Page 27 of Stay Buried

I know everything.

The state police had found Mom’s old Subaru at the bridge—which Ash couldn’t help but notice was about halfway between Boone’s Ferry and home—on October 19. Her purse and phone were in it, as was a small suitcase stuffed with clothing and toiletries. As if she’d either been on a trip or was planning on taking one.

But the leather tote she used to carry her laptop and hold all her family history documents had never been found—not in the car or back in her apartment. It had been a splurge from a craft fair before Ashley was even born and had her mom’s initials—LEF—stamped into the leather under an embossed sunflower.

Ashley hated that the bag was gone—her mom’s laptop, with all her emails and writings and photos. Just lost forever.

“What’s up with the directions?” Malcolm asked, calling Ash’s attention back to the moment, and she glanced over at the GPS screen. The road they were on had disappeared from view. It showed their truck sailing through a blank green space.

There was no calm woman’s voice advising them, “Make a U-turn now.” No “Recalculating.” Just silence.

“Are we still on the right road?” he asked.

“We’ve gotta be,” Ashley said, looking down at the printed map and directions. “It’s not like we’ve even seen any other roads. This has to be it.”

She pulled out her phone. No signal.

They drove another half hour. The road narrowed, began a long, steep descent full of switchback turns. Every time they rounded a bend, Ashley braced herself, thinking there was no way there was room for them to pass any oncoming vehicles. But they passed no one. They found themselves entering a deep valley. It was darker, cooler, everything in shadow. The dense pine forest came right up to the edge of the road, and everything was covered with a layer of mist.

They passed a sign:ROAD DEAD-ENDS, 4 MILES.

“Dead-ends?” Malcolm asked. “How can that be?”

Then they passed a second a sign:WELCOME TO BOONE’S FERRY.

“Because we’re here,” Ashley said. “Boone’s Ferry is literally the end of the road.”

THIRTEENFRANKIE

March 11, 1919

We hurried back down Main Street with Pearl, my arm linked through hers, the snow and sleet blasting our faces. Pearl was trembling, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from the shock of what had happened to her mother. We made a quick stop at home so Uncle Thomas could grab his medical bag. We could not speak openly in front of Pearl, but we exchanged worried glances.

The Stoddard home is only a few houses down from ours. Benjamin Stoddard, the most powerful man in town, owns the factory, so theirs is the grandest house on Main Street, a two-story brick building with a large carriage house out back, which contains both an automobile and the finest carriage and sleigh in town.

Every window of the Stoddard home was lit, as if they were hosting a party, waiting for guests to arrive. Although it looked warm and cozy inside, I felt a terrible apprehension as I gazed up at the house and wondered what was waiting for us.

Pearl led us inside, where we peeled off our sodden coats in the great entry hall, with its polished maple floor.

It felt strange, being in Pearl’s house. I hadn’t been since the day I’d run out when I was thirteen and Pearl wanted to show me what kissing Charlie Dunn had been like.

I’d visited often when I was a girl. I never cared for playing with dolls, but I would come and play dolls with her—I always enjoyed Pearl’s company. Her parents, I knew, like many adults in town, felt sorry for me, the orphan, the odd girl, and they praised Pearl for inviting me to their home to play with her lovely china dolls. Pearl enjoyed tragic games—games where the dolls were crushed to death and we had little funerals for them; games where there was a terrible accident and we had to try to save them. Her favorite game was tea party, and of course, one of the cups always held poison and it was a bit like Russian roulette, to see which doll was going to get that cup and die a dramatic and agonizing death. Her parents knew nothing of these games. They simply saw their sweet daughter, smiling in her beautiful dress mail-ordered from Boston, who’d taken pity on a girl less fortunate. Even then, she was like a clever and wicked little fox, my Pearl. Even then, I loved her.

“Mother’s in her room,” Pearl said now, leading us up the wide maple staircase.

We found Clarice Stoddard in her bed, being tended to by her husband. Despite his wealth and prominence, Benjamin is known to roll up his shirtsleeves to help repair equipment when it breaks down, to drink and play poker at the back table at Loon’s Call, and, according to all the men who work for him, to be a kind and fair boss. Uncle Thomas counts him as a good friend—perhaps his closest friend in Boone’s Ferry.

Benjamin dotes on Pearl, his only child, hisprincess.

As congenial a man as he is, I am always more than a little uneasy in his presence. Should he ever learn what’s going on between his daughter and me, I am quite sure he’d be far less than congenial.

Clarice was pale, and there were two long, bleeding scratches onher right cheek. Her hair was uncharacteristically disheveled. Cloth bandages had been tied around her left forearm, but the blood was seeping through. Her right arm was badly scratched as well.

“Mrs. Stoddard,” Thomas said, beginning to gingerly unwrap the bandages to take a look. “What on earth happened?”

“She was attacked,” Benjamin said, spitting the words out through a clenched jaw. “By an intruder in our own home.”

Uncle Thomas looked back. “Pearl, do you think you could bring us some warm water in a basin? And some clean cloths? And perhaps a small glass of brandy for your mother.”