What Have We Done (59)

Jenna follows as Donnie pulls the Hyundai rental car out of the lot and heads back toward Chestertown. The night is cool for April and the breeze feels good as Jenna jets down the interstate, which is littered with semis.

The Hyundai takes the off-ramp and soon they’re on the south side, the Hyundai and bike the only vehicles on the pothole-filled streets. Donnie slows near the corner of Fourth and Union and pulls to a stop. Jenna kills the lights and veers to the side of the road.

From a gap in the row houses appears a man. He walks to the car, leans inside, they shake hands

—the exchange—then the car juts forward.

Oh, Donnie.

The Hyundai putters away. Jenna continues to follow until they hit Woodrow, where most of the businesses—the ones that aren’t covered in plywood with FOR RENT signs on them, anyway—are

closed for the night. But there’s one that has its lights on, Chestertown Liquor. The store’s windows are covered with signs for bottom-shelf liquor and lottery tickets. Donnie goes inside and comes out gripping the neck of a bottle in a brown paper sack.

Donnie drives some more and pulls in front of Savior House and sits in the car for a long time.

The abandoned group home looms in the darkness. She eradicates memories creeping in. The interior light of the Hyundai goes on when the door opens and Donnie steps out. He’s stumbling now and makes his way down the street.

Jenna thinks she knows where he’s going.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

NICO

Nico’s thoughts are whirling. Ben came to the fort—he knew about the duffel bag. Probably about it all. And then he ended up dead.

Nico races through the woodland, the bag draped over his good shoulder, the contents making a dreadful clacking sound. He tears around trees and bramble until he sees lights winking through the trees. He finds his way to the path and darts toward the clearing on the knoll that’s connected to Ned Flanders’s house.

Beyond the weeds and past a fallen tree, there’s a rusty fence. It goes up to only his chest, but his shoulder is throbbing, making the climb difficult. The grass is slick from dew and his sneakers slide as he climbs to the top of the hill. He’s going to bury the bag and get the fuck out of this town and never look back.

A sliver of moon appears, giving just enough light for him to make his way to the spot. He should’ve brought a flashlight. He can’t turn on his phone to use his smartphone light without risking a tower pinging his location.

He reaches the top and his breath is stripped from him. The knoll—a small break in the trees between Ned Flanders’s house and the woods—is pitted with holes. Six or seven of them. Each a few feet deep. Like someone was looking for buried treasure.

He doesn’t have time to process or understand. He needs to move. He looks at the hole in front of him—on the same spot he’d help dig twenty-five years ago—and throws the bag into the void.

He falls to his knees and starts pushing dirt in to fill it.

Later, he’s filthy and sweaty and exhausted, but it’s done. He needs a shower. But that will have to wait. For now, he’s getting out of Chestertown. The street is pitch-black. He’s walked far enough away from the knoll, so he puts the SIM card back in his phone, powers it on, thumbs the Uber app.

Unsurprisingly, no cars are available. A side hustle for Uber isn’t worth venturing into this neighborhood after dark.

He’ll have to walk to Industrial Highway and stick out his thumb. Or maybe the bus station. The area is familiar, and in his head he’s on the way home from school with his friends. Annie’s chewing bubble gum, skipping ahead of them.

He sees the park up ahead. It was a disaster and dangerous even back then. He can only imagine what it’s like now. The site of his famous beatdown from Derek in front of Annie.

All the streetlights surrounding the park are smashed out. He probably should steer clear. There

could be danger in the shadows. But he keeps walking, the memories pulling him ahead like a casino calling his name.

The blacktop is strewn with litter. The basketball stands and hoops—forever netless when they were kids—lie on the ground like fallen trees ripped from their roots.

He stops. He can make out the monkey bars. The octagon cage where they would sit until sundown. He swears there’s the outline of a figure on top, but it’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

He should go.

But he keeps walking into the park.

“You don’t wanna come over here, boss,” a voice says in a southern drawl. “I’ve got a gun.”

The warning is a bluff, he knows. He also knows that voice.

“Donnie?” Nico asks.

Nico turns on his iPhone’s flashlight. Shines it on his own face.

“Handsome? Is that you?”

“It is, Donnie, it is.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Nico’s sitting on top of the monkey bars next to Donnie, the two passing a bottle back and forth. They skip the small talk, and mercifully it’s too dark for Donnie to notice the dirt all over Nico’s hands and probably smearing his face. Or Donnie’s too plastered, but it’s always been hard to tell with Donnie.

“I’m sorry about Ben,” Nico says.

Donnie nods. Takes a swig.

“You two keep in touch over the years?”

Donnie nods again. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. Nico doesn’t mention finding the cuff link. Doesn’t mention being at the tree fort.