Chapter 3 - THE GRAVE IN THE BACKYARD
At first Emily thought Baxter was unconscious.
She dropped to her knees in the grass and touched his fur.
Cold.
Not frozen, not yet—but wrong.
The dog did not move.
She whispered his name once, twice, three times.
Nothing.
Then she saw the foam dried faintly near his mouth and the smear of something pale on the edge of his muzzle, like he had vomited and someone had partially cleaned it off.
Her breathing turned ragged.
Behind the shed, near the stepping stones, lay a crumpled silver packet. Emily picked it up. Sedative tablets. Veterinary use.
Her hand began to shake.
“Emily?”
She spun.
Ethan stood several yards away, coat unbuttoned, face drawn. He looked from her to Baxter and went white.
“What happened?”
Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again. She held up the packet.
He took one step forward. “Is he—”
“Yes,” she said.
Ethan knelt beside the dog. “No.”
For a moment, he looked honestly shattered. Baxter had been at the estate since Ethan was twenty-one. He had belonged to Ethan’s father first, then everyone and no one, the way old family dogs did.
Emily watched Ethan take in the scene.
“The packet,” he said quietly. “Where did you find it?”
“Right there.”
He looked at the back door. Light spilled out from the kitchen windows. Voices drifted faintly from inside.
Margaret.
Ryan.
Ethan stood.
“Don’t tell them yet.”
Emily stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what this is.”
She almost laughed.
“You don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t know if it’s what it looks like.”
Emily’s voice dropped. “Your mother and brother just spent ten minutes telling you I’m insane.”
“And I heard them.”
“Then believe me.”
He looked at her. “I’m trying.”
Trying.
That word nearly broke something in her.
Before she could answer, the back door opened again. Ryan stepped outside, coat over one arm, expression sharpening when he saw where they stood.
“There you are.” His gaze dropped to Baxter. “Oh.”
Emily watched him carefully.
He did not look shocked enough.
Margaret appeared behind him.
The second she saw the dead dog, her face transformed into horror so polished it was almost elegant.
“Emily,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
Ethan turned sharply. “Mom, stop.”
But Margaret was already clutching the doorframe. “First the vase, now Baxter? Ethan, please look at her.”
Ryan said softly, “This is getting sick.”
Emily felt something inside her go perfectly still.
Not numb.
Clear.
She stood up slowly, dirt on her knees, mud on her dress.
Margaret recoiled.
“You killed the dog,” she said.
“No,” Emily answered.
Ryan folded his arms. “Then why are you hiding out here with a dead animal?”
Emily looked at the shovel leaning against the shed wall, then at the flowerbed beyond the patio, where the soil had been turned earlier that week for Margaret’s spring roses.
A thought arrived cold and complete.
She turned back to Baxter. Quickly, before anyone could stop her, she took three photos of the packet, the dog, and the grass with Ethan’s phone. Then she slipped the packet into her cardigan pocket.
Margaret snapped, “What are you doing?”
Emily did not answer.
She dragged the shovel through the dirt and began digging.
Ethan grabbed her arm. “Emily.”
She shook him off.
Ryan’s face changed slightly.
Margaret stepped back in genuine unease now. “Emily… what are you doing?”
Emily dug faster.
Not because she had lost her mind.
Because she had found theirs.
If Baxter stayed where he lay, Ryan and Margaret would call the police and tell the story they had been preparing all evening: hysterical wife, shattered heirloom, dead dog.
If she moved first—if she made them afraid first—their performance might crack.
The shallow grave took less time than it should have. Ethan stood frozen. Ryan did not come closer. Margaret’s hand trembled at her throat.
Emily covered Baxter with earth until only the last curve of golden fur disappeared.
Then she rose.
Dirt coated her hands. Her face had gone eerily calm.
Margaret whispered, “Emily… what have you done?”
Emily turned to her.
“You said I’m crazy?”
She wrapped both hands around the shovel handle.
“I’ll show you what crazy really looks like.”
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For the first time that night, Margaret and Ryan both recoiled.
And Ethan, staring at his wife in the backyard under the security light, suddenly looked less confused than frightened of the wrong people.
