14. Nicole

I flop the slice of cheese pizza onto my plate. It doesn't taste the way pizza should. It's bland with crust that has the consistency of cardboard. Although the cheese is gooey and greasy, it brings me no joy. My taste buds are barely registering it as food, and I know it has nothing to do with the quality of the pizza. It has to do with the video of Emma Harper. I think everything is going to taste different now.

Michael sits at the other end of the table, chewing on his second slice. Maybe it tastes the same to him. He swigs from a can of Pbr after every two bites, so perhaps he's just forcing it down. Beth's eaten one slice but stopped short of the crust. She's never liked the crust—the crunchiest, hardest part of the pizza that offers nothing more than cooked dough. I think that people dislike something for one of two reasons: we truly dislike it, or we dislike it because it gives us an opportunity to value something else more. And when you don't have much in life, there isn't much you're able to detest before you run out of things to, well, detest. So, Beth chose crust. Michael chose this town. And I chose myself.

I sip from a cup half filled with the red wine Beth found in one of the cupboards. It tastes like vinegar, but I don't mind. My veins tingle. They always do now. A needle sliding into one that hasn't collapsed yet would be divine. It would make all my problems go away. One bump would erase the guilt, the pain, the grief. I know Michael and Beth are thinking about the VHS tape, but I wonder how disgusted they would be if they knew what was going through my mind. I need to distract myself before my thoughts lead to action, so I look to Beth.

"So, you're hanging out with Lucas tomorrow morning. Think that's a good idea?" I ask.

"I don't know what good is anymore," she says with a shrug and sips from her glass. It's filled with warm Seagram's. She didn't even add ice, and I'm sure she's just trying to numb the pain.

I shift in my chair, refolding my legs into a pretzel. "Are you going to tell him about the video?"

"I don't know," she says, staring into her glass.

Michael leans back in his chair. "We need to really think about what we're going to do."

Beth's eyes dart to him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do we keep Mom and Dad's secret, or do we tell someone?"

"It would give Lucas and Susan closure," Beth says.

I squint at her. "Will it though? Or will it bring them more pain, knowing it wasn't a stranger who killed Emma; it was their neighbors, their friends?"

"Wouldn't you give anything in the world to know what happened to Dad?" she asks.

"If you would have asked me an hour ago, I'd say yes." I lower my head, staring down at my lap. "But after seeing what Mom and Dad did, I'm not so sure I want to know what happened to him."

"Dad said it was an accident on the tape," Beth argues.

Michael rolls his eyes. "Yeah, let's trust the guy that ran out on this family."

"He's still our dad." Her voice comes out meek and unconfident.

"Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you can't do bad things. Ted Bundy had a daughter and so did the BTK killer. I'm sure their children told themselves, But he's our dad. He could never... Anyone can do anything at any time," I say, staring directly at my sister.

"You're not seriously comparing Dad to two of the most notorious serial killers in the world." She scoffs and shakes her head.

"I'm just saying." I shrug.

Beth bites at her pinky nail, ripping off a sliver of it. She pulls it from her teeth and flicks it away. "I think we should tell Susan. She deserves to know."

"It'll probably kill her," Michael says.

"He's right," I add with a nod.

"But it's the right thing to do," Beth says, though there's very little conviction in her voice.

This is one of those situations where there isn't a right or wrong answer. You just have to pick one and convince yourself later that it was the best decision at that time.

My eyes swing to Michael. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure because we don't really know what happened."

"We know enough," Beth says. Each word comes out slow and punctuated.

Michael drops his gaze to the beer clutched in his hands. "I think we have to consider the ramifications this would have on us and on Mom and Dad before we make any decisions."

"What do you mean?" Beth's eyes are slits.

"Think about it, Beth. Do you want to be known as the daughter of Brian and Laura Thomas, the couple that may have killed a child and then got rid of the body? If this gets out, you'll never be anything else." Michael swigs his drink.

"I don't care," she says.

"Well, I do." He sets the beer bottle down with a little force. It thuds against the table.

I'm about to agree with Michael, but Beth cuts in. "Oh, screw off, Michael. You'll scurry back to your big home in California, sip your expensive fucking scotch, and go on with your life, never having been affected by this, just like you did before."

He hangs his head. A single tear runs down his cheek. It falls slowly, like a person trudging through land that has never been traversed. It zigzags a little, touches the corner of his lip, then dribbles the rest of the way to his chin, clinging to his jawline, refusing to drop.

"I agree with Michael," I say. "I don't want to be known for that."

"It's a step-up from being a junkie," Beth mutters.

I stand abruptly from my seat, sending the old wooden chair reeling backward. It smacks against the hardwood floor, causing one of the spindles to crack and break into two pieces. "Screw you, Beth. You think you're so great? You work on an assembly line, putting bags of frozen vegetables into boxes. Your own daughter won't even talk to you, so I'd say it would be a step-up for you too."

"Don't you fucking dare talk about my daughter, you crackhead," Beth shouts, pointing her finger at me.

"Enough!" Michael slams his fist against the table, startling the both of us.

Beth's eyes are wide, and her mouth is partially open like she's about to yell at him too, but she doesn't. Michael's tear has disappeared, either fallen onto his shirt and absorbed by the expensive material or evaporated into thin air. I take a deep breath, pick up the broken chair, and retake my seat, leaving the splintered spindle on the floor.

"Fighting with each other isn't going to help. Let's just finish going through everything, and if we find enough to give us an idea of what actually happened to Emma or where her body is, we'll report it. If not, we'll move on with our lives and forget we ever saw that tape," he says with a firm tone.

Beth closes her mouth and purses her lips.

Michael's eyes flick between us. "Deal?"

I nod because that sounds right to me. Why tell anyone when we really don't have much to tell?

Michael looks to Beth, waiting for a response. She chugs the rest of her drink and sets the glass down with force. "Fine," she says reluctantly.

"And if we find nothing, we take it to our graves just like Mom did, right?" he adds, ensuring she agrees and understands.

Beth stares back at him with slightly narrowed eyes. "Okay." The word comes out raspy with very little conviction. I'm not sure I believe her. She's never stopped loving Lucas, even when she was married, even after all these years, and even though she hadn't seen him in more than a decade before today. I trust Michael though. He'll honor whichever way this goes.

"Good, we're all in agreement then." He nods.

I leave the table and make my way to the living room where the box labeled Journals is located. It's one of the few things left specifically to me.

"What are you doing?" Beth calls out.

"If there are any clues as to what happened to Emma Harper, it'll be somewhere in here," I say as I take a seat on the floor and pull open the cardboard box.

She delivers the faintest smile as though she's thanking me for helping her. But I'm not doing this for her. I'm doing it for me.