“I’m going to shower,” she finally said.
Grace walked apprehensively toward the ranch. Her arms were folded against her chest like she was trying to close herself off from everything around her. Dragging my hand down my face, I blew out my cheeks. This wasn’t the Wyoming I wanted to show her. It was beautiful, yes, but even beautiful places were ugly. Flies buzzed around the bloody carcasses, swooping in and picking at the rotting meat. Death wasn’t pretty.
I shook my head and made my way up the driveway. Charlotte was loading up her car with the crates of eggs.
“How’s the princess?” she asked with a laugh.
“Char, don’t,” I warned.
“What? I told ya she don’t belong here.”
I rubbed my brow and let out a deep sigh. “Because she didn’t like falling into a pit of dead animals?”
“I mean, that part was gross, and I’d be disgusted too. But animals die all the time out here. This isn’t her world, Calvin. Can’t you see that?” Char tilted her head.
“Maybe it’s not mine either.”
“Don’t say that.” She folded in her lips, waiting for me to speak. When I didn’t, she asked, “How did you not report that pit to animal control earlier?”
“Didn’t see it. I don’t leave this ranch often because I don’t have the time to. This place takes up most of my life. Too much to look after. Too much to worry about.”
Char gave me a sympathetic look. “I think this place has a hold on you, Calvin, and you’re punishing yourself for things you had no control over. We’re worried about you.”
“Who’s we?”
“Betty, myself, and Joe too, I’m sure.” Charlotte placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.” Her hand grazed the side of my face, and when she looked at me, there was an intensity beneath her eyes. I had seen it once before, and I knew what it meant . . . to her. But I didn’t feel the same way.
I turned my head and let her hand fall away.
Char finished loading the last crate into the back of her car and looked to me.
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” she said, closing the trunk of her car.
I drew my brows together. “Saturday?”
“Yeah, Calvin. Your birthday barbecue bash. I told you months ago you weren’t spending it alone, and you agreed.” She dusted her hands off and walked to the driver’s side door.
“Shit. I completely forgot.”
“You’re the only person I know under the age of forty that forgets about their birthday. It’s weird,” Char said, getting into her car.
“It’s not weird. It’s just another day.”
“Will Little Miss New York be in attendance?” Charlotte smirked.
“If she’s still here, I’m sure. Might have scared her off with that elk cemetery.” I kicked at the gravel.
“One can hope,” she said with a laugh.
“Char, come on. Be nice. For me?”
“Fine, I’ll be nice—only for you.” Char tilted her head. “Speaking of nice. Would you be so kind as to come over and fix the leaky pipe under my sink? Pretty please,” she begged, pushing out her lower lip.
“Of course.”
“You’re the best, Calvin.” She closed her car door, and I headed toward my truck.
Char rolled down the window and called out. “Hey, Calvin.”
I turned back. “Yeah.”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about after she leaves.”
I shifted my stance and slid a hand into my front pocket. “You can tell me now.”
“No, it can wait.” Charlotte turned the key in the ignition.
“What if she doesn’t leave?” I said with a laugh, only half joking.
She put the car in drive and looked over at me. “Then I’ll throw her out myself.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment but then she flashed a smile that could only best be described as sinister.
13.
Grace
Curled up on the sofa next to the fireplace, I watched the flames dance, switching from hues of orange and yellow to blue. My skin felt hot to the touch because I had scrubbed it raw in the shower. Despite that, I could still feel the sticky blood on me, the maggots crawling over my skin, the rubbery sinew that seemed to grab on and never let go. The smell still lingered at the tip of my nose—a mix of iron, rotten eggs, mothballs, garlic, and feces. There was also a sweetness to it all. No one ever mentions that death has a sweet odor like the smell of a fresh-cut lawn or a ripe banana. Hexanol and butanol are responsible for that pleasant scent just after death sets in.
Every time I blinked, I saw the ragged animal, the blood, the half-eaten guts, the frozen black eyes. Those same dark marbles were all around, hung up on the walls of the living room, staring down at me. I refocused my attention on the thriller I was reading, trying to silence my thoughts, but they were still there. I hadn’t read more than a few sentences since I had laid down over an hour ago. My mind kept going back to that feeling I had in the pit of my stomach—the one that tells you something is very wrong. To the lemon of a car sitting outside. The lack of cell phone service and Wi-Fi. The rotting pit of animals at the end of the driveway. The scream I heard last night. I heard it, right? I rubbed my forehead and hoped the thoughts would rub away too. It was odd. One moment, I found the ranch comforting, and the next, it terrified me.
Calvin had driven off in his truck, following Charlotte, hours ago. He didn’t even tell me he was leaving or where he was going or when he’d be back. I couldn’t believe he had just left me here. But perhaps he was giving me space. I was cold to him, and maybe I pushed him away too hard. He hadn’t really done anything wrong . . . that I knew of. I needed to get over the pit of dead animals—no matter how disgusting it was—because it wasn’t Calvin’s fault. He didn’t kill those animals, and he didn’t make me slip into it. And the rest of the issues—no cell phone service or Wi-Fi and my car acting up—were inconveniences I’d deal with eventually. But the scream? Well, I can’t be sure I even heard it. I was being paranoid. But deep down I knew that paranoia sometimes kept you safe.
The clock on the wall opposite the couch said it was after seven. I let out a sigh and flipped a page that I didn’t actually read. Headlights flooded the living room window, and the roar of a truck engine rumbled the house. Calvin’s footsteps clamored up the stairs, then across the porch. I heard him wrestle his boots off and drop them on the ground outside before the door squeaked open. I draped one leg over the other and propped my head up with my hand. When he entered the living room, he didn’t say anything, and I pretended I didn’t hear him. I felt his eyes scan over me—from my toes to my legs to my chest and then they stopped at my face.
“Hey,” he said.
I casually flipped a page of the book. “Where have you been?”
He wiped off his shirt the best he could and scratched the back of his neck.
“I was over at Charlotte’s helping her with her sink. Then, she had me help her with a window that wouldn’t open. Then, I fixed a cupboard door, and so on . . .”