The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(46)

“When you dig up the soil, you’re basically tilling it and creating a free-for-all for anything that wants to take seed there.”

Devon gets to the point. “So what is here?”

“Probably nothing. It was just a theory.”

“Let’s test it. You have a shovel?”

I never planned for this. “I don’t know if we should be digging here.” The thought that Chelsea could be under my feet is making me anxious.

Amber chimes in, “So, what? We’re going to go into the police station and tell them we found some pretty flowers? We might as well go home.”

“Give me your keys,” says Devon. “I’ll go get the shovel.”

I hand them over without much thought.

As he reaches the top of the hill, he shouts back, “See you later, sucker!”

I spin around. He shakes his head and laughs. “Whatever you two are gonna do, hurry it up.”

“He’s such an asshole,” Amber groans as she stares at the ground.

I think I can tell what she’s wondering—is my friend really down here?

Devon’s jackass behavior is because he’s nervous. For Amber, this could be vindication.

A sad vindication. For as long as people said she was full of shit, there was the possibility in her mind that they were right.

Chelsea could be out there having a great life.

If Amber is right . . . if I’m right . . . she’s rotting away beneath our feet.

I feel her shoulder touch mine. I awkwardly put a hand on it. I don’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend,” she whispers, probably thinking of her own loss, too.

“Me, too. I wish I’d known her better.”

“You guys are too slow. Or too quick,” Devon chides as he comes skidding down the hill with the shovel.

He sees the tears in Amber’s eyes and shuts up.

“Here?” he asks, pointing to the ground.

We step back. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s as good as any. It could be several feet down. We’ll probably need to dig a few different holes.”

He scoops up a pile of dirt, uprooting the plants. I examine the soil, trying to figure out how to tell if it’s been disturbed.

Devon tosses aside another pile. I grab a handful and start poking through it with my finger, looking for some clue. This could take forever.

He stops digging. “Want me to take over?” I ask.

I look up when Devon doesn’t answer. He’s staring at something. Amber steps up behind him, then suddenly puts her arms around his waist.

It only took three camping shovels of dirt in the very first place we decided to look.

Dirty, but as plain as could be, a bright blue coat is lying there.

Amber buries her head in Devon’s shoulder. I look up at him in disbelief. He covers his mouth and shakes his head.

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

I’m not sure which one of us said it. But I know we are all thinking it.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


REMNANTS

I remind myself that it’s just a blue piece of fabric we’re looking at. We don’t know that it’s a coat, let alone Chelsea’s.

“Is it her?” asks Amber, as if Devon and I have the answer.

Devon lowers the shovel and looks at me.

This was all theoretical until now. It’s a strange blend of the thrill of discovery and horror as the reality sinks in.

I came to Hudson Creek on little more than a lark, because of an educated guess based on the slimmest of data. My gut and MAAT thought that there was something here that fit the pattern of Juniper’s death.

Now I’m staring at what may be proof. The analytical part of my brain is exhilarated; the neurons that get pleasure when I solve a Sudoku are euphoric.

But is it what I think it is?

Is it Chelsea?

Devon nudges the coat with the tip of the shovel. “Should we dig it up?”

My first impulse is that we should go straight to the police. But with what? A photo of the coat on a phone?

Assuming we could convince them to come out here, something they weren’t too enthusiastic about before, what if it is just a piece of blue fabric?

I’ll look foolish.

There’s only one solution. “We have to see what’s under there.”

Devon begins to reach down to grab the coat. I clutch his wrist to stop him. “Hold up.” I’d done that more than once in the field or the lab when a careless student let their excitement get the better of them.

I take out a pair of latex gloves from my day pack and slip them on. I keep them around for dealing with specimens that could do me harm, or that I could kill through my touch.

I squat down and carefully grab the coat. If I had the proper tools, it would be better if we removed more dirt before pulling it free, in case it falls apart.

I slowly lift the fabric, and it begins to slide out of the dirt. It resists for a moment, and I get a nauseated feeling at the realization Chelsea could still be wearing it.

Gently, I pull back the coat a little more. A pungent odor wafts through the air.

Devon makes a choking noise as he turns away. Amber covers her mouth and steps back but doesn’t take her eyes off the hole.

I’ve encountered lots of dead things in the field, but this is probably the worst smell I’ve ever encountered.