Gabe and I make brief and puzzled eye contact, and I can’t help but wonder if Henry’s preoccupied by sickness because of his grandmother’s death.
After lunch, Gabe and Henry retreat to the couch again, but I feel even antsier than I did this morning. With each hour that ticks by, I’m further away from proving what I know. I need to stretch my legs and think.
“Hey,” I call out to Gabe and Henry, who barely look up. “I’m going to take the tart pan back to Bonnie.”
Only Jake is in the kitchen when I arrive, loading glassesinto the dishwasher and bobbing his head to a song on his iPod I can’t hear. Wondering if anyone else is still around postlunch, I open the dining room door an inch to see Keira at the table, drinking an espresso and studying the contents of a folder, probably for work. Instead of disturbing her, I quietly ease the door closed.
“Bonnie nearby?” I ask Jake.
He plucks out his wireless earbuds. “Hmm, I think she’s at the carriage house. She said she wanted to tidy up over there.”
“Okay.”
“No, wait,” he adds. “I saw her out the window so she’s already back. She must be in the woods now.”
“Thewoods?”
“Yeah, she said that after she was finished, she was going to walk down to the spot where they’re going to do the burial. For, you know, for Mrs. Keaton. Bonnie wanted to check it out before it rained.”
That would be just like Bonnie, wanting to see where Claire will be laid to rest and make sure everything is in order.
I feel a slight pinch of worry, though. There’s a coyote roaming around. Would it ever come out in daytime? Gabe was supposed to mention my sighting to his father, but the news might not have made its way to Bonnie.
I press a finger to my lips, wondering if I should head to the stream myself and alert her. As I stand staring into space, something Jake said works its way back through my mind. Bonnie tidied up at the carriage house this morning. Though Marcus told her to skip the guest suite, she’s been taking careof the rest of us—swapping in fresh towels, emptying wastebaskets, stocking the fridges.
If Hannah used the kitchen in the carriage house to dry foxglove leaves for a tea, Bonnie might have noticed something without being aware of its significance. Maybe this is my opportunity to ask her without others around.
“If anyone’s looking for me, tell them I’ll be back shortly,” I call to Jake as I’m halfway out the back door. Once I’m off the patio, I break into a jog across the lawn. The sky’s even darker now, like it’s been smeared with soot, and the air feels damp. Rain’s coming at some point.
I reach the trellis-lined pathway, and cover it, still moving at a clip. Vines have threaded through the rustic slats at the top, shrouding the path in near darkness today, and I’m relieved when I finally emerge into the wildflower meadow. There’s only one easy route to the stream from here—through the two meadows—so surely I’ll run into Bonnie on her way back. I don’t spot her in this meadow, however, or the next one, either. A stitch has started in my side, and I slow my pace, grabbing a few extra breaths.
And then finally I hear footsteps. And someone panting, even gasping for air. I burst from the grass meadow to find Bonnie standing off to the left near the start of the woods, her eyes wide with what looks like fear.
“What’s wrong?” I call out as I race to her side. “Is it the coywolf?”
“No, no,” she says, shaking her head. She jabs her free arm in the direction of the stream. “There... near the water... omigod...”
“Show me what you mean,” I urge.
Grasping her arm, I pull her cautiously along the edge of the woods in the direction of the stream, less than a minute away.
Before long I see what’s scared her. Vultures. There’s a cluster of them parked on the peaked roof of the old, weathered bird blind. They’re huge, the size of toddlers, though they look primordial—brownish black-feathered bodies with wrinkly, blood-red heads.
“There must be a dead animal around—”
But then my gaze is drawn to the ground about fifteen or so yards ahead of me. There are three more vultures in the weeds along the stream—and a body lying stretched out beside them, facedown. The vultures are pecking at the base of the skull with their beaks, one with a claw clasped around the skull.
Bile surges up into my throat.
It’s a woman wearing one of the tan slickers that hang in the side corridor of the house. And jeans. Jeans that have been yanked down to her ankles, revealing the flesh of her calves.
My gaze flies back to the woman’s head. Her hair’s dark brown, and though the face isn’t visible, I can see a hand, poking out from the sleeve of the slicker. The fingernails are painted a glossy pink.
It’s Hannah, I realize. Lying dead by the stream.
21
Igasp, rooted in place.
