Better left buried, p.25
Better Left Buried, page 25
Closure, Katy had said, and maybe that’s what it is for her. She grieved her parents all those years ago, and she had to grieve them again when she listened to the recording of Veronica Anselm admitting to their murder. But even still, she’s lived with this loss a lot longer than I have.
For me, it’d be nice to see where they’re resting.
“The cemetery is peaceful,” Audrey says softly. “I go there in the summer a lot. Sit and talk to Dad. I went there the night Pierce died, too. To talk to him before I met with Pierce.”
I lean my head against her shoulder.
We stay there, hand in hand on the steps as our moms catch up in the parking lot.
It’s a perfect moment, sunny, quiet.
“Should we go in?” she asks me finally.
I nod. “Together?”
“Together.”
Audrey. 4:30 p.m.
Pierce Anselm’s attorneys are waiting inside, along with the detective we met the night Gus Anselm died. She’s taken over the investigation since Cliff went to jail, and she steps forward to shake Mom’s hand.
Pierce Anselm’s attorneys, Kipling and Kaur, wave us over to the table.
Kipling, a woman about Mom’s age, smiles at me. “I’ve heard all about what you girls did to help solve this case,” she says warmly. “Won’t you sit down? This will be pretty informal.”
“I was kind of hoping for a dramatic reading,” Lucy says as she drops into a chair beside me. “Loudly, with a few twists and some juicy reveals.”
Kaur, the junior partner at the firm, a young man with jet-black hair and brown eyes, grins. “I’m afraid it isn’t really the way it happens in movies,” he says. “We have the will right here, and we asked you both here because you are beneficiaries.”
Lucy exchanges a glance with me. “Holy shit,” she says, and then claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, swearing in here kind of feels like swearing in church.” She glances guiltily over at her mom. “Not that I ever swear in church.”
Kaur chuckles. “No worries,” he says. “I’ll give you your copies, and I’ve made some for your parents as well, because the inheritance you receive will remain in a trust until you’re of age. Your parents will oversee that trust until you both turn eighteen.”
“You can read for yourselves, of course,” Kipling says as Kaur hands us the documents. “But I thought it would be easier if I went through it a bit, as sometimes the legal jargon is a bit dense. It’s taken us some time to sort out, given that Mr. Anselm passed away under such unfortunate circumstances, but now that the case has been resolved we’ve been given the go-ahead to move forward with all this.” She hesitates and exchanges a look with Mom.
Mom puts a hand on my arm, her touch gentle.
“The first thing you should know is that when Mr. Anselm found out what had happened to both of your families, he was devastated,” Kipling continues quietly. “He spoke to us, though not about specifics, but he was truly heartbroken for the pain your families have suffered because of his. He expressed the feeling that Katy and Langley might not be open to receiving anything from him, and that he understood, but he hoped he could offer something to their daughters instead. He has left his estate to you girls in its entirety.”
“Well, damn,” Lucy says. “Next time we won’t even have to break in to get into the mansion.” She looks guiltily at her mom again, and Katy rolls her eyes in return.
I can’t quite bring myself to laugh with Lucy.
I don’t think I’ll ever want to go in the mansion where Veronica Anselm lived and schemed and plotted. I don’t want to see the office where Pierce was killed or look out the window from Veronica’s study and see the park, the roller coaster, the footpath.
“Can we sell the mansion?” I ask quickly.
Lucy puts a reassuring hand on my knee under the table, and my shoulders relax.
“You absolutely can,” Kipling answers. “But when I said estate, I didn’t mean just the house and grounds, though that’s all yours, of course. He also owned twenty-seven different amusement parks around the country. Those belong to you now, though they will continue to be managed by the board of directors until you come of age. You can, of course, sell those off if you wish. The one stipulation in his will was that the park here in Haeter Lake be destroyed. He suggested bringing down the dam and letting the place become a lake again.”
“That sounds ideal to me,” Lucy says. “I would like to never see that roller coaster again. Or any roller coaster, maybe.”
“Understandable,” Kipling continues. “Mr. Anselm also had a great deal in the way of liquid assets, and that money has been divided between the two of you and placed into trust funds that you will have access to when you reach majority.”
“Um,” Lucy interjects again. “Sorry, I feel like I’m interrupting a lot. But trust fund? That sounds like something you need a lot of money for.”
Kipling slides identical sheets of paper across the table toward us.
I stare down at the number, my eyes widening. “Holy fucking shit,” I say. “Mom, look.”
That many zeroes in a row can’t be real, but Kipling is nodding and smiling and assuring us that they are. And I’m thinking, Shit. Mom is never gonna have to choose between rent and replacing work shoes that are so worn they have holes in them. She’s never gonna have to eat just peanut butter for dinner because there’s no money for anything else.
Lucy jumps up, knocking her chair over, and grabs my hands, pulling me up with her until we’re spinning around right there in the law office. She stops, her face suddenly serious. “You know what I’m gonna buy first, Audrey?”
I grin at her, breathless. “What?”
“A goddamn motorcycle helmet.”
Lucy. 6:04 p.m.
We go to the cemetery together, Katy and Audrey and Langley and I.
We linger at the bottom of the hill, and Katy looks over at Langley.
Both women hesitate, the weight of years hanging between them.
“Langley—” Katy breaks off, holding her palms up.
“You left,” Langley says. Her voice is soft, as if she speaks too loudly she might break something.
“You stayed,” Mom says. Her voice is just as soft, just as sad.
“Yeah,” Langley says. “I’ve missed you, all these years you’ve been gone. Maybe that sounds silly now.”
“I needed to go,” Katy murmurs. “I’m sorry. I had to leave because I couldn’t live when I was that—that furious every day.”
“And I couldn’t let that fury go.” Langley looks at Katy for a long minute. “Do you think this is something we can move past?”
Katy’s eyes shine suddenly. “I’m the one who should be asking that,” she says softly. “I hurt you when I disappeared. I’m sorry, Langley.”
Langley steps forward and wraps her arms around Katy, and this time, Katy hugs her back.
Well, that is another story I will be asking Mom for as soon as I can corner her, but first there is someone else I must see.
Audrey and Langley split off to go visit Audrey’s dad, and Mom and I find our way up the hill toward two moss-covered tombstones.
“Here they are,” Mom says softly.
I crouch down, brushing dead leaves out of the way. I trace my fingers over their names, their years. MARIE. ASA.
The caption under their names:
MEMENTO VITAE.
Mom’s tattoo.
Remember to live.
Grandpa and Grandma.
If they were here, I think they would be happy to know that I have.
And maybe they have been with me, through all of it. Maybe they were right beside me when I snuck through the mansion’s secret passageways to find answers, when I raced down winding roads on the back of a motorcycle holding tight to a girl I really, really liked. When I reached and found both anger and bravery, when I gathered my courage and confronted their murderers.
Now, when I close my eyes, all the stories I created for them are gone, replaced by this.
I can imagine them here—the man with the bright smile, the woman with the determined set to her jaw. I can imagine their laughter, their hands on my shoulder, their courage within me.
I open my eyes. The sun is golden, the shadows in the cemetery lengthening. My mom is beside me, tears in her eyes, and Audrey and Langley are coming up the hill toward us.
There are so many things I still don’t know. How Audrey and I are going to manage all we’ve suddenly inherited. What we’ll do with a legacy that comes with a lot of painful memories. What will happen with Blake, or with Cliff’s trial, or with Veronica Anselm’s.
But for now, I have today. Memento vitae. I have Katy. Mom. I have Audrey and Langley. I have friends at home, and friends here. Home there. Home here. Memories to sort through, and people who love me.
Maybe even a girlfriend.
I set off down the hill toward Audrey, the sun warm against my back, my hands outstretched to meet her.
Bringing Audrey and Lucy to readers was a tremendous endeavor that involved so many people, and I owe so many my thanks.
First, my biggest thanks to my dream agent, Claire Friedman, and the whole Inkwell team. Claire, thank you for fighting for me and for this story. I can’t wait to keep kicking butt and selling books together.
And to Kelsey Sullivan, my incredible editor at Hyperion, who plucked me out of the trenches and said that Audrey was her favorite character, too. Thank you for getting my girls—even my grumpy one.
To Colin Verdi and Phil Buchanan, for the cover of my dreams, and to the entire team at Hyperion for carrying this book across the finish line. Thank you for all you do.
To my family, for being there every step of the way. To Dad, for the summer reading challenges, and to Mom, for reading aloud to us (even when we made fun of Elsie Dinsmore). To John, Jojo, Grace, Paul, Daniel, and the babies: bartledo. I am the sum of all of our adventures and all of our stories, and nothing without all of you. To Grace, especially, for believing.
To my grandparents—Grandma Pat, for the blueberries and the laughter. To Grandma Jean, for grandma days and wisdom written on envelopes. To Grandpa Jack, for making the Roach family what it is today through dedication, hard work, and caring for all of us so well.
For my entire extended family, thank you for all your support over the years, but especially to Molly, my very first coauthor. That book must never see the light of day, but I’m proud of us for doing it anyway.
To all my early readers who suffered through the typo-ridden first draft, the biggest of thank-yous: Adrienne Tooley, Lillie Vale, Christine Jorgensen, Cat Bakewell, Cyla Panin, Meryl Wilsner & Carolina C. And to Courtney Gould—thank you for leaving memes throughout, and for attending the most unhinged PowerPoint presentation anyone has ever created.
To Jenna Voris and Brit Wanstrath: Thank you for all the Zoom talks (sorry for the time my phone died and you thought I’d been kidnapped) and publishing tea and for letting me read your brilliant, brilliant books. I love our hot tub witchcraft more than words can say.
To my entire mentee family—Cat, KC, Libby, Morgan, Rachael, Katie, Elizabeth, Shaina, Jenna & Brit—thank you all for being the best hype squad in existence.
To my Pitch Wars slack friends—Lyssa Mia Smith, Chad Lucas, Jessica Lewis, Rochelle Hassan, Meg Long, Elvin Bala, Rachel Morris, Nanci Schwartz, Alexis Ames, Jacki Hale, Jen Klug, Marisa Lynch, Ruby Barrett, Susan Lee & Rosie Danan. You are the best writing group. Thank you all for late night writing sprints, banding together for every member of our community, and showing up for me and each other.
To my Llama Squad, my AMM & Pitch Wars mentor chats, and the many writer friends I have made along the way: Thank you, thank you, thank you for cheering me on, commiserating over publishing, and keeping the flame lit. And to Isa in particular: Thank you for every wild DM conversation. You and our boy Izzy sustained me.
To Jackie Lea Sommers, Elyse Kallgren, and Stacey Anderson: my first writing group. Thank you for believing in me all these years.
To my hapkido family, who had nothing to do with the book but have shaped the person I became in so many ways: Thank you to everyone who has shared the mats with me, but especially Corey Ninneman, Kris Ninneman, Rick Anderson, and Sherri Gregor Anderson. The community you built is unlike any other. A thank-you to all the other black belts at CSD Hutch, with a special thanks to Marc Remhof, for the flights, the daily support with the metro hapkido team, and especially the sword.
A particular thanks is owed the staff of the Barnes & Noble café in Roseville, Minnesota, where I revised this novel, but especially to Lizzie, for making the most excellent iced chai that sustained me through many revisions.
To Ana Franco, for cheering me on at every step. I wish you were here to hold this book in your hands, because of all the projects I’ve written, this one was for you. I’ll see you in the next one, my friend.
To J. Elle, especially, for Getting This Book. You are the reason this book has wings.
To Emma Warner—thank you for being my best friend. I’m so glad the feral hogs and a certain municipal leader brought us together.
And to Arynn, my very best guy for every adventure, for all the Bipple trips and morning swims and adventures in places old and new (and wherever we can find trouble). Here’s to all the stories we make along the way.
MARY E. ROACH
is an author of thrillers and mysteries and a fan of all things spooky. (But ask about true crime podcasts at your own risk. There are hot takes.)
When Mary is not writing stories for and about powerful girls, she can be found teaching martial arts, baking an unreasonable number of cookies, or taking off on thru-hikes through the wilderness of northern Minnesota.
“Intense and darkly romantic, Better Left Buried kept me turning the pages late into the night. A beautiful and empowering thriller. Roach is a must-read talent.”
—Ashley Herring Blake, critically acclaimed author of Girl Made of Stars
“Roach’s sapphic characters are messy, complex, and intensely readable in this page-turning thriller!”
—Meryl Wilsner, best-selling author of Something to Talk About
“Propulsive and smart, Better Left Buried is a groundbreaking thriller that is as heart pounding as it is heartfelt. No one writes like Mary E. Roach. Fan for life.”
—J. Elle, New York Times best-selling author of House of Marionne
Mary E. Roach, Better Left Buried
