Better Left Buried (27 page)

“You know this is Charity Wolcott’s place right? I don’t think all this junk is going to fit in her trailer.”

The men laughed
.

Harmony
scowled.

“I’m going to cover the roof. Why don’t you board up the rest of the windows and doors? Harold says to check around inside first.”

“Oh, I see. I get to be the one to go check things out.”

“Better you than me.”
The man on the ladder chuckled, but Harmony read it as a nervous laugh.

“Just take a quick look, Bill.
The boss doesn’t want the bad press of bulldozing in some squatters.”

Harmony clenched the photo album tight to her chest and sloshed through the ankle-deep water toward the washer and dryer, the only real place to hide. A network of pipes and drains kept the washer a few feet from the wall. She climbed around them and gently nudged both the washer and dryer far enough forward for it to look natural, but to allow her some room. There was no sitting down, not with all the water, so she pressed her back to the wall and squatted as low as she could. Her knees pressed into the back of the dryer and her thighs and calves
burned almost immediately.

The man who had been sent inside hurried to chec
k things out. He went two steps into the basement, mumbled something about the flood, and turned around, closing the door behind him.

Harmony set the album at an angle and opened the cover. The photos were mostly of her,
taken from the time when she was an infant to about two-years-old. She’d seen several of them before, duplicates probably, in the box she’d found at her mother’s. She pulled a dried rose bud from between the pages and traced a finger over a commemorative photo in a City Hall sleeve. Her mother wore a pale-colored sundress and held a mixed color bouquet. Her father wore a pair of jeans and an ill-fitting button-down shirt that looked borrowed. Joan and Kurt Miller stood beside them, Joan holding Brea and Kurt holding Joan’s hand. An officiant stood in the background in a cheap suit and wide tie. The scene reeked of a Justice of the Peace elopement. Her father had won out, and even though her mother had kept her maiden name, Wolcott, which she had already bestowed on Harmony, she married him.

Her expression couldn’t have been more miserable.

The rest of the day played out like a bizarre version of Brea’s life up until the locker incident. She’d gone from being the most obscure person at Reston High to becoming some new popular thing that everyone couldn’t wait to play with. Rachael, who had never known a day of being outcast in her life, was on the receiving end of the hateful scrutiny she’d dished out on others. Each joke amplified the last and even the fringe kids—those not popular or particularly unpopular—rallied their best pack behavior to taunt their tormenter.

If Rachael weren’t
such an evil bitch, Brea would have felt sorry for her.

The dismissal bell rang, releasing everyone into the rain. A ceiling of clouds gave the charcoal gray sky a sense of being finite. Most people ran to their buses, squealing. Brea
held her backpack over her head to serve as a makeshift umbrella. The fast downpour was ice cold and soaked through her shoes.

Pete tucked Becky under his arm, both of them drenched and laughing. Becky cupped her hands
to collect the raindrops and splashed Pete when they were full. Pete stomped in a puddle, spraying her with twice as much water.

“I can see through your shirt,” he said
, wagging his eyebrows.

“You cannot!” Becky pulled her pink shirt away from her chest, but it stuck right back to her the
second she let go.

“Can too. And it’s cold out here! You could cut
glass with those things.”

Becky held her hands over her breasts to cover her nipples.

Brea, who was far less confident, walked faster.

Jaxon didn’t care that he was getting soaked. “You get wet faster if you run.”

“That’s not true,” Brea shouted, her voice muffled by the sound of the raindrops pelting the cars. “It’s the same amount of water either way.”

“Let’s test it. You run. I’ll walk.” He tossed her his Jeep keys. “You’re driving.”

Brea smiled, eager to play along. She ran as fast as her skinny legs would carry her and hit the unlock button twice so that Jaxon would be able to get in. She’d never driven stick before.

Becky and Pete waved from the
next car over.

Brea
waved back and turned down the rearview mirror. Her hair stuck to her head like a helmet. Makeup ran down her cheeks and she wiped the black streaks with the sleeve of her soaking wet shirt before letting her wet hair down and raking through it with her fingers. The air was heavy and the windows fogged up with her breath.

The passenger’s side door flew open and Jaxon stood with his arms apart, not a dry spot on him. “So, who wins?” A wide grin stretched across his face.

“I think we’ll have to call this one a draw.” Brea laughed, also soaked to the skin.

Jaxon got in and closed the door. His breath combined with hers made it impossible to see out or in. “At least I have options.” He scooted to the edge of his seat and peeled off his dripping wet shirt.

Brea couldn’t help staring. She had felt his abs and chest through his shirt, but seeing him bare, glistening wet, was something altogether different.

He
flashed her a crooked smile. “What?”

“Uh, nothing.”
She wondered if her jaw were on the floor.

“Nothing, huh?”
He dropped his wet shirt between the seats and held her hand to his chest.

One by one the cars lined up to leave the bottlenecked parking lot. It could take u
p to a half hour to get out between buses and line-cutters, but Brea was in no hurry. Feeling Jaxon’s heaving breath and bare skin, she’d stay all night if she had to. The mood changed from playful to tense, in the best possible way.

An unfamiliar
raw excitement ignited as Jaxon closed the gap between them to kiss her. In that moment she wasn’t scared or self-conscious, she was eager. He held his hand to her jawline as he kissed her, soft at first, but then harder, with need and purpose. He reached around her to put the key in the aux position and filled the Jeep with music that did little to mask the low moans escaping him. He held her hand, a comforting gesture that did little to slow her hammering heart. He was testing her, pushing the boundaries of where she’d let him go. He cupped her breast through her shirt, moving his thumb in a circle that sent waves through her. She considered stopping him, but forced herself to push past her fear. The recent step outside of her comfort zone brought only good things. This promised to be better. She didn’t want to be the shunned virgin anymore. She wanted to be with him. Her hand hit the control stick as she reached to wrap her arms around his neck and the wipers did a pass across the fogged up windshield. She’d lost track of how long they’d been sitting there, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Jaxon
drew a deep breath and turned off the wipers.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get carried away.”

“What if I want you to?” Brea pushed the driver’s seat back, maneuvering to get free of the steering wheel, and climbed into the back seat.

“Are you sure?” He
didn’t pretend not to know what she was doing. He forced his way through the narrow gap between the seats and sat next to her, resting his hand against her cheek.

She was shaking, but nodded. “I’m sure.” She peeled
off her shirt and pulled him to her, needing to lose herself in his kisses before she had a chance to overthink things.

He
laid her back, looming above her.

Thunder crashed and lightning lit up the car.

Brea was never one for thunderstorms, but Jaxon made her feel safe.

“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered,
turning her face away from him.

He lifted her chin and met her gaze with a smile. “I
promise I’ll be gentle.”

The workers left as soon as it started raining, neither having caught on that Harmony was hiding inside. The new roof tarp cast diffused blue light across the living room, hallway, and kitchen, and though it kept the rain out, the loud noise of the heavy drops against it made it hard to think about what to do next. The storm bought her time. Anyone looking for her would find a reason that tomorrow was a better day to search, but she was out of places to run to and people to help hide her.

Adam had
left a dozen voice mails and she listened to them for the security of hearing someone tell her they love her—over and over again.

Lance was absolutely out of the question.

There was still no word from Brea who hadn’t bothered to see if she was okay.
Some best friend.
Harmony scoffed and shook her head, but knew she was being harsh. She had heaped more trouble on Brea than any friendship was worth and up until now, she had always come back.

She
lit one of the white emergency candles and dripped a puddle of wax onto a saucer. She set the candle into the melted wax and held it until it cooled before heading into the basement.

The water level
was rising, the line a good few inches above where it had been an hour earlier. At the rate the rain was coming in, everything that wasn’t already ruined would be destroyed in no time.

Harmony
made her way down the stairs, the wood creaking from the weight of her steps, and set the candle down about halfway. The flame reflected off the water’s calm surface, casting shadows where none should have been.

She closed her eyes
and told herself everything was fine, even remembering the assault in Adam’s kitchen that had left her terrified. Something had come at her, cut her, most likely intending her harm. There was easily enough water down here for her to drown in if she came under attack again.

She took off her damp
socks and rolled her pants up to her knees. The boxes were caving, the pile leaning more severely now that the bottom ones were nearly crushed. Unlike her mother, she couldn’t let everything rot. Her past was in those boxes, too.

The ice cold
water relieved the searing pain of her ruptured blisters as she carried the remaining boxes upstairs, stacking the dry ones and unloading the contents of the wet ones onto the cluttered kitchen table. The room looked like someone preparing for a garage sale, having everything from baby toys to dishes to the metal security box she couldn’t get into.

She dried her feet on a kitchen towel
and drained the box by tilting it over the stained porcelain sink. More water than she would have thought possible spilled out, brown and red, against the white. She mopped it off with the towel and tried prying it open.

Her grandfather had a similar box from WWII—metal, army green, and smaller than a shoe box
—that he kept his medals and a few old photographs in. He said those things were reminders of a time he didn’t care to remember, or to be remembered as being a part of. His going to war had not been by choice. Coming back had changed him, not into a hero, as the medals had claimed, but into a man who had done unspeakable things to survive. He’d have been happy to see the keepsakes destroyed by flooding, if the box was, in fact, his. Harmony, on the other hand, felt closer to him through his things and hoped that wasn’t the case.

She searched the kitchen drawer for something sturdy enough to attack the small lock with, coming up with a wood
-handled ice pick and a meat tenderizing mallet. She set the box on its hinged side and placed the tip of the ice pick into the lock hole.

A quick hit dented the box and sent the pick through the thin metal. She twisted it free and thought what else she might use without slicing her hand open. Knives were a brutally unforgiving option. She
fetched a small screwdriver from the tool box in the garage that like everything in the house showed its age through rust and faded paint.

The tip settled into the hole left by the ice pick, but a few gentle taps popped the lock.
More water ran out of the box, soaking the towel and staining it dark brown. Degraded paper stuck to the inside of the box. The ink left tie-dye marks behind, and in all likelihood it would take a forensics team to decipher them, but she gently scooped all of the similar pieces into a soggy paper mache pile just in case. A set of keys was folded inside of a piece of torn cotton. The key ring said “Camaro”. The knot in her stomach tightened. There was a book of matches, an outdated flip phone, and a wallet—dark brown leather, wet and faded—that had stained everything around it.

This was literally
Pandora’s box.

She wanted to close it
, to lock it and pretend she’d never seen it because what it implied was too painful to bear, but she opened the wallet and stared at the driver’s license tucked inside. The edge had frayed, but the image was as clear as if her father was staring right at her. These were his things—his phone, wallet, keys—and they said more about his disappearance than any police report. There was no way he hadn’t taken them with him. His credit cards and twenty three waterlogged dollars said he didn’t run away.