Chapter 2: Secrets and Suspicions

No sooner had Grandpa finished than Grandma came out of the laundry room, fuming. "Derek’s dad is definitely dead. Derek’s just here to scam us out of land."

Grandma—Carol—never minced words, arms crossed and a dusting of flour on her cheek from baking. Her voice was sharp as she plopped a basket of folded towels on the kitchen table. The smell of detergent and lemon cleaner tangled with Grandpa’s pipe smoke in the air.

Grandpa took a slow puff and said, "Carol, don’t talk like that. Dave’s a good man. Don’t go cursing people."

He shot her a tired look over his glasses, silently begging for a little more kindness. He always tried to see the best in folks, even when everyone else was ready to believe the worst.

Grandma snorted, still angry. "I saw Dave the day he got attacked. His head had holes from that hog—he was barely breathing, half dead. The wild hogs out back are monsters, at least 400 pounds, tusks like knives. If one tears into you, you’re not long for this world."

Her voice shook a little, the memory still raw. Out here, wild animals weren’t just stories—they were a threat that never went away.

Grandpa squinted. "No way. Derek’s a good kid. If his dad died, there’d be a funeral. He wouldn’t just leave him at home."

He tapped his pipe on the porch railing, thinking. Around here, funerals were sacred—casseroles in the kitchen, hymns sung off-key but with feeling. Nobody would let a loved one just rot away.

Grandma curled her lip. "If he was that caring, he wouldn’t have let his dad chop wood. He just wants to cheat the town. You’re the chairman, and he doesn’t respect you at all."

Her words were sharp, but worry hid underneath—for the town, for Grandpa, for the old ways slipping away. She pushed her glasses up and glared at the blowing dust outside.

"No way," Grandpa insisted. "I’ve watched Derek grow up. He wouldn’t do something like that."

He sounded a little defensive, his stubborn faith in Derek showing. Loyalty ran deep for folks like Grandpa—sometimes too deep.

Grandma cut in, "If it’s just about land, delaying a funeral is nothing. I’m scared he’ll do something worse—raise his dad into something not quite alive, not quite dead."

She shivered, hugging herself tighter. Out here, old stories stuck around, especially after dark when the cicadas started their chorus.

Grandpa froze, panic flickering in his eyes. "No way. Derek wouldn’t do that."

The silence in the house grew heavy. You could almost hear the gears turning in Grandpa’s head as the idea took root, awful and impossible.

Grandma snorted. "It’s not like it never happened before. Don’t think too highly of Derek."

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. Every small town has stories—dark ones, buried beneath church socials and polite talk. Some tales only came out after sundown.

According to the old-timers, folks used to have extra kids just to get more land. When there were too many mouths, some secretly abandoned their own. There were stories, too, about people keeping the dead who didn’t stay buried. After the land was handed out, they’d burn whatever was left.

Those tales got passed around bonfires, whispered in pickup beds late at night. They were part rumor, part warning—reminders of what desperate people might do.

Grandpa’s face darkened. "I’m going to Derek’s house to check."

He stood so fast his chair nearly tipped, determination hardening his jaw. He’d always believed in facing trouble head-on, the way he’d dealt with wild dogs or cheaters at the county fair.

He was about to leave when Grandma stopped him. "What’s the rush? Hold on."

She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. She vanished into the kitchen, slippers squeaking on the linoleum.

She came back with a basket holding a half-dozen eggs. "Take something with you."

She handed over the eggs—a neighborly gesture, the kind that meant you weren’t showing up empty-handed, even if you suspected the worst. "These are from our Rhode Island Reds—tell your dad they’re the best in the county."

Grandpa nodded. "Alright."

He tucked the basket under his arm, squinting into the evening light. The eggs were still warm from our hens out back.

Grandma added, "Take little Billy too. I’m going to help Lisa’s daughter with her new baby soon."

She gave me a quick hug, pulled my ballcap down over my ears, and pressed a peanut butter sandwich into my hand. In our family, you never left the house hungry.

"Okay," Grandpa agreed.

He ruffled my hair, and together we headed down the dusty driveway, boots crunching on gravel. The sky was streaked gold and pink, barn swallows darting overhead.

So Grandpa took me along, and we headed for Derek’s house just down the road.