Page 12 of What Lies in the Woods

My eyebrows shot up. “Chief? What happened to Miller?”

“Retired, six months ago,” she said, weight set back on her heels as she watched for my reaction. “Mayor Green and the city council brought me in from the sheriff’s office.”

I’d always figured when Chief Miller finally crumbled to dust, Bill Dougherty would inherit the job out of sheer inertia. He’d been Miller’s number two almost as long as I could remember. Of course, Dougherty was the moral and intellectual equivalent of an untoasted marshmallow, so I could only assume Bishop was an upgrade.

“Welcome to Chester, then,” I said genuinely, and she gave me a nod.

“Ms. Cunningham. Have a good day,” she said, and marched off to her car. I tucked her card in my back pocket and turned to face the door, fighting the urge to get in my car and drive straight back to Seattle. Forget the house. Forget everything. Let bones stay buried and secrets unspoken.

Bishop’s car crunched away down the road. I made my way up the steps.

Dad hadn’t locked the door. Never did. Even after what had happened to me, he’d never shaken the belief that bad things just didn’t happen in a town like Chester. The day he had to lock his door, he’d tell me, was the day he’d find a good rope and a strong beam and put himself out of his misery.

I pushed open the door, not yet stepping over the threshold. I knew exactly where Dad would be: in his chair, magazines stacked four feet high beside him, an avalanche of boxes, busted shelves, books, and God-knew-what filling every bit of the living room apart from a narrow path to the chair and sightlines to the TV.

Only there wasn’t a path to the armchair. In a couple places the mustard-brown carpet showed through, but newspapers, magazines, Tupperware,and random detritus I couldn’t identify covered most of it. The house smelled rank, like something had died in here. For a minute I was afraid it was Dad, until I remembered that Bishop had just talked to him.

“Dad?” I called, hovering in the doorway. Indistinct shifting and settling marked his movement, but it was a long time before he actually appeared. I was still unprepared when he emerged from the warren and we stood face-to-face.

He’d gotten old. Obviously he’d gotten older, but I hadn’t expected that he’d getold. He’d withered like a dead beetle drying out in the sun. His hair had receded, baring flaky, red skin, and he stood canted like he was trying to find an angle that didn’t ache. He wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, both of them faded but relatively clean.

He looked me up and down with his pale, watery eyes and grunted. “Didn’t know you were in town.”

“Good to see you, too, Dad,” I replied. I swallowed. “You going to invite me in?”

“No,” he said. I crossed my arms; he grunted again. “Suit yourself.” He backed up, because there wasn’t room to step aside. I followed him into the gloom. He took a right, weaving his way between stacks of plastic grocery bags. I didn’t know what was in them. I could only hope it wasn’t perishable food.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

“Checking in on you,” I said, balancing on one foot as I stepped over a spilled pile of magazines.

“Still alive, aren’t I?” he asked.

“I crossed paths with Chief Bishop just now.”

“Nice lady,” he said, pausing to look at me. “Wants to evict me. Put me in a home.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Sarcasm. That’s all you’ve got,” he muttered. “Are you here to tell me I’ve got to clean this place up? Because I’ve already heard it.” He lurched his way toward the kitchen. I followed apprehensively.

I braced myself, ready for mold and rat droppings, but it wasn’t asfar gone as I’d feared. The stove had two burners clear, and there was enough room to maneuver. It smelled stale like the rest of the house but not foul, which suggested he wasn’t keeping rotten food around.

“Clear off a chair, then,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen table, which was buried beneath canned food and unopened cleaning supplies. The chairs were stacked with plastic cutlery and disposable plates and bowls. A line of full trash bags stood by the back door, ready to go out, a few flies zipping around them.

“I’m good standing,” I said. I didn’t really want to touch anything in here. “She said she warned you three weeks ago you had to get this taken care of.”

“What’s to take care of? It’s my house, I live in it. Shouldn’t be anyone else’s business,” he said. “You want a beer?”

“No, I don’t want a beer. It’s barely eleven,” I said, deciding not to mention the wine I’d had already. He shoved aside a teetering pile of canned chili to get at the fridge. The cans tipped, banging to the floor and rolling everywhere.

“Jesus Christ, Dad. How can you live like this?” I asked.

“I do just fine,” he said, extracting a can of beer with great discernment despite the fact that there was only one brand in the fridge. “And why do you care, anyway?”

“I care,” I said, anger turning the words into a snap of teeth.

“I didn’t askifyou cared, I askedwhy,” he barked back.

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