybe something happened in town? Kinda lucky, though, right?”
It doesn’t feel lucky. Something in my gut tells me it feels ominous. Like there’s something coming. They’ve been there every day, but now they’re not?
Miles grips my arm. “Nate’s grandmom wouldn’t have told anyone yet, right?”
“No.” I know she wouldn’t. But for whatever reason, the cop isn’t there, so I’m taking it as a sign that we need to do this now.
We walk to the Beaumonts’ garage and open the door with the PIN pad. Miles helps me get the kayak and carry it around the side of the house toward the dock, where we set it down. Then I run back for two shovels and shut the garage door again.
With any luck, when Easton gets back from his run, he won’t go in the garage and notice the kayak is missing.
“At least shovels can double as paddles,” Miles says.
We put the kayak in the water, and I hold it steady as he climbs inthe front. I get in the back as he holds the shovels. Then we push off.
We paddle in silence, trying to move quickly. It’s harder because the shovels are so much heavier than the plastic-and-steel paddles. But when we reach the island—sweaty and out of breath—we hop out and pull the kayak into the woods so no one can see it from the shore.
Right now, the only thing we have going for us is the element of surprise. Easton doesn’t know we have any idea where he maybe hid the body.
No,probablyhid the body.
I lead the way through the woods to the downed tree. The little fort is there, still looking neglected.
“Where do you think he buried him?” Miles asks. He looks across the clearing, trying to figure out where to start digging.
“Probably right here.” I point at the fort and pull up the old towel Easton put down as the rug. Then I push the makeshift A-line roof so the sticks tumble aside.
I stick the shovel into the ground and start digging. It’s not even ten minutes before Miles hits something hard and we both freeze.
“Oh God. We’re really about to find a dead body, aren’t we?” he asks.
I dig around his shovel and we use the tip of it to rake dirt away. And uncover a large rock.
Shit.
“Oh, thank God,” Miles says.
“We’relookingfor the body.”
“Right, but I think I was expecting it to take a little longer and washoping to better prepare myself.”
“Well, get to work on that,” I say. Then I shake my head. “He couldn’t have buried him here. Look how big this rock is. He would have had to take it out to bury Nate here.” What we’ve dug up of the rock takes up almost a quarter of the fort.
