The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,59
ears ringing, guts hot and liquid. I drop the shovel with a thump. Try to swallow, but my throat clicks.
This can’t be a coincidence. I kneel beside the closest hole. Slip my fingers in, find only freshly turned soil. Still crouched, I scramble to the next, ankles protesting. I find the same. And in the next. And the next. And the next. Dirt spills between my fingers, dirt and nothing more. I sit back on my heels. Pan from left to right. I’m still alone. This is the correct spot. It’s where I remember kneeling. And digging.
I shovel the first hole deeper. Drive my fingers into the new space, sifting through the loose soil. I move to the next hole. Do the same. I turn all five into ragged, open wounds, scattering earth every which way, no longer caring if anyone sees. Then I tackle the solid ground between the holes, jabbing with the point of the shovel. I dig deep, tossing rocks and pebbles, lifting scoops of dirt in my palms, flinging it away. I stab the ground again and again, biceps, wrists, and forearms aching. Nothing. There’s nothing.
Nothing here, or nothing to find because someone else already found it?
The shovel slips from my grasp, and I press a dirt-covered hand to my forehead. Sweat slicks my skin. Then there’s no ground beneath me; my fingers and toes are numb; a gray haze clouds my eyes. My heart is a tattoo gun. I throw my head back, take in gulps of air as my fingers clutch the earth. The purpling sky watches, indifferent.
No one knew about this. If anyone else saw me back then, they would’ve said something. They would’ve done something. I was crying. Frantic. Trying to be quiet, maybe, but no doubt failing—because I was twelve goddamn years old.
With the shovel bouncing bruise-hard against my side, legs moving in an uneven gait, I race to my car. Fling the shovel into the trunk. Fling myself into the driver’s seat. The visor mirror reveals a woman with flushed skin and dilated pupils. A woman slowly being driven mad. A woman who soon won’t have any fight left, who will only be able to curl in a ball and wait for it to end.
* * *
When Nicole texts to ask if I want to meet for drinks after work, I lie and tell her I have a late patient. I do end up working a little late—my last session runs over—but once it ends, I pack up and go to close the window blinds. And there, in the parking lot beside my Jeep’s passenger door, is someone standing in dark clothing. Hunched over. I gasp, slamming my palm against the window frame. The person walks on, arm swinging free, car fob in hand. I choke back a humorless laugh.
Still, as I leave the building, I scan the lot. Make a quick walk around my Jeep to check the back seats. It’s only when I’m inside and have the doors locked that my shoulders loosen, my fingers uncurl.
The drive home is uneventful, and although Ryan didn’t text me that he was working late, his truck isn’t here. The next-door neighbor pulls into their driveway the same time I do, and we offer cursory waves. A warm front moved through the area this afternoon and at least a few people are taking advantage of it—I smell hot dogs on a grill and hear the rhythmic bounce of a basketball.
Shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder, I reach into the mailbox, and my fingers sink into something soft. Yelping, I yank back. Bend down in slow motion to spy gray fur. A bushy tail. A squirrel.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back a few feet.
We’ve had squirrels in the attic but never in our mailbox. I wait, but it doesn’t come out. Then I smell it. Rot and decay, sweet and thick. My guts churn. Did the squirrel climb in there to die? Think, Heather. Think. I fetch a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen and a contractor bag from the garage, but when I reach into the mailbox, I shudder and drop the bag, my arms like electrified worms.
Returning to the garage, I scan the tools for something small but not sharp. Lightbulb moment. From the shed in the backyard, I find a small gardening shovel. There’s enough room for me to slide it in the mailbox, above the squirrel. I lower it until there’s resistance, burying my mouth in