“No,” Cass whines again. “Don’t look. Don’t open it.”
“What if it’s Dad?” I ask to comfort Cass, hoping she can’t hear the fear in my own voice. “What if he’s looking for us?”
It could be Elliott. It really could be. I texted him earlier. If he saw the text, he would have come immediately back from the lake to see what had happened. I wish more than anything that he was here, that he hadn’t gone fishing today, because he would know what to do. He would keep the girls safer than I can. He’d keep me safe. Unlike me, Elliott would have gone back to the cottage to check on Wyatt and Reese; he wouldn’t have left without them in the first place. I think of Elliott out there in the canoe on the lake, in the dark. He has no idea what’s happened. He has no idea that Emily and Nolan are dead.
Last night, Elliott and I were at Emily and Nolan’s place until sometime just after eight. It was mostly dark when we left, the sky softly glowing, though the sun had already slipped beneath the horizon. We said goodbye to Emily, who stood alone on the deck, waving until we could no longer see her though the trees. I had no way of knowing that was the last time I’d ever see her alive. Cass and Mae were already in our cottage, waiting for us to come home. They were lying up in the loft, giggling when we came in.What’s so funny up there?I remember Elliott calling out to the girls, and them, in unison, holding their laughter back.
Nothing.
It doesn’t sound like nothing, he teased.
“It’s okay,” Ms. Dahl says now, gazing out the window. “It’s the police.” She reaches her hand up to undo the dead bolt. I hold my breath, only releasing it when the door opens and I see them for myself: a few men, standing tall and broad shouldered while, behind them, red-and-blue police lights pulse through the trees.
I close my eyes, pressing a hand to my heart, sagging forward in relief. “The police are here. We’re safe now,” I whisper to Cass and Mae.
It’s only as the police step inside the lodge that I see him: my nephew, Wyatt, standing behind the officers, getting swallowed up by their larger size.
Tears of relief leave my eyes, falling down my face. “Wyatt,” I cry out, moving from my stool to go to him, taking him into my arms, and though Wyatt is fourteen and averse to things like affection and hugs, I feel his body give freely to me, slackening in my arms.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I ask, running my hands through his hair, pushing it out of the way so I can see his eyes, which shun mine. Like Mae, Wyatt is languid, his reactions slow, his eyes bemused. Slowly, he shakes his head, leaving me to wonder which question of mine he’s answering: if he’s okay or if he’s hurt, because it’s hard to know. There is no blood, no obvious sign of an injury, but he doesn’t look okay.
One of the officers, a young, ruddy redhead with freckles on his face and hands, steps forward, asking Wyatt who I am and if he knows me.
Wyatt is slow to nod. “Aunt Courtney,” he manages to get out, pulling his body away from mine. His voice is meek, his shoulders rounded forward, which makes him appear smaller than he is, though Wyatt is taller than me.
“I’m Wyatt’s aunt,” I say to the officer. “Courtney Gray. I’m the one who found them.”Them.I practically choke on the word, my throat tightening, my mouth all of a sudden watery, what little I’ve eaten today threatening to come up. I bring a hand to my mouth, trying to swallow away the image of Emily’s and Nolan’s gnarled bodies on the floor, watching as the officer stands there, taking glances at me out of the corner of his eye as if he doesn’t know what to do, as if discomforted by my display of emotion.
“Is there anything you need?”
“Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?” I ask, curling my shaking hands into fists. My eyes leave his, moving to the two men who stand behind him, because they’re older than he is and closer in age to me.
But the young redhead says, “That would be me, ma’am. I’m Detective Evans,” and I look again to see that, unlike the other officers who are in unform, he’s dressed in everyday clothes, long sleeves and pants under a black tactical vest, and I wonder what a person has to do to be a detective, how old they have to be or how much experience they need to have and if he has any. “You can speak to me if you want.” I nod, forcing my eyes closed, where I see the blood spatter on the wall, though I try not to, though I try to purge it from my mind. I breathe in, holding it before exhaling, over and over again until the nausea subsides.
I open my eyes to find him still watching me. I look away, glancing at Wyatt. “Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“Where did you find him?”
“He was asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms,” he says, and I pull a face, wondering how it’s even possible that Wyatt was asleep when they found him, until I look again and this time see that there are still pillow lines on Wyatt’s face.
Wyatt was asleep? How can that be?
“Can he sit?” I ask, because Wyatt looks pale and he’s unsteady, like standing in the ocean and feeling the shifting sand beneath your feet.
“If he wants.” I go to Wyatt. I take him by the elbow, helping him to a barstool beside Cass and Mae, and then I turn back.
“Can we talk over there?” I ask, pointing before following the detective to the far side of the room, where I can still see the kids, who are quiet, statue-like, no one speaking. “Did he see them?” The detective turns to face me, his stance wide, hishands on his hips. “My brother and his wife,” I say, when he says nothing. “The bodies. Did Wyatt see them?”
“He did. To a limited degree.”
“To a limited degree. What does that even mean?”
“It means that we did what we could to get him out of the house without him seeing any more than he needed to see, but unfortunately we can’t move the bodies until the medical examiner comes.”
I nod, understanding. I imagine the police leading Wyatt out of the house with a tight grip on his arm, of them steering him past Nolan’s lifeless body in the upstairs hall. I wonder if Wyatt closed his eyes or if he looked straight ahead, if he avoided looking at Nolan lying on the floor. A knot forms in my throat, thinking how this will stay with him and how he’ll deal with the fallout his whole life. How he’ll never be the same again.
“Who did this?” I ask.
