She heard the shower go on, the plumbing making a not-so-comforting thumping sound. She was sure they’d put some of the pipes back together wrong when they redid the bathroom. Sometimes the thumping of the pipes turned into a low whine, sounding like there was a monster trapped behind the walls, screaming to get out. She had no doubt that they’d need to take the wall down again and replace the plumbing. Then maybe Daddy would decide that the shower should be moved to another wall and they’d do everything all over again.

Twenty minutes later, she was wrapping up the rest of the rolls when Daddy came in, smelling like mentholated shaving cream and Irish Spring soap. He filled up his travel mug. Olive handed him the sack lunch she’d packed for him: a ham sandwich, an apple, and two cinnamon rolls.

“I’m off,” he said, grabbing the keys to his truck. “You want a ride? I’ve gotta be over on County Road this morning—they’re redoing the culvert—but I can drop you off on the way.”

County Road was on the other side of town from the high school. It wasn’t on the way at all. She smiled at his kind offer. “No thanks, I’ll take the bus.”

“Better skedaddle if you don’t want to miss it,” he warned.

“On my way in five minutes,” she said.

“Good girl,” he called as he went out the front door, not looking back. She heard his old Chevy start up, cranking slowly like it wasn’t sure it wanted to go anywhere, but then it caught and roared to life.

She sat back down, got out another cinnamon bun. She wasn’t going to catch the bus. Odd Oliver wasn’t going to school at all today.

She had other plans.

CHAPTER 5

Helen

MAY 19, 2015

Nate had his laptop open and played her the terrible sounds again and again. A red fox screaming. A fisher. Both noises cruel, pained, and hideous sounding. She flinched each time he pushed the play button. He cocked his head, listened harder, like he was trying to learn their language.

“Is either of those what you heard?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I heard,” she said, taking a long sip of wine. “Now would you please stop playing them over and over?”

She was tired and sore and wanted a hot bath. But they had only a tiny shower, barely large enough to turn around in, with a stained plastic enclosure and a handheld shower wand with water pressure so bad, Nate called it the spit bath. That would have to do.

“People call them fisher cats, but they’re not cats at all,” he explained. “They’re actually a member of the weasel family.”

He pushed play once more and the kitchen was filled with that horrible screeching.

“Please, Nate,” she begged. “Just turn the fucking thing off.”