“The woman who bought Black Wood before me,” I choke out. “She’s disappeared. And no one will speak of her.”
Mrs. Whitman turns sharply away. She swipes at her eyes with her sleeve. I pull at the cop’s sleeve. “They know something about Amanda! They all do.”
I’m waiting for the cop to start asking questions. To do something. But he gives me a look that stops me cold.
“I think it’s time to go home, Mrs. Slade,” he says gravely. Behind him, Jeff Johnson doesn’t even try to hide his smile.
My uncle’s the town cop.
I drop his arm. Of course. He’s not on my side at all. It’s me against them.
“Come on.” The cop tries to usher me out the door.
I pull away, blood boiling. “Why?” I spit out. “So your shithead nephew can poison my cat again?”
Someone gasps. The room spins wildly, and I can’t get enough air in.
“Time to go now,” he insists angrily, reaching for my arm.
Blood pounds in my ears. I wrench away. “Don’t touch me!”
I’m screaming now. Screaming in this beautiful two-hundred-year-old room with the soft golden lights and golden people. I’ll scream the stained-glass windows apart, shatter the pieces like rain until I learn the truth.
I point at Jeff Johnson. “You broke into my house!”
“That true, Jeff?” the cop says over his shoulder.
Jeff waves his hand dismissively. “Of course not. She’s crazy.”
“Bullshit!” I explode. I’m running now, running on stumbling feet, my hands hooked into claws, ready to spring on him like a feral cat. Behind me, the cop yells, and a woman shrieks in surprise. But I’m already on Jeff, my fingers digging into his skin. When the cop pulls me back, I’m screaming.
“You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch!” Spittle flies out of my mouth. “You’re going to pay for Reaper.”
The cop drags me toward the exit, kicking and spitting. He yanks the door open, throws me out, and before it closes, I scream a final warning.
“I’ll fucking kill you, Jeff!”
Chapter 31
June 19, I think
Dear Diary,
Hi, it’s me again. Sarah Slade. Lizzy Harris. Joe’s wife, or soon-to-be ex-wife. My husband. Or wasband. I dunno yet. I dunno anything anymore.
I pour another glass of red with a shaky hand. Some of it sploshes down the side of the glass and stains my pajama pants. I take a long gulp, eyes on the forest mural.
I really shouldn’t be drinking on my medication. I think I’ve told you that before.
I hesitate, tapping the pen once, twice against the page.
I was “let go” from work a few days ago. I’m not earning any money, so I can’t afford to continue with the renovations. I’ve got no sponsorships left. My engagement on socials is terrible. Nobody gives a shit about me anymore. But don’t worry! Filling my days is easy. I wake up, drink. Ring the vet for an update on Reaper and drink. Fall asleep, wake up, drink, drink, drink.
Outside, the cockatoos squabble in the graveyard. They sound like angry children. I hate them. I’m sick of their unending screeching. I hear it night and day, and early in the morning.
May I tell you something? I’m starting to forget things. Sometimes I find myself in the laundry, staring at the washing machine, with no memory of what the hell I’m doing there. Sometimes I’m sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. Yesterday I found myself at the back porch door, staring off into the forest.
I bite my lip, run my thumb over the back of the pen. My hands are shaking, and my palms itch with sweat. I want to drop the pen, shove the diary in the drawer, and snap it shut. I want to fly down the stairs, out the front door, and run, run, run because I don’t want to admit this next bit.
