Page 71 of The Family Plot
“Except— Those woods right there…” He thrusts his chin toward the trees. “They’re really dense. Difficult to navigate. Not an easy place for a casual walk.”
“What did Charlie say?” I ask. “What reason did he give for being here?”
“That’s the thing. He said it’s not him.”
I look at Elijah in surprise. “He did?”
“He was emphatic about it. Your sister, too. And your mother… she was noncommittal, said she couldn’t tell. To be honest, she seemed more interested in the dead body.”
Behind us, the ocean races toward our feet, and at Elijah’s expression—eager but careful, like he’s closing in on something—my heart races, too.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
His shrug is too casual. “I wanted to see if this spot meant anything to your family. If you knew its significance and could explain why Charlie would come here.” He smiles with half his mouth. “Guess that was a long shot, though, since you said you’re not very close with them.”
But I didn’t say that. Elijah did, right as he told me I was on the outskirts of my own family.
“It’s just strange to me,” he goes on. “Miles of shoreline around this island, acres of woods, and Charlie ended up on the one part, the one very small part, where there was a body. Before the public knew.”
I take a step back, my foot splashing into water.
“If he told your sister what he saw that day, it might explain why her diorama of Claudia Adams was so accurate.” Elijah points to the photograph, the woman’s waxy body. “Wouldn’t really explain the others, though.” He tilts his head at me. “Unless you have an idea?”
I back up farther. Satisfaction winks in his eyes—a look I’ve seen before, on somebody else. What was it he said about Edmond?He got off on taunting you all.
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell him. “You’re going on about how you relate to me so much, how we’re both on the outskirts of our families. But that isn’t true. You chose to become a cop, just like your father.”
His face stiffens. His features grow taut as a web waiting for a fly.
“You didn’t bring me here to see if I knew this spot,” I continue. “You wanted to pull me away from the house. From my family. You’re trying to get me to turn on them.”
“Turn on them?” He tucks the folder under his arm and reaches into his jacket pocket. Pulling out his notebook, he clicks the top of a pen that seems to have sprouted from his palm. “Turn on them about what?”
The wind picks up around us, a suffocating, gagging force. The ocean thunders like a storm.
I spin around without answering. I march away from him, feet pummeling the shore. I expect to feel him close at my heels, chasing me down, taunting me into talking about things I don’t have answers for. But when he calls after me, he sounds far away, like he hasn’t even moved.
“Why do you think Charlie was here, Dahlia?” His words slice through the island’s noise, voicing the question that’s pumping through me, quickening my steps: “Why was he here?”
By the time I reach our driveway, I’m running.
Bursting through the door, I call Charlie’s name, but he’s not in the foyer or living room. The tables and their white cloths are topped with misshapen piles that I barely give a glance before rushing up the stairs.
I race into Charlie’s room only to find it empty, and I’m struck by how tidy it is—the tightly closed drawers, the floor without clothes, the creaseless quilt on the bed. It’s like the police never touched his room.
They were here, though. I remember the thud of their footsteps, Charlie’s anxious gaze bolting toward Tate. And now that Elijah’scaught him in a lie—that was Charlie in that photo, I’m sure it was—I know he’s hiding something.
Something, I think, that’s in this room.
I launch myself toward his dresser, riffling through shirts and socks, probing every drawer. I feel inside the pockets of his pants, slide my hands under his mattress. I check his bedside table, shuffle through the pages of books, and then, at the lurch of an idea, I turn to his closet.
Inside, I flick on the light switch, but the bulb flashes once before burning out. I head through the shadows toward the back, feeling for a door like the ones to the passageway, but my hands don’t stutter over hinges or a knob. I crouch down, searching for a gap between the floor and a possible door. It’s only once I claw against the hardwood in a fit of frustration that my nails cling to something: the thinnest groove between boards.
I pick at it. Nothing happens at first, but then the board jerks up before falling back down. I pull my phone from my pocket, turn on the flashlight, and shine it onto the floor.
There’s a part of the groove, a tiny notch, that’s a little wider than the rest. I can see why the officers might have missed it, especially if they were only running their eyes, not their hands, along the floor. The notch doesn’t look deliberate; instead, it seems like an imperfection in the wood. But now, I squeeze my finger into it, struggling to move it around, and in a moment, half the floorboard springs open, like a tiny version of the trapdoor in the shed.
I waste no time with surprise. I stuff my hand inside it and grasp two objects, both small, cool to the touch. I pull them out and stare at my open palm, and it takes a second for my mind to catch up. Then I shake my hand violently, sending the objects clattering to the floor.
