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On the highway, I swerve around a semitruck driving ten below the speed limit. He flips me off as I pass him. Usually, I’d return the gesture, but I’ve got one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other is desperately trying to dial. I hadn’t saved any numbers into my new phone, so I’m going off memory, typing each digit in. It goes straight to voice mail. I call again and again, and every time it goes straight to voice mail. Frustrated, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and grasp the steering wheel with both hands. My foot presses harder on the gas pedal, taking the station wagon from seventy up to eighty. The climb in speed is slow as the engine chugs, struggling to go faster.

The world passes by me in a blur, not because of how fast I’m traveling but because I’ve only just learned that everything I’ve ever known has been a lie. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to come to terms with that. I reach for my phone again and bring up the Call screen, dialing a new number. The line connects immediately.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.

“I need police to W9164 Hustis Street in Allen’s Grove, Wisconsin.”

“Ma’am, please slow down. What’s your name?”

“Nicole. Nicole Thomas.”

“And you’re requesting police? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“There are bodies buried. Three of them.”

“Do you need paramedics,” she asks. Her fingers tap against a keyboard.

“No, they’re already dead.”

“And you said the address is W9164 Hustis Street, Allen’s Grove, Wisconsin?” she confirms.

“Yes,” I say.

The house comes into view just as I crest the hill of Highway X that leads right through the Grove. Our property is on the right, the house sitting at the highest point.

“You said you found three bodies?” the dispatcher asks, but the question doesn’t register. “Ms. Thomas, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve dispatched police, and they’re on their way. Is the address where you found the bodies a commercial building or a house? Does it belong to you?”

“It’s home,” I say.