The Teacher by Freida McFadden
Prologue
DIGGING A GRAVE IS HARD WORK.
My whole body hurts. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are screaming with pain. Every time I lift the shovel and scoop out a little more dirt, it feels like a knife is digging into a muscle behind my shoulder blade. I thought it was all bone, but clearly, I was wrong. I am acutely aware of every single muscle fiber in my whole body, and all of them hurt. So much.
I pause for a moment, dropping the shovel to give the blisters popping up on my palms a bit of relief. I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. Now that the sun is down, the temperature has plunged below freezing, judging by the frost on the ground. But I stopped feeling the cold after the first half hour—I took my coat off almost an hour ago.
The deeper I go, the easier it gets to dig. The first layer of dirt was almost impossible to break through, but then again, I had a partner to help me back then. Now it’s just me.
Well, me and the body. But it won’t be of much help.
I squint down into the blackness of the hole. It looks like an abyss, but it’s actually not much deeper than two feet. How deep do I have to go? They always say six feet under, but I assume that’s for official graves. Not for unmarked ones in the middle of the woods. But given nobody can discover what is buried here, deeper might be better.
I wonder how deep a body needs to be buried before the animals can’t smell it.
I shiver as a gust of wind cools the layer of sweat on my bare skin. With every passing minute, the temperature continues to drop. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll dig a little bit deeper, just to be safe.
I pick up the shovel once again, and the sore spots in my body all fight to be the center of attention. Right now, my palms are the clear winner—they hurt more than anything. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of leather gloves. But all I’ve got is a pair of big puffy ones that made it hard to grip the shovel. So I’ve got to make do with my bare hands, blisters and all.
When the hole was shallow, I was able to dig without climbing in. But now the only way I can continue is to be inside the grave. Standing inside a grave feels like bad luck. We all end up in one of these holes eventually, but you also don’t have to tempt fate. Sadly, it’s unavoidable right now.
As I dig the blade of the shovel into the dry, hard soil once again, my ears perk up. It’s quiet here in the woods, except for the wind, but I’m certain I heard something.
Crack!
There it is again… It almost sounds like a branch snapping in half, although I can’t tell if it was coming from behind me or in front of me. I straighten up and squint into the darkness. Is somebody here?
If there is, I am in deep, deep trouble.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice a hoarse whisper.
No answer.
I grip the shovel in my right hand, listening as hard as I can. I hold my breath, quieting the sound of air entering and leaving my lungs.
Crack!
It’s another branch, snapping in two. I’m sure of it this time. And not only that, but the sound is closer than last time.
And now I hear leaves crunching.
My stomach clenches. There’s no way I can talk my way out of this one. There’s no way I can pretend it’s all one big misunderstanding. If somebody spots me, it’s over. I’m done. Handcuffs snapped on my wrists, a police car with sirens wailing, life in prison without chance of parole—all that jazz.
But then in the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel darting out into the clearing. As it scurries past me, another twig snaps under the weight of its small body. As the squirrel disappears into a clearing, the woods descend back into deadly silence.
It wasn’t a person after all. It was just a wild animal. The sounds of footsteps were just scampering little paws.
I let out a breath. The immediate danger is gone, but this is not over. Far from it. And I don’t have time to take a break. I have to keep digging.
After all, I have to bury this body before the sun comes up.
OceanofPDF.com
Part I
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter One
EVE
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS TELLING me how lucky I am.
They tell me that I have a beautiful house, a fulfilling career, and I constantly get compliments on my shoes. But I’m not kidding myself. When people tell me that I’m lucky, they’re not talking about my house or my career or even my shoes. They’re talking about my husband. They’re talking about Nate.
Nate is humming to himself as he brushes his teeth. It took me almost a year of brushing my teeth next to him in the morning before I realized that it’s always the same song. “All Shook Up” by Elvis Presley. When I asked him about it, he laughed and told me his mother taught him the song clocks in at exactly two minutes, which is how long you’re supposed to brush your teeth for.
I have started to hate that song with every fiber of my being.
The same damn song every single morning for eight years of marriage. I could probably solve the problem if we didn’t brush our teeth at the same time each morning, but we always do. We try to maximize our bathroom efficiency in the morning, given that we leave at the same time and are going to the same place.
Nate spits toothpaste in the sink, then rinses his mouth out. I have already finished brushing my teeth, but I linger there. He grabs the mouthwash and gargles the caustic blue liquid.
“I don’t know how you stand that stuff,” I comment. “Mouthwash tastes like acid to me.”
He spits it back into the sink and grins at me. He has perfect teeth. Straight and white, but not so white that you need to look away. “It’s refreshing. Cleanliness is before godliness, you know.”
“It’s horrible.” I shudder. “Just don’t kiss me after gargling with that stuff.”
Nate laughs, and I suppose it is funny because he rarely kisses me anyway. One perfunctory peck when we part ways in the morning, one when we greet each other in the evening, and then one before bed. Three kisses per day. Our sex life is equally regimented—the first Saturday of every month. It used to be every Saturday, then every other Saturday, and now for the last two years, we have settled into the current pattern. I’m tempted to program it into our shared iPhone calendar as a recurring appointment.
I pick up the blow-dryer to eliminate the residual dampness from my hair, while Nate runs a hand through his own short strands of brown hair, then picks up a razor to shave his face. As I watch the two of us in the mirror, it’s hard to deny the plain fact that Nate is by far the more attractive of the two of us. There’s no contest.
My husband is incredibly handsome. If somebody made a movie about his life, they would be tapping all the sexiest stars in Hollywood to fill the role. Short but thick deep brown hair, chiseled features, an adorably lopsided smile, and now that he bought that set of weights to keep in our basement, his chest is turning into solid muscle.
I, on the other hand, am decidedly plain. I’ve had thirty years to come to terms with it, and I’m absolutely fine with the fact that my muddy brown eyes will never have the playful glimmer that Nate’s have, my dull brown hair will never do anything but lie limply on my scalp, and none of my features are quite the right size for my face. I am too skinny—all dangerously sharp angles and no curves to speak of. If someone were to make a movie about my life… Well, there’s no point in even talking about it because such a thing would be impossible. People don’t make movies about women like me.