The Family Tree: a psychological thriller

by S. K. Grice

  “Digging up dead bodies.” Melissa giggled and turned into my driveway.

  Acid rolled up my throat. Burying a body in the woods was something other people did. Sick people. Psycho people. Evil people. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. The McDougal family sold the property to a developer, you know. And I’ll bet the developer found something while clearing the land. And the people are probably volunteer archeologists sifting through soil for a colonial burial site or remnants of an Indian village.”

  The torn skin under my fingernails throbbed, and I pressed the sore tips into my thigh. “Something tells me the forensics van isn’t there to assist with an archeological dig.”

  Melissa glanced in her rearview mirror. “Who knows, but I’m curious what they’re up to.” She parked the car in front of the garage. “Come on. Let’s go and ask.”

  “I’d rather not.” The less I knew, the better.

  “Fine. I need to get ready for work this afternoon, anyway.”

  I hurried along the brick footpath to the front door, afraid to glance across the road. I wanted Melissa to be right about the volunteers working on an archeological dig. My gut knew otherwise.

  “Thanks for looking at apartments with me,” Melissa said, trailing behind.

  “No problem.” I unlocked the front door and went inside. “You’ve helped me so much these past few months… I just hope you find a place to settle into soon.”

  “I should know within the next week or so. Either I move to Richmond to live with my aunt or stay here in Lighthouse Beach.” She sighed. “I’d rather stay at the beach.”

  “I hope you stay, too.” I set my purse on the armchair. “But I guess it’s time I got used to living here on my own.”

  Melissa patted my back. “Seriously, you have too much time on your hands. You overthink situations. Why not come out to Ocean Joe’s later, and have a beer and eat crab cakes instead of sitting here alone? You can hang out at the bar and chat it up with us bartenders and waitresses.”

  Not a bad idea, but I was too concerned about planning my next move to commit to anything. “Yeah, I might see you there.”

  “Great. I’m going upstairs to get ready for work. Let me know if you see anything interesting happening across the road.”

  “Will do.” I cracked open the shutters on the living room window and watched the activity across the street. Maybe they’d found the bones of another body. I shivered and went into the kitchen. My fingers twitched for a double dose of Xanax, but instead I set the kettle on the stove and grabbed a green tea teabag. I needed all the clarity I could get. I’d been good at sticking to my OCD medication on its own.

  I sat at the kitchen table and relaxed as my breaths slowed. Melissa was right. I needed to stop overreacting. I needed to just let the police do their work.

  Ding dong.

  The doorbell jolted me from the stillness. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Wheeeee. The whistling kettle on the stove, steaming.

  Ding dong.

  Wheeeee.

  I rubbed my forehead then hauled myself off the chair, turned off the kettle, and begrudgingly made my way to the front door. A middle-aged couple in matching teal T-shirts stood on the verandah. “Good afternoon,” I said through the screen door.

  The man held up a flyer. “Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re volunteering on behalf of the family of Mike Morton.”

  My knees weakened and neurons scrambled to organize in my brain. The word ‘MISSING’ screamed out in bold text from the flyer. Mike’s smiling face looked back at me. It was the same photo used in the news reports. “Oh yeah?”

  The sour-faced woman slipped in front of the man. “You might have heard on the news that police believe Mike Morton may have met with foul play somewhere on Willow Road. Our team is combing the area today. We’re asking landowners to allow our volunteers to walk their property.” She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you receive the notification in the mail?”

  “Notification? No, when—”

  The woman puffed. “All residents were mailed a notification two weeks ago and were given a chance to us deny us access in advance. No one protested.”

  “What’s going on?” Melissa came to my side in her robe, drying her wet hair with a towel.

  “It’s a search party for Mike Morton,” I said.

  The man lifted the flyer to the screened door and Melissa looked closer, her eyes widening. “Mike Morton?” She looked at the volunteers. “Is that why you guys are looking around across the street? Did you find something over there?”

  “We’re looking for any evidence,” the man chimed in. “A gravesite. His watch. His phone. Clothing. Bones.”

  Melissa put a hand to her chest. “Good Lord.”

  Being informed about today’s search would’ve been nice. I looked at Melissa. “Apparently, a notification was sent in the mail. Did you see it?”

  Melissa shook her head. “I never even look in the mailbox. All my mail’s being diverted to my post office box until I find a permanent residence.”

  The woman pointed her thumb to the yard. “We all set to go, miss?”

  I wanted to say, ‘hell no’ and slam the door in her self-righteous face. I didn’t need a mob scouring my property and searching for evidence of Mike’s disappearance. But I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. They’ll never find his grave. I painted on a fake smile. “Of course. I have twenty-three wooded acres back here. Knock yourself out.”

  The man tipped the rim of his baseball cap. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll start with the front lawn and go from there.”

  The couple walked off, and I watched as teal-topped volunteers crossed the road from the McDougal property onto mine.

  “Damn.” Melissa stood next to me watching the activity. “I wish I didn’t have to get dressed and go to work. You’ll have to fill me in on if they find anything later.”

  I envied Melissa’s innocence. “I’ll do that.”

  Melissa went back upstairs, and I stepped out onto the verandah. My insides squirmed while volunteers assembled on my lawn. What were they looking for? Clothing? Wallet? Footprints? All of that was long gone. I shoved my hands into the front pockets of my loose jeans.

  They won’t find him. He’s buried too deep. Deep under the trunk of the tree.

  A car engine rumbled and a white sedan pulled up in front of my house. Noah climbed out of the driver’s side and met my gaze. My knees weakened and I grabbed hold of the post. I hadn’t talked to him since the day I’d taken ownership of the house and he’d stopped by, questioning me about the family tree. That was two months ago.

  He waved and headed across my lawn, straight toward me.

  The pounding in my chest grew quicker, sharper, pushing my ability to breathe to the limit. I didn’t have to wonder why he was here. He’d come to find Mike.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sweat dribbled down my spine as Noah approached the front of the house. I couldn’t let him see my fear, so I put on a smile of an average homeowner who was curious about the progress of the search.

  “Good afternoon, Jolene.” Noah’s voice was as bouncy as his steps up the verandah.

  Too enthusiastic. Immediately, I didn’t trust him. “Well, hello there.”

  He smiled like a kid on a treasure hunt. “Think they’ll find anything out there?”

  “Probably the old baseball Annette lost twenty years ago.” I elbowed his arm. “Or that painted bong you and your idiot friends kept hidden.”

  His neck turned pink. “I’m talking about Mike Morton.”

  I turned my eyes to the volunteers combing the lawn. “What makes police think he’s out there somewhere?”

  “The last time Mike was seen he was on foot only 400 yards from this house.” He pointed toward Crab Creek Road. “A driver that night saw a man matching Mike’s description make a turn onto Willow Road.”

  My nose twitched. This was new to me. I’d known a few drivers had witnessed Mik
e hitchhiking on Crab Creek Road, but had someone really seen him turn onto this road? “Oh…?”

  “And the only people he knew on this street were Patsy and Annette. I even remember seeing him at Patsy’s Fourth of July party only a month before he was reported missing.”

  The memory flooded in—Mike staggering around the backyard party. Patsy’s annual neighborhood barbeque had grown into a town tradition on the scale of a festival. She’d relished the holiday, and always had an ice-cold keg of beer and hot dogs on offer to whoever wanted to stop by and play croquet or cornhole.

  My lips pressed together, hot hair blowing out my nose. It infuriated me how Mike had taken Patsy’s kind nature for granted. Drunk her beer, eaten from her table, then raped and tried to kill her daughter. Now, I hated the scumbag even more.

  I coughed back the acid in my throat and spoke like I had some input. “I remember. He looked pretty drunk that day. Didn’t stay long.”

  “Uh-huh.” Noah looked away. “Well, we’re determined to dig up every lead.”

  My shoulders tensed. Leads. What fucking leads? Certainly, he wouldn’t take Madame Celeste seriously. A graveled voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “I’m ready to go, boss.” A hunched older man in a plaid shirt tipped his red baseball cap at Noah. One hand clasped the push bar on a light cart holding a ground-penetrating radar device.

  Noah turned to me. “We’ll talk about this some more later.” He stepped off the verandah and greeted the man.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. Noah’s evasiveness troubled me, but it was the equipment the old man had on his cart that rattled my nerves. I was familiar with GPR from field study work in college. Back then, radar had only been able to penetrate three feet into the ground. But technology had changed over the years.

  For the next ten minutes, the volunteers walked side-by-side across the front lawn. The GRP operator followed the group with Noah sniffing up his ass like a dog in heat.

  I stepped off the verandah and trailed behind the group. Picking at the dirty grime under my nails. My heart tripped a beat with each step the volunteers and GPR took toward the backyard.

  Noah nudged the operator and pointed to the family tree. “I need you to scan around this tree before you move on to other parts of the property.”

  The operator tipped the rim of his baseball cap. “No worries, boss.”

  Strength left my knees and I staggered to the picnic table next to the tree, where I sat on the bench. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, unable to stop them from shaking. Noah had to know Mike was under the tree. How?

  This is it. My life is over.

  The operator whistled a chirpy tune and slowly pushed the bleeping cart around the full perimeter of the sprawling roots.

  Noah hovered over the screen on the radar. “Make sure to get right up to the trunk,” he said.

  “Getting there, boss.” The operator resumed his whistling and spiraling, slowly inching closer to the trunk.

  My eyes stayed glued to the snail-paced operator. He hesitated only inches from the trunk and let out a high-pitched whistle. I sucked in a breath, held it in my lungs.

  Noah rushed to the monitor. “What is it?”

  The operator pursed his lips and shook his head. “We’ve got no anomalies here, boss. Just a bunch of roots.”

  I released a one-ton breath and my chest collapsed. Nothing? My hands gripped the edge of the hard seat. Annette’s voice echoed in my head. Pretend it never happened.

  It never happened. It never happened. It never happened.

  Noah rubbed the back of his neck. The lines in his forehead grew deeper. “Are you sure? Maybe you need to run over it again—”

  The operator shook his head. “Nope. If something is buried under this tree, it’s either obscured by all the roots or too deep for this equipment to detect it.”

  Closing my eyes, I sank into the darkness. A rotted body shrouded under a lace canopy of roots flashed behind my eyelids and I opened my eyes to Noah staring at me. We were only ten feet apart, but the silence between us stretched for miles.

  “We finished here?” The operator looked between me and Noah. “I’ve got a lot more ground to cover.”

  Noah’s face soured, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Yeah. We’re finished.”

  “Baker!” A man called out.

  I turned to the familiar voice. Detective Larson waved to Noah and walked toward him. Larson was involved in Jackson’s murder investigation, but what the hell was he doing here? My body shivered, though it wasn’t cold. The detectives shook hands and turned their backs to me. They huddled close, speaking too low for me to hear from my perch on the picnic bench.

  The volunteers dispersed into the woods. They’d find nothing out there. It was Noah and Larson deep in discussion under the tree that had me concerned. I had an itching feeling something bad was going to happen.

  I wanted to fade away. Disappear. My pulse raced like I’d jogged a marathon, but I slid off the picnic bench and meandered toward the house like I had no cares in the world.

  “Jolene. Wait.”

  Noah’s voice. I stopped at the bottom of the deck steps. Shit. I slowed my breath and turned my head, doing my best to act nonchalant. “Yeah?”

  Detective Larson acknowledged me with a wave. “Hello, Miss Parker. Sorry to intrude.”

  Too late for that, asshole. I slid my hands into the pockets of my dress. “What’s up?”

  Noah walked toward me. “Can we talk to you inside for a few minutes?”

  Did I have a choice? “Uh, sure. Come on in.”

  They followed me up the deck and into the kitchen. Noah pointed to the round kitchen table. “Can we sit here?”

  I nodded and everyone sat.

  Noah gave me a best-friend smile. “I’m going to be up front with you, Jolene.” His tone was businesslike. “The department has been receiving anonymous phone calls about Mike’s disappearance for the past five months.”

  Blood drained from my head and pooled in my gut like cement. I glanced between the solemn-faced detectives who waited for my response. Hesitation was my enemy. Straightening my spine, I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “W-what has the caller said?”

  Noah spun a pen on the tabletop but kept his eyes on me. “The first call came through back in July, the caller only said that Mike Morton’s body was buried on a property on Willow Road.”

  My throat ran dry, and I couldn’t swallow. I’d been right all along. There had been someone on the lawn. Someone had seen. Or had Annette told someone? No. She’d promised. “That sounds awful.”

  “Yeah, well—we debated whether to inform the Morton family because we wanted to make sure it wasn’t a hoax.” Noah leaned back. “But Mrs. Morton calls our office every year, desperate for any new information. We felt we had to tell them about the caller when she called this year. That’s when the family decided to put up the reward.”

  I pressed my arms to my side to still myself. This is nothing. Don’t panic. “A fifty-thousand-dollar reward because of one anonymous phone call?”

  Noah’s lip twitched. “They had other reasons to believe the caller.”

  This is nothing. Don’t panic. “Are you referring to the psychic Mrs. Morton hired?”

  “You know about that?” He flashed a sardonic smile.

  “I’ve heard gossip.”

  Noah sighed. “The psychic aside, two weeks after the Morton family put up the reward, we got a second anonymous call. This time, the caller said he’d seen what happened to Mike and knew where he was buried.”

  His words hit my head and spun everything around. Someone saw what happened. I rubbed my fingertips over my dry lips, wanting to run off and comprehend what I’d just heard, but Noah watched my every move. “So, the caller,” I said, “he’s looking for the reward, right?”

  “He didn’t mention it.” Noah kept his gaze on me.

  My insides squirmed. Who saw us? I looked at Noah. “He… the caller is a man?”
<
br />   “We’re not sure. The caller uses a voice synthesizer.”

  I hugged myself, rocked a few times, then stopped. “What else did he say?”

  “He ended the call.”

  “He’s probably a kook,” I said, sitting up straight. “He’s sending you on a wild goose chase.”

  Noah snorted. “He’s certainly taunting us. But he called a third time. This time, he said Mike is buried behind a house on Willow Road, and that the clues were right under our noses.”

  The moment got stuck in a freeze-frame as Noah’s words echoed in my mind. Mike is buried behind a house on Willow Road. I wanted to say something clever, but the circuits in my brain crossed and all I could do was mutter. “Oh, really?”

  “That’s when we had a closer look and reinterviewed everyone who lived on this street or was in the vicinity at the time Mike went missing.” He used his fingertip to draw a long line on the tabletop.

  I licked my dry lips. “Why the game-playing? Anyone who really knows where Mike is would want to collect the reward.”

  “Not this person,” Larson said. “When he called the third time, he insisted he wasn’t interested in the reward. Only wants justice for Mike.”

  Noah shot Larson a quick glance, then leaned closer to me. “Jolene.” His tone had shifted from informative to somber. “We got a fourth phone call a couple of weeks ago. This time, the caller was more specific.” He paused and his gaze intensified. Sweat dripped down my neck, and I suffocated in the thick air.

  “The caller said Mike Morton is buried under the oak tree behind Patsy’s old house,” Larson said, breaking the silence.

  Ringing exploded in my ears. I needed to stay calm when everything inside told me to scream. The anonymous caller. The leaves. The stalker. It had to be connected. I turned to Noah; his expression twisted from eager to sad to grim, distorting his features. How well did I really know him? “It’s a prank.”

  Noah brushed imaginary dust from the table. “Could be. But we have to explore all leads.”

  I hugged myself to calm my shaking body. The person dressed in all black who Mrs. Nichols and I had seen was the anonymous caller. Had to be. And the caller was also Jackson’s killer. I had so many questions, but my lips couldn’t move. Bringing up Jackson’s name while I was a suspect in his murder wasn’t smart. How could I be sure if what Noah had just told me was true, or if he was rattling my cage? “Can’t you trace the call…find out who the caller is?”