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Chapter 29

“Lori?Lori,what'sgoingon?” I'm too busy trying to make sense of what I'm seeing to answer my mother. Five cop cars—no, six—are lining the street. Yellow and black striped tape has been strung on the mailbox and some newly hammered in wooden stakes to create a perimeter.

Two officers are standing out front. They see us coming and catch my eye. They flag us down, and I'm tempted to tell my mom to keep driving, to just go until we run out of gas without looking back.

But she brakes hard, jolting me against the seatbelt. “Mom?” I ask.

She shakes her head side to side. “Lori, do they know—”

“Shh.” I cut her off cleanly. “Mom, look at me.” She does, and she's ten years older, her face marred by wrinkles that creep endlessly into every inch of paper-thin skin. “Don't say anything.”

She licks her lips while nodding. My mom parallel parks in the street behind one of the police cruisers, because the yellow caution tape blocks our driveway. I recognize one of the officers with a name tag that reads Evie; she's the woman who was there when I bailed out Chico and Jake.

I don't think she remembers me, though, because the second we roll our windows down, she approaches and asks, “You live here?”

“Yes,” I say.

“What's your name?”

“Lorikeet.” I try to see around her. “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

Another officer, this one a man with a receding hairline, comes to my mother's side. “Got a tip about something in your backyard. Why don't you both climb out and we'll ask you a few questions. That alright?”

My mom shoots me a nervous look. “I guess so.”

“It's fine,” I say in a flat affect. “But what exactly happened?”

“Like I said, come out. We'll chat,” he says.

My heart is stampeding. There's perspiration clinging to my palms, my back, and I worry they'll see it soaking through my shirt as I unbuckle and get out of the car. The two officers are saying things, but I'm not listening anymore because I saw something that makes me wonder if I'm dreaming.

It sits beside my front door, just off the welcome mat, where it won't be stepped on. I don't believe it at first, I think I must be imagining it. Ducking under the police tape, ignoring the shouts behind me, I hurry closer. I'm a few feet away when I confirm my suspicion.

The ceramic bowl from the florist shop. The one I smashed on Dez's head.

Someone glued it back together.

They left it here for me.

“Ms. Jones?” the officer says behind me. “You can't go inside. This is a crime scene. Let's talk over here, okay?”

“Okay,” I say numbly, still ogling the bowl.How? Why?As I trail the man towards his police car, I see what's happening around the side of the house. Four officers in black uniforms are standing in a circle. The ground in front of them is torn up, two of them digging slowly but intently.

There's one other person near them, standing back a bit, surveying with a wicked smirk.

Dezmond.

Like he senses me, his eyes come up, finding mine. His smirk peels over his gums. Smugness drips off him, and when he crosses his arms, he casually runs his middle finger over the barely healed cut on his forehead; the one I gave him. He mouths a phrase I read from a distance.Now who's lower than garbage?

Of course, it's obvious. He was furious after what happened in the shop. All his planning that involved marrying me, getting my dad's money, he's set it on fire in the name of revenge. He doesn't care if he doesn't get a fucking dime of the lotto winnings anymore. He's a petty human who has always been driven by a need to hurt others. That's why he's called the police here.

I thought I could predict Dezmond, but in the end, I was wrong.

I can't move. My feet are planted in the grass, eyes unable to blink. I stare endlessly at the horror unfolding before me. This is it; it's finally happening. They'll dig up my father's body, and I'll lose everything I fought to keep.

“Ma'am?” the cop says. “Let's go. I have some questions. Ma'am? Hello?”

There's commotion in the group that's digging. It feels like I have snakes in my guts, animals that flex and slither, threatening to pour up and out of my esophagus.