Then, call the police. That was my next thought. That was what I could do. Maybe what I should do. But I remembered the blood in my bed, on my hands, on my face, and hesitated. I stayed there, studying the earth until, after several long moments where my ribs pushed against the backs of my knees as I breathed, I dug my hand into the dirt and tossed away a clump.
Soon, I was on all fours, scrabbling in the ground like a dog. Only a few inches down, my mud-caked fingernails snagged fabric. I flicked away clusters of dirt until I’d uncovered a T-shirt and a torso. My mind struggled to recall the last thing I’d eaten. Whatever it was, it was slowly creeping the wrong way up my throat.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”
My movements became quick and sporadic as I hurried to excavate the rest. I pawed at the soil. My fingertips touched skin and hair and then it was finished. I sat back on my heels and covered my mouth with my hand.
There, lying in the cold ground, was a boy whose face I recognized. And he was now in a position that I’d found myself fantasizing about many times over the last few weeks.
He was dead.
I pressed the inside of my wrist to my lips and took shaky breaths, fighting to keep down the bile that was tickling the roof of my mouth. It was like I’d wished it to be true and now, inexplicably, it was. My tongue felt too big.
Dirt and blood coated the boy’s hair. His right eye was closed. A knife wound pierced the left eye socket. The remnants of an eyeball filled the hole like the whites of an undercooked hard-boiled egg. Violent, red-soaked gashes tore open the T-shirt. Too many to count.
Sunlight had begun to trickle down through the leaves. Silver glinted beside the boy. I reached down next to his arm and pulled out a serrated knife. I turned it over in my palm. The hilt was black with a metallic border. I recognized the small logo at the end as the same brand as my mother’s collection. Hadn’t she been missing one this weekend?
I felt my lungs deflate, sucked of oxygen like a plastic bag. Soon my family would be waking up. Soon they’d be wondering where I was. I rose to my feet and paced back and forth past the head of the body. Think, Cassidy. What should I do? I tapped my fingers to my forehead. Minutes spiraled away from me. I had no idea how this boy—this corpse—had gotten here, but I knew there was blood on me and there was a body merely yards from my house. I was a smart girl. Anybody that did the math would think I had something to do with it.
From the road, I heard the loud grumble of the garbage truck trundling up the street. The world was stirring. Quick decisions were the only kind I had time for, so I made one.
I began to push dirt back over the cadaver, then stopped. I patted down his shorts and felt underneath his muddy back for a wallet or a cell phone. Who was this boy? I knew his face. I knew what he’d done to me. But that was it. I wanted to know his name. Except he’d been stripped of his things.
Out on the road, there was the beep of a reversing truck. Never mind, I thought and resumed shoving dirt. I didn’t leave a mound. Instead, I packed the mud as tightly as I could over where he lay. I foraged for leaves and sticks and branches and placed them over the spot where I’d reburied the boy to camouflage it.
When I was finished, I studied my handiwork. The disguise was good, good enough to nearly convince me this had all been a nightmare and I was coming to after some bizarre sleepwalking incident. Or at least it would have been, if it weren’t for the knife cast in the soil nearby.
I picked it up and stowed it in the pocket of my sweatshirt before cutting briskly back into my yard. I shut the kitchen door and pulled it until the lock snapped into place. I slipped off my boots and held them in one hand so as not to track in dirt. Checking the wooden block where my mom stored her knives, I saw that one was indeed still missing.
A clammy fever swept over me, like cold hands had just wrapped around the back of my neck. I rinsed the knife under the faucet and stuffed it with the rest of the silverware in the dishwasher before returning to my bedroom to change for the second time this morning.
When I came back downstairs, Honor was eating an English muffin at the breakfast table. “What’s up with you?” she asked.
I’d changed into clean pajamas. “Nothing, just sick,” I said. The kitchen felt so normal now that it was filled with my sister and the sounds of our parents getting ready in their bedroom. My heart ached for normal. A wave of nausea swam through my belly and for a second, I really did feel sick.
“Since when?” She took a bite of her English muffin. A dollop of jelly stuck to her cheek. She smeared it with her finger and licked it off.
I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of orange juice. The liquid sloshed inside and I hurried to hide my shaking hands. “Since this morning. Why the investigation?” I worked hard to keep the edge out of my voice and failed.
Honor shrugged. “I just thought you were turning over a new leaf or whatever.”
I glanced out the window, beyond the trees, imagining the horror that was hidden outside. My knees threatened to buckle. I needed to sit down.