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To the girls who grew up wishing for monsters in their closets

I Am the Monster Under the Bed

Verse I

You don’t notice me at first,

but I know you.

Don’t scream, don’t cry—It’s only me

underneath the bed.

Tell me your secrets tonight.

Whisper your dreams.

Happy am I to lend an ear,

count your every breath.

And when the nights grow lonely,

my precious friend,

cry your tears into the pillow;

I will hold you tight.

chapter
1

I wondered what the man under the bed did all day while I was at school. Mommy went white when I asked.

“There’s nothing scary under your bed. No monsters, no bad guys. Be a good girl and go to sleep,” she said as she tucked me in and flicked off the light. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

The door closed. Alone in the dark, the room changed. The walls loomed. The air went cold.

Someone started muttering too low for me to hear. I dragged the blanket up to my chin and hummed, trying to drown out the scary.

I knew there was someone under the bed. I heard him all the time. But Mommy said there was nothing scary under the bed. And Mommy was always right.

I stared up at the ceiling. It was like a game. Who was a person you talked to but wasn’t scary or bad? My face screwed up in thought.

Oh, I knew this one: a friend! And I didn’t want to be rude to a friend.

I heaved myself over the side of the bed, upside down like the monkeys on TV.

“Hi,” I whispered into the bed skirt. “I’m Willa.”

I put my listening hat on, like Mrs. Landon at school told me to, but the man under the bed didn’t say anything back.

I brushed aside the fabric so I was nose to nose with darkness. I peered into it, but it was too good at being dark. “I’m going to be your friend,” I added.

For a long, long time, nothing happened. My head started to feel funny.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. Mommy says I talk enough for two people. And some kids like Nate hardly like to talk at all, and Mrs. Landon says that’s okay too.”

The harder I stared into the space under the bed, the more I noticed one spot was darker than the rest.

“I want to be your friend,” I repeated. “Blink twice if you want to be my friend too.”

The spot blinked twice.

I beamed.

The journalists drove up the driveway at a crawl. I watched their approach through the gap my fingers pried in the blackout blinds. Their necks were craned to gape at the vast woods choking the property. Wooden fingers linked in a death grip across the sky, leaves starting to shed for the season.

I nearly smiled. Fresh meat straight from New York City. So used to living their lives stacked one on top of the other, bumping strangers’ shoulders at every turn, that to find only looming trees as far as the eye could see caused a prickling of the skin.

I didn’t understand the appeal of city living. The wilderness never knocked too late, never had loud, screaming sex into the early morning, never inexplicably rearranged its living room furniture past midnight.

A lanky man in a beanie slid out of the passenger seat and cast a wary look around the lawn. The driver, a woman whose headshot was open on my phone, slammed her door and jammed the doorbell.

I made her wait, long enough to debate over a second ring but not enough to commit to it.

“W. Sloane?” she asked as soon as the door opened.

“Welcome.”

Beanie stared silently over her head at me.

The one in front, the braver, shorter one, extended a hand. “Joyce Kimura. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.” She gestured at her partner. “This is Shane, my editor.”

Her gaze shifted to the house behind me, undoubtedly stealing details for her memory.

“A pleasure.”

I waved them into the living room and took a seat in the leather armchair, expecting Joyce to do the same with the companion chair, but she began a slow circuit around the room.

“Your home is beautiful.” She paused at the sculpture of a dead tree on the mantel. With one fingertip, she pricked the end of a black branch, then examined her skin, as if she’d expected to bleed.

“Thank you.”

Shane leaned against the sofa, ducked over his phone. He accidentally caught my eye and looked away.

“I’ve admired your work for a long time,” Joyce said. “It’s very unusual. I…”

The journalist trailed off.

I twisted to see what had captured her attention. She peered closely at a photo on the wall. A family photo, an old one, from Before. Everyone looked almost happy to be there.

“Are these your parents?”

I should’ve taken that off the wall. “They’re no longer with us.”

“I’m sorry. Look at you, you’re so young here. A child.”

I gestured at the chair and the three canvases displayed beside it. “Shall we begin? My latest paintings Josh mentioned over the phone are here. If you’d like to take a seat…”

As if she hadn’t heard, Joyce continued her perusal through my personal photographs. “Do you believe we are defined by our pasts? That our futures are predetermined?”

I didn’t answer, my fingers curling into the leather.

“Oscar Wilde once said ‘life imitates art far more than art imitates life.’” She glanced over her shoulder. “Does your life imitate art?”

I stared at her. “My art is over here.”

“Of course.” She turned away, but not before I saw her cheek twitch upward. She remained where she was. “You don’t get many visitors, do you? Out here in the middle of nowhere?”

I could almost hear Josh’s warning in the room with us: Be nice, Willa. You need this. I forced a smile. “No. Thank you for making the trip out. It was a long drive, I’m sure.”

“You live alone? No partner? Pets?”

I fixed my stare on the editor, Shane, who remained buried in his phone. I narrowed my eyes, and he stiffened, like he could feel it.

“I’d prefer to keep the interview focused on my work.”

The journalist’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, and she nodded slowly. Finally, she headed over, touching a lampshade as she passed, and I tamped down the urge to straighten it. She peered closely at the trio of paintings, face impassive.

I bristled but reined it in. This is what she’s here for, I reminded myself. An artist’s work is meant to be observed.

The paintings were all nearly black. An uneven, murky black that spoke of things covered up. Or things waiting to be found. Perhaps indiscernible to the untrained eye.

Is your eye untrained, Joyce?

After a long silence, she said, “It’s been said your work pulls at the darkness inside all of us.”

I sat up straight. “Who has said—”

“That it triggers a reaction in the viewer—”

“I’m not sure I would—”

“Critics speculate your two most famous pieces, The Pillow Man and Goodnight, Mr. Shadow, were inspired by adverse events from your past. Is it true?” She brushed past the paintings, advancing on me. “The art world would love to know.”

My hand spasmed on the armrest. “What magazine did you say you were with again?”

“They’re right, aren’t they?” Joyce perched on the edge of the coffee table, forgoing the second chair. Her brown eyes gleamed beneath her bangs. “You’d know all about darkness, wouldn’t you?”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what—”

“There’s no use hiding it. We’ve all seen your work. You can’t tell me that came from a place of happiness.” She leaned in. An eyelash clung beneath her eye. I couldn’t look away from it. “Well?”

“I … I uh—”

“I believe what you said all those years ago, I do. Of course I don’t think you did it.” She nodded sympathetically.

My blood ran cold.

Joyce blinked innocently. “But if … perhaps you did do something that night you’d like to get off your chest…”

I was frozen in the chair, unable to speak. There was a ringing in my ears. She couldn’t know. How could she know?

“You’ve made a nice life for yourself. Beautiful house, enviable career.” She smiled, sharklike. “How many fresh starts can a person have? How many have you had, Willa Renfri Greene?”

The name drained the last of my hope.

“It’s been fifteen years. Do you still think about it, lying in bed at night?”

I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t move.

Joyce cocked her head. “Do you think you deserve your success? Did you dream about it, back then? Would you say, in some sense, you owe your success to what happened to those poor, poor—”

“Get out,” I croaked.

Shane glanced up, eyes darting between us.

“I’m simply asking a question. The public deserves to know.”

The chair screeched against the hardwood floor as I stood. Louder, I repeated, “Get out.”

Joyce advanced, uncowed by my towering rage. Her eyes sparkled. “We all watched the fallout. How would you say it’s impacted your life? I mean, you seem to be doing well for yourself. And if you’ll just tell me which pieces were inspired by—”

“Get out!” I thundered.

The room silenced. Shane stared, wide-eyed, at the carpet, as if afraid to make eye contact with the beast. Joyce stood her ground. She looked at me like they had. A little bit condescending. A little bit afraid.

Shameful. Turning a small town’s tragedy into a spectator sport. For so long, I’d tried to escape their claws. Hoped and prayed they’d forgotten all about me. And for what? For nothing. The years had not tempered the American public’s appetite for gore; it was as if no time had passed at all. If anything, the years had inflamed it: They were ravenous.

And why were they still standing there?

I swept past them.

“Get off my property!”

I threw open the front door and Shane scurried out, squeezing himself through the opening before the door was fully open like a spooked cat, while Joyce followed in her own time, casting a last glance at my paintings.

She paused in the doorway, all smooth charm and incandescent smile. “One more thing. Last night on Eye of Lennox, celebrity psychic Nathaniel Lennox said he’s getting new messages from beyond the grave. He believes he can crack what really happened that night with this new evidence. Claims it’s always haunted him such a tragedy went unsolved. What do you think of that?”

Him? Haunted him? The last of my patience slapped to the floor like bloody viscera from a hanging, butchered animal. “Nathaniel Lennox is a disgusting fraud who preys on grieving families. Anyone who watches that spineless leech should be ashamed of themselves. Now get off my property!”

A strange expression crossed Joyce’s face, and she made a signal with her hand. Shane, who had been lingering outside, swiftly folded himself into the car. Joyce gave me one last look before slinging her designer bag over her shoulder. “Have a good evening, Willa.”

I slammed the door.

They left faster than they’d arrived. Nearly taking out my mailbox in the process.

I locked all six locks and sank to the floor. Once my heart rate slowed and the room stopped spinning, I staggered to the blurry portrait, the one hidden behind a curtain at the end of the hall. I swept the fabric back. Two almost-eyes regarded me silently.

“You were right. They never listen. Never have, never will.”

No more interviews. No more visitors. Open the door a crack, and the hungry masses fling it open. And when they find no meal inside, all eyes turn to you.

I unlocked the closet under the stairs and flicked the light on. Wall-to-wall paintings stared back at me, hardly any of the green wall visible around the crowd of them, some as small as a matchbox, others so large their mouths gaped the size of my fist. I closed the door behind me and sat, arms around my knees, to appreciate the company.

It almost felt like home.

chapter
2

I perched at the easel in my sunroom, brush poised over canvas, staring at the single spot of blue I’d made. The longer I looked, the larger it seemed to be. I turned my head this way and that. Was it too large? Or not large enough?

Outside, the wind chimes sang in the breeze.

The phone rang.

“How did it go yesterday?” Josh asked as soon as I answered.

“It didn’t.”

“Hold on. Are you telling me they didn’t show up?”

“I’m saying you need to vet your contacts better.”

“Hey, it’s not often a major art magazine takes an interest in you. We need this publicity—”

“They were fakes. Didn’t care about the paintings at all. Kept asking weird personal questions. It was a waste of time.”

Josh let out a deep sigh.

I filled a glass at the kitchen sink and stared out the window. The trees at the edge of the yard swayed gently.

He’d never been out here. I didn’t visit his office in the city. I’d seen a picture of it online. Fancy chandelier lobby, twentieth floor of a skyscraper, floor-to-ceiling windows. The kind of place I had no business being in.

For someone whose job was making connections and sealing deals, Josh wasn’t too chatty. I liked that about him. He didn’t linger on the small talk that plagued the other agents I’d tried out before him. It’s why we were such a good pair: I was able to keep my precious emotional distance, and he didn’t mind accepting my solitude so long as I produced paintings.

And usually, he was good at his job.

“Shit. All right. I’ll make some calls, get someone else to come out and—”

“I won’t be granting any more interviews.”

He sighed again.

“I’m serious, Josh. This was unacceptable. If you heard the things they said…” I trailed off.

“What did they say?”

I looked out at the woods. “It doesn’t need repeating.”

Silence down the line. He caved first. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed, honestly, but we really do need more publicity to boost your sales. You’ve had some great success, but it’s been a while since we’ve really hit it out of the park. Your work shouldn’t always be left to speak for itself. People want to know about the woman behind the paintings. Give them something. A crumb—Anything!”

“If anyone else shows up at my house, I’m getting the gun.”

In the pause that followed, I could count his every breath. I didn’t have a gun, but he didn’t know that.

“You know we have a lot riding on this new collection, right? I know you like your space, but we need this.” I imagined him running a hand through his hair, staring out at the city skyline as I was at the woods. “You’re finishing up the rest, right?”

I glanced back at the canvas, blank except for a spot of blue. “Right.”

I was running in the woods. I couldn’t feel, couldn’t hear, but I knew I was screaming.

I looked behind me, then ahead, and around every side, but each direction looked the same. Warped, shadowy branches stretched their fingers toward me.

Smack.

A tree branch to the face. Careless, but it was so, so dark.

My cheek stung.

On the ground, I rubbed at my face—what was this crusting my eyes? Mud? Blood?

I had to keep moving. There were urgent words under my tongue that needed to get out.

My knees dipped into the ground, pitching me forward into shifting sediment.

Quick, get up.

Quick.

Before it sees you.

Hurry!

I strained upright, but my feet sank with every step, and I was sucked into the dirt. Groundwater lapped at my calves, then licked up my thighs.

I would never leave. I’d be part of the forest forever. Just like it wanted. Just like—

I awoke with a start, sweat cooling on my chest. I stared at the ceiling until my rapid breaths slowed.

I hadn’t had a nightmare for ages. That journalist had dredged up old fears. And with the anniversary of the deaths coming up next week, I was on edge.

It was still dark. I dragged myself out of bed and down the stairs in the dark, bypassing the light switches. Who would the light be for?

I filled a water glass and stared out across the backyard. The clock read 3:42 AM. I gazed into the forest and sipped slowly. The moon cast enough light to discern the shifting of the branches against the sky. I’d moved out here for this. For the solitude. Not another soul for miles.

A shadow at the edge of the lawn caught my attention. I was glad I hadn’t turned the kitchen light on so I could remain at the window, unseen.

A little shape scampered across the grass. Perked, triangular ears. A fox.

Perhaps in the company of little souls then.

I finished the glass and left it on the counter. I didn’t look back as I padded through the dark house to my bedroom.

There wasn’t anything to worry about out there. This wasn’t the forest that haunted my sleep.

After a few more hours of sleep, I jumped out of bed at the first peep of my alarm and scraped my hair into a bun. Things were different in the daylight. Warmer. Safer. I was ready to put all this nonsense behind me. I pulled the curtains open as wide as they could go and even opened the windows a crack.

Birds chirped. The chimes out back giggled in the breeze. I was going to paint. I was going to be productive. Today was going to be a good day.

It was past noon when I thought to check my phone while making another pot of coffee. Fifty-seven missed calls.

I clicked the screen on and off, sure I was hallucinating. I’d never had fifty-seven notifications in my life. I hardly ever took my phone off silent—no need to on days Josh wasn’t scheduled to call. I let the top of the coffee maker fall shut and squinted at the call log. Twenty-nine from Josh, the rest from a flurry of unknown numbers. The screen lit up with an incoming call: Josh again.

“Josh?”

“Thank God you finally answered!” He was out of breath. “I’ve been calling all morning. It’s unbelievable.”

“What’s unbelievable?”

“Your interview’s gone viral.”

“How has it gone viral? It was for a magazine. Print media. And they weren’t even really with the magazine—”

“Willa.”

“So they couldn’t possibly have—”

“Willa. Breathe.”

I took a breath.

“She had a hidden camera in her blouse.” It was like a physical blow to the chest. “It aired last night. I’m so sorry.”

I hardly heard him ranting about legalities, journalistic ethics, calling up his bosses to give theirs an earful.

“They were reporters, just not the kind they positioned themselves as. Investigative reporters. Looking for, uh…”

The awkwardness in his voice was new. My eyes narrowed. I stared out into the trees. “What exactly went viral?”

His silence spoke volumes.

“Josh, you’re not doing me any favors. Tell me.”

Finally, he said, “Turn on the TV.”

“You said it went out last night. It’s Saturday afternoon.”

Air hissed through his teeth. “They haven’t stopped playing it. Over and over, on a loop.”

I was in the lounge without processing my legs had moved.

“What channel?”

“You’ll see it.”

The broadcast exploded into my lounge. A news anchor in a bright pink pantsuit bared her white teeth. “This is Glinda Nearwater bringing you shocking news this afternoon! We learned from Compass News Daily, who shared an exclusive sound bite that Willa Renfri Greene—Yes, that Willa!—has been living for the past decade as painter W. Sloane. If you’re like me and your jaw is on the floor, let me say: Oh my gosh! I mean, W. Sloane? That’s a big name out there! Isn’t that right, Hal?”

The camera panned, and Hal, all teeth and Hollywood tan, flashed a blinding grin of his own. “I should say so! How’s that for this year’s bingo card?”

They laughed uproariously.

The tagline along the bottom of the screen read, TEEN MURDER DARLING RESURFACES TO CALL OUT CELEBRITY PSYCHIC NATHANIEL LENNOX.

Headlines passed in a blur as I numbly clicked through the channels.

SCREAM QUEEN OR PROM QUEEN? FIFTEEN YEARS ON: WILLA RENFRI GREENE MAKES HER MARK (WITH A PAINTBRUSH!)

Click.

“Eccentric recluse or social pariah? Join us for a look back at—”

Click.

TEENAGE NIGHTMARE CHASES AMERICAN DREAM.

Click.

“Do you remember where you were the morning of November eighteenth, almost exactly fifteen years ago, when news coming out of a small town in Maine shocked the country? I sure do. Willa Greene was only seventeen years old when—”

Click.

THERE’S A WILLA, THERE’S A WAY: TEENAGE MURDER SCANDAL SURVIVOR REINVENTS HERSELF AS ABSTRACT PAINTER W. SLOANE.

Click.

My own face snarled at me. “Nathaniel Lennox is a disgusting fraud who preys on—”

Click.

The shark in the pink pantsuit again. She crossed her legs and leaned in. “And how has the art community reacted to this revelation? Her paintings are on display in the Philadelphia Museum of Art and Manhattan’s New York Public Library on Forty-Second Street. When we reached out for comment, an NYPL spokesperson said, ‘We are deeply troubled by recent information coming to light regarding the identity of the artist. Our board is reconsidering displaying these paintings as part of our permanent collection as this is not in line with our mission statement.’”

The newscaster’s red lips curled. “For those of you joining us now, let’s take a trip down memory lane. November eighteenth, while we all slept soundly in our beds, all the way over in Rapture, Maine, a grisly overnight bloodbath—”

At the first flash of the crime scene photos, I slapped the power button.

The screen went dark. I stared at my own reflection.

“Well, you know what they say,” Josh’s tinny voice tried weakly. I’d forgotten he was still on the line. “All publicity is good publicity.”

Anger pooled in my veins. They had it all there—the tragedy that defined my life—splashed across the screen like cheap celebrity gossip.

Fifteen years.

I fought to keep the snarl inside.

“Are you still there?”

I breathed heavily, eyes locked on the empty screen.

Josh hesitated, obviously weighing his next words. “I didn’t know. About any of it.”

“I know.” I hadn’t wanted him to. Outside, the wind picked up. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll make some calls. Unfortunately, we can’t put the cat back in the bag. And if you watch it—”

“I’m not going to watch it,” I snapped and hung up.

I stared at the phone for a long time. Brought my hands to my face. Picked up the remote and watched the rest of the segment in silence.

I watched until my eyes were dry and screaming for mercy. Until the sun sank beneath the trees. Until it was only me and the flickering TV in the night. Even while my mind wandered, I watched on.

Miscellaneous. I frowned at the word, letting my feet swing over the edge of the bed. I was a good speller, but the hard words were easier to say in my head. “Misc—”

The word got stuck. Mrs. Landon always said to sound out new words. And she was the best teacher.

“Mis-cell-an-eous.”

It’s like the c wasn’t even there.

“Miscellaneous,” I repeated. “Miscellaneous, miscellaneous.”

I peered over the book at my swinging feet. “Did I say it right?”

I tilted my head and listened carefully to the space under the bed.

“You’re the best! I always feel better when I read to you. Mrs. Landon said she could tell I’d been practicing.”

I resumed reading aloud, smiling proudly.

Mom looked surprised when she came back from the mall. “You finished your new books already, sweetheart?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

“Even the one with the mouse? Why don’t you read that one?”

“We already read that one, Mom. He wants a different one.”

Mom did a double take. “What was that?”

“I said he wants a different one.”

Her eyes narrowed and a storm crawled over her face. “Don’t say that, Willa. How many times have I told you? We don’t talk like that in this house.”

“All I said was—”

“Willa—”

Mom wasn’t happy, but the next time Mrs. Landon called on me to read in front of the whole class, I didn’t stumble one bit.

chapter
3

Eyes half crusted with sleep, I groped for my phone. Instead of the time, I was met with a local news alert.

I sat straight up, stomach twisting. To my horror, the headline read: CELEBRITY PSYCHIC NATHANIEL LENNOX ADDRESSES FEUD WITH NOTORIOUS EX-MURDER SUSPECT WILLA RENFRI GREENE: “SHE’S A FRIEND.”

My thumb moved of its own accord to click the link.

Nathaniel’s regal face smirked at the camera. His deep brown skin was the Botox brand of wrinkle-free. “A feud? I wouldn’t say that at all. In fact, I’d say we’re friends. Good friends. Nothing more than a misunderstanding. A misplacement of words, if you will. Consider this my invitation to you, Willa, to come talk it out.” He smiled wider. “That is, on Eye of Lennox, which airs weekly Tuesday evenings at—”

I threw my phone across the bed.

It was too early for Nathaniel Lennox’s smug face.

WHAT TO KNOW ABOUT THE ONGOING FEUD BETWEEN CELEBRITY PSYCHIC NATHANIEL LENNOX AND WILLA GREENE: A COMPREHENSIVE TIMELINE.

It was inescapable.

Even a mission to reorder paints online wasn’t spared. Pop-ups and talking heads plagued the search results.

WILLA GREENE TAKES NO PRISONERS AGAINST TALK SHOW HOST: “THAT SPINELESS LEECH!”

Unbelievable.

NATHANIEL LENNOX RESPONDS TO FRAUD ACCUSATIONS.

How was it still going? It had been four days. Surely the news cycle should’ve moved on by now.

Nine more missed calls from unknown numbers. I listened to the messages—reporters, begging for scoops.

I found myself watching TV in the middle of the day, easel long forgotten.

My phone rang, and I tore my attention away from the screen.

Nathaniel Lennox is calling.

Yuck. It was a tragedy he still had my number.

I declined the call and turned the TV up.

My phone rang again, and I silenced it without looking.

To my eternal shame, I was still in front of the TV when evening fell—just in time for the start of Eye of Lennox. Nathaniel beamed at the studio audience, striking a pose in his gaudy maroon suit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming!” he boomed. “To the viewers at home, we are coming to you live from Los Angeles and let me say, we have a treat in store for you tonight!”

My better judgement twitched toward the remote, but my eyes were glued to the screen as I shoveled dinner into my mouth.

“I’m getting something!” Nathaniel cried, hands moving to his temples.

The studio audience leaned forward in their seats. I found myself doing the same and quickly sat back, flustered.

“Is there anyone who goes by the name Al in the audience?” He squinted, swiping a loose curl away. “Allison? Alyssa? Wait—Ashley?”

A woman gasped.

The camera quickly panned to a twentysomething brunette with a hand over her mouth. Nathaniel squeezed through the aisle and unleashed wide, sympathetic eyes. “Ashley, have you lost anyone recently? A family member, perhaps?”

She nodded, starstruck at his proximity.

I popped a dumpling into my mouth. Unbelievable.

Nathaniel cocked his head, gazing out over the crowd. “Would it happen to be your grandmother?”

Ashley’s eyes welled with tears. The camera zoomed in until I could see the uneven clumps of mascara on her eyelashes. “How did you know?”

“Ashley, I hear her.”

A disembodied hand entered the frame to hand her a tissue, which she used to blow her nose loudly.

Nathaniel raised a hand to the sky. “Your grandmother is with us right now.”

“Really?”

“I can feel her. Can you feel her too? She loves all her grandchildren so much, but you were always her favorite, weren’t you? Because you shared her love of horses?”

The camera zoomed in on Ashley’s wobbly smile, and I glimpsed a silver horse pendant around her neck.

I gaped. Are you kidding me?

“I realize I’ve done all the talking, miss, but is there anything you’d like to ask her yourself?”

Ashley sniffled and glanced at all the eyes on her. “I’m looking for some old photographs. My dad and I searched the house after her passing, but we never could find where she put them. It’d mean a lot.”

“Photographs, photographs,” Nathaniel muttered into the ether. His eyes fell shut. “She gave them to your sister. That’s it. Your sister.”

“And why would I believe you?”

The audience gasped collectively.

Nathaniel’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Ashley crossed her arms. “Willa Greene said you’re a fraud who takes advantage of our grief! Why would I listen to you?”

He grimaced. “I can assure you, miss, I am the real deal—”

“My grandma hated horses after one broke my father’s leg!” Ashley burst out. “And I’m an only child. Looks like Willa was right—you really are a fraud!”

Ohhh shit. I became aware of the fork hovering in front of my mouth and quickly set it down.

A bead of sweat dripped down Nathaniel’s neck. “Maybe the message wasn’t for you. Does someone else in the audience—”

Chitters erupted from all sides, interfering with the mic. Nathaniel made a cutting motion to the cameras, and the jeering faded into dramatic music as the feed switched to a wide shot of the studio. A commercial break flashed across the screen.

Mouth agape, I sat back. Maybe … I did need to watch more TV. I couldn’t help it—my phone was already in my hand pulling up gossip pages.

Never thought I’d say this, but I’m with Willa. Guy’s scummy, wrote one commenter under the video, uploaded seconds after broadcasting.

She’s spot on, wrote another. I’ve had my suspicions for a while.

Psychics are not real, guys, a third chimed in. Why are we even talking about this? Why is this new information to you? Get a life!

I scrolled farther down the page.

He literally makes a living pretending to speak to your dead relatives. What part of that is ethical?

It was nice, in a way. He was a fraud, plain and simple. Frauds get what frauds deserve.

“I think Ms. Greene is speaking the truth,” a voice said from the TV.

I nearly jumped out of my skin before I realized I’d sat on the remote and changed the channel. It was a regional news station, and a muscular woman in a jumpsuit and thick glasses sat primly at her desk.

Her tagline read: ETHICS CONTRIBUTOR.

“Her truth, at least.”

I rolled my eyes.

“And I have to say, it’s time someone called out the business of psychics. It’s clearly a breeding ground for predatory practices and, not to mention, a complete fabrication—”

“The mystic arts are real and impact all of us,” a crystal-wearing redhead protested. Little flowers adorned the neckline of her dress. “While some of us are not as gifted as others, it does not negate the—”

The power went out.

I found myself sitting in a dark room, alone, cold dinner on the sofa next to me.

In the distance, something beeped.

The shrill scream of the wind brought me back to the present. What are you doing, Willa? I sighed and pushed myself to my feet, shuffling through the dark room.

The fuse box in the kitchen creaked open at my touch. Click, click. Nothing happened.

I rubbed my eyes and went to look out over the lawn.

There. I squinted into the woods. I could almost make out a—

The lights powered back on.

The TV blasted in the empty lounge. I returned to my cold dinner and scraped it into the trash.

“I’ve done some thinking.” I imagined Josh in his Manhattan high-rise, swirling a glass of red wine while overlooking the city lights. “This publicity is unheard-of. Sales are skyrocketing. Fourteen paintings sold yesterday alone. The agency’s never seen anything like it.”

I rubbed my eyes.

“We need more paintings to sell, by the way.” When I said nothing, he added, “How’s the new collection coming?”

I exhaled sharply. “Are you calling me while I’m working to tell me I need to work? Is that what’s happening right now?”

He sighed. “That’s not the reason I’m calling. You really should do another interview.”

“Are you joking?”

“Look at what it’s doing for your work! Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?” He cleared his throat. “I mean—Perhaps not the best choice of words.” Josh fumbled on before I could wrap my head around what he’d said. “Artists like you get a lot of leeway. They’re called eccentric. Unorthodox. Thought-provoking. We can work with this. You go on air—officially this time—rehash the story a bit, give them a taste of what they want, then promote your new collection. If I make a few calls and your webcam is half decent, we can do it tonight. In time for the anniversary on Tuesday.” He finished confidently. Like a middle schooler giving a presentation who obviously hadn’t read the book. Concluding with a flourish, waiting for his teacher’s approval.

I said nothing.

Josh lowered his voice. “I’m going to level with you, Willa. You’re never going to get this kind of publicity again. I won’t push after today if you say no, but I do ask that you consider the options on the table.”

“This isn’t some cute little story for you to market, Josh.”

“I’ve got eight networks willing to outbid each other on an exclusive and the starting bid is already—”

“And I have a fucking brain and know a bad decision when I see one. It’s not going to happen.”

A long pause. More quietly, “It’s a lot of money, Willa.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“No, seriously, it’s—”

“Don’t.”

The phone buzzed. Incoming call from Nathaniel Lennox. I jammed the decline button. It was the third time that slimy bastard had called today. I raised the phone in time to catch the tail end of Josh’s rant.

“And I’m telling you, this is—”

I snapped, “If my paintings are doing so well, maybe I don’t need an agent anymore.”

There was a long pause.

“All right. All right.” Another pause. “The coverage will go on without us, you know. Management yelled until they were red in the face, but the interview’s out there, and it’s only gaining more momentum. They might not be able to get you, but with this level of interest, they’re going to get something.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to be W. Sloane, and you’re going to do your job and sell my paintings.”

Josh grumbled, but I could tell it wasn’t serious. He found me, as he had crisply put it, eccentric. “You might change your mind when you see that paycheck.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

He heaved a sigh. I ended the call in case he got any grand ideas about continuing to run his mouth and settled in front of the easel. Stared at it, as I had been doing all day.

Mom went to vacuum under the bed.

“Elliot won’t like that.”

She snapped the bed skirt down and glared at me. I shrank back, startled from my cross-legged position on the bed. “Don’t say that,” she hissed.

“It’s the truth—” My protests were drowned out by the roar of the vacuum.

My mouth clamped shut. Sullenly, I picked up the closest book and read in silence, trying to concentrate over the noise. I was sure it shouldn’t take long to vacuum under the bed, but it went on forever.

When she was finished, she didn’t look at me. She fixed the bed skirt and dragged the vacuum out of the room without a backward glance.

“Sorry,” I whispered once she was gone.

Two days later, whispers came from the kitchen. I pressed myself against the wall to listen.

“I don’t know if it’s healthy, Janine,” Mom was saying in a hushed voice. “They say imaginary friends are a normal part of development, but I don’t know—”

Janine, a neighbor who had three grown kids of her own, made a shushing noise. “Don’t worry, Amelia. Kids have a vivid imagination. She’ll grow out of it. And what kid isn’t afraid of the monster under the bed?”

“She’s not afraid—”

The conversation cut off as I skipped into the room to refill my water glass. Janine gave a little wave and politely asked how my schoolwork was going.

Mom, beside her at the kitchen table, watched me at the sink. I smiled brightly at her.

She couldn’t quite smile back.

chapter
4

The first package arrived on Tuesday.

It appeared at my doorstep. I didn’t hear the delivery driver, and I wouldn’t have gone outside at all if the garbage hadn’t smelled. I hadn’t ordered anything. My groceries were already stocked for the week. My new paints had arrived the day before.

The package was lightweight in my arms, but something inside thudded around, off-balance, as I carried it to the counter. I sliced through the tape and twisted off the Bubble Wrap. My hands closed around the prize, which glinted in the light.

I turned it over in my hands in disbelief.

STATE CHAMPIONS was engraved on the base. RAPTURE HIGH SCHOOL. WILLA GREENE.

An old soccer trophy.

Last I’d seen this, it was at my old school, fifteen years and hundreds of miles away.

Why had someone sent me an old trophy? Was the school cleaning out its storage? I certainly didn’t want it. I flipped the box around and checked the return address.

Denver, Colorado.

I frowned. I didn’t know anyone in Colorado. And I grew up in Maine—why would anyone in Colorado have one of my trophies?

I eyed it again. It looked out of place on my granite counter, a relic of a long-gone era. As I broke down the cardboard box, a small slip of paper slid to the floor.

GOOD OLD DAYS, was penned across it. REMEMBER?

The hair on the backs of my arms rose. I let the paper fall through my fingers.

He didn’t sign it. He didn’t have to.

I rushed to the front door and engaged all six locks.

Should I call the police?

Of course not. That was ridiculous. His name wasn’t on the return address. I didn’t have any proof—

I’d been a minor. The records were sealed. If the press got wind of this … I’d—I didn’t know what I would do. There was only so far I could bend before I snapped.

A violent image of Police Chief Landon’s red face as he shouted at me until I cried rose to the forefront of my mind.

I dropped the trophy into a drawer, letter and all. I shut it all out, and I painted.

My nightmares never let me forget. On a night exactly fifteen years ago, seven teenagers walked into the woods.

Only one walked out.

“This is Nathaniel Lennox coming to you live with a special broadcast of Eye of Lennox. Before we start, please join me in a moment of silence for the victims of the Rapture Mystery Slayings on the fifteenth anniversary of their deaths.”

Nathaniel closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a few beats, he peeked one eye open.

I glared from my couch at his performative respect.

“Thank you. We made a visit earlier this week to the town where it all happened—Please direct your attention to the screen.” The feed switched to a prerecorded video of Nathaniel posing with a WELCOME TO RAPTURE sign.

I put a hand over my mouth.

“We’re here to learn your secrets,” he told the sign, and the footage cut to him on a grassy lawn by the woods.

“Somewhere deep in this forest, six teenagers lost their lives. Their souls are still here, crying out for us. They want—no, need—us to know what happened to them. I believe it’s their final wish.”

I couldn’t look away.

“There’s this feeling. I can’t explain it.” Nathaniel looked off into the trees. “Something’s not right here.”

The camera zoomed in to a particularly gnarled tree trunk. Eerie music started playing.

“I’m getting bits and pieces of feelings that aren’t my own. It’s like someone’s trying to speak to me, but the call keeps dropping.”

The background music reached a crescendo. Nathaniel’s eyes snapped open. “They suffered,” he whispered.

Someone from the live audience gasped.

My hands shook. Anyone who had even glimpsed the crime scene photos could have guessed that.

The camera swiveled to a close-up of Nathaniel’s furrowed brow. “I’m seeing something. They’re putting it in my mind. A letter. No, multiple letters. V? Two V’s? No, it’s a W. I. L. L. A.”

My stomach dropped.

“Willa.”

The screen faded to black, and the studio audience reappeared. The camera panned across their huge eyes.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

“You heard it here first, folks!” live-Nathaniel boomed, and the audience jumped. “The spirits have something to say, and they’re pointing their fingers right at Willa Renfri Greene.”

“I’d like to hear from her!” a woman from the back row cried. The camera swiveled erratically before it landed on her asymmetrical bob with streaky highlights. “If I were the prime suspect in a mass murder I didn’t commit, I’d be on every news channel defending my innocence! So where is she? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Willa Greene has something to hide!”

“We’re not taking audience questions tonight, I’m afraid,” Nathaniel cut in, but he was smiling. “But she’s right. Something doesn’t add up, and the spirits agree. I call upon the Rapture Police Department to reopen the cold case!”

No. No! They couldn’t. My nails dug into my palm.

I hadn’t even considered—

“I humbly offer my services as a consultant. Let’s solve the mystery once and for all.”

The audience burst into cheers. Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled.

“I’ll leave my viewers at home with this: Help me uncover the truth. If you know anything that could help me bring justice for these lives lost, call my tipline at the bottom of the screen.”

I muted the audio and switched the channel.

They couldn’t … could they?

Rapture PD was never the most technologically advanced—or interested in outside opinions. But things could change.

I rubbed my eyes. Was Chief Landon still in charge? I hardly dared to think the name.

And then, as I was about to shut it off, the feed switched to a familiar face.

I stopped breathing.

Rachel Glassberg, sitting rigidly against a lavender wall. Glossy dark hair pulled back behind her ears. Eyes darting to the side as she awaited direction.

I dove to unmute the TV.

Across from her sat a blond man with slicked-back hair. “We have with us today Rachel Glassberg, high school classmate of Willa Greene’s. Rachel, can you tell us what life is like today in Rapture? How have you dealt with your grief?”

Rachel stared into the camera a moment too long. Her cheekbones were more severe than I remembered. She still kept her hair long. “It’s a tight-knit community. We’re always grieving. We’ll never stop grieving. It’s not the kind of loss you get over.”

“And Willa? Does she grieve with you?”

Rachel glanced at someone off camera. The silvery little scar at the corner of her cheek from the dog bite when we were twelve was faint, but they hadn’t used enough makeup to cover it entirely. I’d always thought it was a pretty scar. “She was always a reserved girl. Independent. I like to think painting was her way of processing.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Painting is therapeutic—”

“No, about Willa.”

Rachel shuffled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Willa is … she’s always been different. Different but brilliant. Imaginative. She could see things the rest of us couldn’t. And she painted beautifully. Painting is an important avenue for expressing emotion—”

Cat-got-the-canary grin on her face, Glinda Something appeared on center stage. “You heard her, folks. High school friend of teen murder darling Willa Renfri Greene—yes, part of that graduating class—confirms what we’ve all been thinking: W. Sloane’s paintings are inspired by the Rapture Mystery Slayings. What a chilling update!” She faux shivered. “Tune in tomorrow night for our follow-up segment, Inside the Minds of Killers: Born or Made at seven thirty. We’ll be joined by special guest, former Special Agent Jillian Ortega. Trust me, you won’t want to miss this—it’ll have you questioning everything!”

The TV went dark, but I kept watching long after, unseeing.

“Mom, this is Rachel,” I said.

Mom did a double take at the two of us standing in the entryway before smiling too wide for her face.

“Rachel, how nice to meet you! Would you like anything? Water, juice, snacks?”

There had been something odd in her expression in that split second before she spoke. Eyes a little too wide, mouth a little too slack.

Years later, I understood what it was.

Relief.

The next letter came on Thursday.

I was riffling through a stack of art magazines when I spotted it. Handwritten address on the envelope—in block letters, like he considered himself important enough to evoke those serial killers on TV.

THINKING OF YOU, the letter read. WILL YOU PAINT ONE FOR ME?

Two lines on an otherwise blank page.

I gritted my teeth.

Folded within was a postcard from the New York Public Library. The front was a print of The Pillow Man, my painting that lived there—for now—but the back was unaddressed.

Why, after all this time? This was weird, even for him. Our status quo was to ignore the existence of the other and pray our paths never crossed again. It was an understanding we held dear. And he broke over a decade of silence to—what? Send me a vaguely unsettling postcard and an old trophy?

Had I misunderstood the game all this time? Had I been playing wrong?

He—wait. He knew where I lived. I hadn’t considered that the first time. That journalist had ruined everything. Alongside my face plastered everywhere, she must have leaked my address. Thanks to her, he knew all about my new life, all these miles and years away, and I knew nothing of him in return.

I’d have to remedy that.

Without letting myself think too hard about it, I picked up the phone. It rang and rang, and I half hoped no one would answer. Save us both the embarrassment.

The line connected. “Hello?” a breathless woman said.

I closed my eyes.

“Hello? I’m hanging up.”

“Rachel,” I said quietly.

The other end of the line went silent for a long moment.

“Who is this?”

That answered the question of whether she still had my number saved. It was vaguely humiliating, but I overlooked it, as I had learned to overlook all the little humiliations throughout the years. It’s not sad to still have the numbers of everyone you went to high school with fifteen years ago, I told myself. Even if they didn’t hold on to yours.

If I hadn’t seen her on TV, I would’ve pictured her exactly the same as the last time I saw her at eighteen years old.

“It’s Willa. Willa Greene.” As if she knew another Willa. Well, she might’ve met another. It had been a long time. “How are you?”

“Nice try,” Rachel snapped, shockingly loud. “You fooled me once already. You think I want a repeat?”

Shocked, I lowered the phone to stare at her name. Fooled? Not the choice of words I would have used for what happened between us.

“I’m not falling for it! Screw you! This is unethical and you should be ashamed!”

Heat rose in my cheeks. What the hell? “Sorry, Rachel? It’s Willa Renfri Greene? From high school? Rapture High? Is this—This is Rachel, right?”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

I checked the screen again to make sure she hadn’t hung up when the silence dragged on. “If this is a bad time…”

“Willa?”

My heart was thundering in my chest. “Yes.”

“Are you—It’s really you?”

“Yes?”

“Prove it. Tell me something only you’d know.”

Like we were in a spy novel. I sighed. Why not. Rachel had always been like this. I could play along with this game, one more little game out of thousands. “My mom once thanked you for being my friend. I was so embarrassed I cried. We made Christmas cookies the next day.”

A loud whoosh of air came across the line.

“Oh, Willa, I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else calling. It’s been—It’s been a lot. I know you’re calling about that interview. I feel awful about it. Everything was taken out of context.” The confession rushed out of her. “Someone contacted me pretending to represent a charity that helps children process grief through art. I didn’t realize until the camera was on that I’d been tricked. They lied to get the sound bite they wanted for this smear piece on you—And then it was on the evening news, and Willa, I’m mortified, please know that despite what happened between us, I would never, ever intentionally—”

“That’s not why I called.” I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to hear this.

Rachel’s nervous babbling cut off.

I forced myself to spit the words out. “Graham. Have you heard anything about him lately?”

“Graham?” Rachel’s voice dropped to a whisper. She sounded closer, like she’d cupped her hand around the phone. “Why are you asking me about Graham?”

“Is he…” The words died on my tongue. I rubbed a hand over my forehead—I should’ve thought this through. I couldn’t ask what I really wanted to ask, so I said, “Has he been in town?”

A pause. I could picture her pursing her lips, the furrow appearing in her brow that always felt judgmental when we were teenagers.

“He has.”

I breathed in deeply. “And … how is he doing?”

Her silence was telling. Rachel cleared her throat. Delicately, she said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to ask about Graham.”

“Rachel.” I tapped the phone, my mouth twisting.

“Willa—”

“Do you know where he lives now?”

“Birch Street.”

“Birch? Birch Street? You’re talking about Rapture. Our hometown. That Birch Street?”

Her breathing gave away her nerves.

“He left. Rachel, he left. We all knew it.”

She swallowed. “He moved back. Been a few years now.”

I braced myself on the cold countertop, reeling. I hadn’t known. No one had told me.

“He’s trying to put that all behind him. He has his own business now. He’s a personal trainer. Does Mrs. Gracie’s grocery shopping for her every week. Shovels snow off her porch first thing after every snowfall. He’s—” She tripped over her words. “He’s doing better. Doing well, I mean.”

Trying to put that behind him. An interesting turn of phrase. I drummed my fingers along the countertop, staring out at the backyard. The sky was unusually dark. A storm was coming.

“Has he said anything about back then?”

“I don’t speak to him, Willa. We’re not friendly. I’m not—I wouldn’t do that. Even if I did, why would he bring that up?” I said nothing. “Don’t go digging up old skeletons. It won’t do anyone any good.”

I stared at the trees swaying and reminded myself I was firmly here and not back there. Things were different now.

My phone vibrated against my ear. Incoming call: Nathaniel Lennox. I grimaced and declined it.

Rachel continued nervously. “I know it was rough on you at the time, but you should try to forget about it. He’s normal now. He’s over that.”

I heard her unspoken words: Unlike you.

I watched a hawk dive from a tree and rise with a rodent in its clutches. “So you do talk to him.”

Her breath hitched. “I—I mean—That is to say…”

I let her try to squeak out a justification.

He’s normal now, replayed in my mind. He’s over that. Against my will, my face twisted into that ugly snarl the whole country had seen on TV. I swallowed it back down, eyes on one particular patch of the grass, like I was standing on one leg and tricking my body into keeping its balance. If I looked away, I’d fall.

“Our little town isn’t good at forgetting, Rachel,” I interrupted her squeaking. “You of all people should know that.”

“It’s different,” she insisted. “He’s turned a new leaf, and they’ve always liked him—”

“That’s it, then?” I cut in. “They’ve always liked him? Really?”

Her lips were on the phone, hissing directly into my ear. “It’s messed up what happened, but he’s making something of his life now—”

“Never mind what he did,” I mocked, eighteen and awful again, “he’s likeable, he’s—”

“Willa!”

“What, I’m the problem? Really? He gets off scot-free?”

She hesitated. I imagined I could count her heartbeats. “What people are saying about you—”

“Doesn’t matter. I left for a reason. I don’t care what they think anymore.”

There was a long pause.

She cleared her throat. “Look, I’m glad you called. I wouldn’t have known how to reach you. There’s something you should know.” She inhaled deeply. “You remember Mrs. Sloane? Our old art teacher? She passed away this week. I know she meant a lot to you.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. The trees weren’t enough to ground me anymore. “How?”

“Cancer. Ovarian.”

The phone trembled in my hand.

“Willa, I—”

I hung up and stared into space.

We called him Graham because he was young and cute and not at all like a high school teacher should be.

On paper, he was Mr. Warren. Mr. Graham Warren, Rapture High’s new PE teacher. New at the beginning of the term sophomore year and the talk of the school as soon as Wendy set eyes on him.

Not once had gym class mattered so much. But it wasn’t grades we were chasing—it was his smiles. Counted carefully and bragged about over lunchtime.

Tina, while braiding her hair in the locker room, had declared a contest, and everyone followed suit. By the second week, gym period had perfect attendance. By week three, girls were sprinting the mile.

Graham was, of course, oblivious to the attention. Like any teacher brushing off the peculiarities of teenage girls.

After all, he was the subject, but it was our game.

Until it wasn’t.

Really, we were naïve to give him so much credit.

I drifted through the rest of the day. Eating, painting, wandering aimlessly through the rooms of a silent house. If the past was the past, why did it still impact the present? Were we stuck in time, back when it happened, doomed to age on the outside but not the inside?

Nathaniel Lennox called three more times. I watched it ring on the counter. I’d rather eat my own toe than agree to appear on his show.

The paintings in progress in my sunroom were taking shape, but they still didn’t look as I expected them to. I’d lost sight of the vision. In the quiet moments, when my thoughts gave me a reprieve, I sank into memories from back then. The good ones, this time.

I owed a lot to Mrs. Sloane.

To the town, she was the high school art teacher. To me, she was kindness. A safe haven. One of the adults who didn’t hiss judgement at me. The very best woman I’d ever known.

That town was a nightmare; there was no way around it. Rapture housed no more than my personal hell for far too long. But it was impossible to describe the radiance of Mrs. Sloane without acknowledging the environmental forces she resisted.

Looking back, she was my guardian angel. The only one I’d ever get.

And she was dead.

She’d always seemed timeless, enduring in the way teachers were to high schoolers. If we ever returned to the hall of our memories, we expected to find them exactly as we left them. Preserved precisely as we remembered. It was never the case, of course, but this?

Gone?

I couldn’t imagine Rapture without her.

Outside, thick clouds rolled in. I opened the window to smell the oncoming rain.

There must be an elevated seat in heaven for teachers who offer sanctuary to children.

And a special place in hell for those who prey on them.

chapter
5

It didn’t seem strange back then. A thump on the wall. A creak of the floorboard. A sudden, inexplicable cold spot in the middle of June. They were all reminders I wasn’t alone. Comforting, even.

My mother did not agree.

“Don’t you want to read your new book, sweetie? The one you bought at the book fair?” She poked her head into my room one Saturday afternoon.

I rolled my eyes. “We already read that one, Mom. He wants another one.”

The smile froze on her face, then slithered away entirely. Her lips pursed, like she wanted to say something, but she held herself back. Instead, she simply said, “Maybe next week, honey.”

She left the door open on her way out.

“Mom, I’m home!” The screen door slammed shut behind me. It was a chilly day in late January. My eyelashes held little clumps of snow.

I set my lunch box on the counter and went straight to the fridge. “Do we have any fruit?” I rifled through the drawers.

“Mom?” I peeked past the door.

Mom was standing by the sink with her back to me. The phone was in her hand, but she didn’t seem to be on a call.

I let the refrigerator door fall shut.

“The school called. About your assignment today. About the pictures you’ve been drawing.” She finally turned around. Her eyes were bloodshot.

I was rooted to the floor, uncertain.

“The monsters, Willa.”

Her hands flexed like she wanted to grab me by the shoulders, but she didn’t cross the distance between us. It was a gaping maw of tile floor, impassible, stretching larger by the moment. She looked at me like I was a stranger.

“Why would you draw those things? You were supposed to draw your family.”

“But they live here too,” I said nervously. I didn’t get why she was upset. We were supposed to draw our household.

She jabbed her finger at me. “Be serious. Your teacher mentioned all these—clusters? Gray clusters of something? What is that?”

“The people in the basement.”

Mom’s eyes shut. Her throat worked, but no sound came out. Finally, a whispered, “Go to your room.”

“But I wanted a snack—”

An explosive, “Your room! Now!”

As I skittered off, I glanced back. Mom was at the kitchen counter, back arched, head in her hands.

chapter
6

The first ring of the doorbell came at 7 AM sharp. A delivery, I assumed, and drifted back to sleep. I’d tossed and turned all night and was owed a bit more sleep.

The knocking that followed was harder to ignore.

An erratic staccato from the lower level, knock-knock-knock pause, knock-knock-knock pause. Again and again, bookended with the pinging of the doorbell.

When I finally snapped to reality and realized the racket was indeed coming from my front door, I shot to my feet faster than my vision settled and stumbled into the wall. I wrapped a robe around myself. Was the house on fire?

No smell of smoke. It was the police, wasn’t it? Graham had finally escalated to something so public and horrifying that they’d—

Bleary-eyed, I opened the front door.

They came in waves over the horizon. Buzzing. Swarming in clouds. And a sign of the apocalypse, as far as I was concerned.

News vans.

Reporters tottered across my lawn in spiked heels sinking into the wet grass. Microphones clutched tightly like a newborn to the breast. All with their eyes on me.

A collective gasp went up among them, and they descended. At the front of the horde, polished pink with those gleaming teeth and thickly lined eyes, was that anchor from TV. Glinda.

Her eyes lit up, and she opened her mouth to—

I slammed the door.

“Willa!” They called through the door. “Ms. Greene!”

What in the fresh hell was this?

“Any comment on the news? Ms. Greene? Hello! Will you give us a comment?”

A chorus of voices mashing together, a legion of demons howling from hell. Scrabbling for a scrap of me.

“We want to hear your side of the story, that’s all! Come out and speak to us!”

Quieter, a hissed, “Out of the way, Glinda. I was here first.”

“Cry me a river, Christopher. You were always too slow!”

I would have preferred the nightmare that had kept me up all night.

My phone buzzed, and I answered it without looking. Back pressed to the door, as if they might force it open.

“Josh,” I hissed, “there are people here. They’re everywhere. Vans up and down the street. What did you do?”

Fists pounded at the door. The doorbell dinged again, over and over until I thought I might scream.

“Josh, I am going to fucking kill you if you had anything to do with this.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. A particularly powerful thump at my back made me jump.

“I suppose this answers my question of whether you changed your number.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

“Funny story,” Nathaniel Lennox continued, voice a throaty purr, “all this publicity you didn’t ask for. One might say we have something in common.”

Shit.

I cleared my throat. “I—This was a mistake.” I floundered for words. “I’m going to—”

“Wait.”

Inexplicably, I did.

“It seems there’s been a misunderstanding between us. I’m trying to be the bigger person here. Open communication and all that. Let’s right some wrongs.”

I inhaled deeply, torn between hanging up and finding something—anything—to say.

“Nothing to say, Willa? Not even an apology?”

An apology? I glared at nothing, the pounding in my head now indistinguishable from the rapping at the door.

“Do not call me again.” I ended the call and found a chair, more shaken than I wanted to admit.

I closed myself in the closet under the stairs and left the light off. Nathaniel wasn’t here. Those people outside couldn’t get in.

“Breathe,” I whispered, wrapping myself in the company of my paintings in this little hideaway. I was with my creations in this new life I had built. I was safe.

The darkness of the room settled upon me. I hugged my knees.

It was just as dark that night in the woods.

I gritted my teeth, trying to steer my thoughts in a different direction.

Crushed leaves crackled underfoot in my mind’s eye. Something sticky was on my hands.

I threw the door open and gasped for air, counting and breathing in the sunlight on the hardwood floor until my lungs steadied.

It was another ten minutes before I called the real Josh with a more subdued argument than I’d planned.

“I have no idea,” he exclaimed, sounding harried. Muffled footsteps accompanied his voice. “The reaction to the Eye of Lennox anniversary episode was unprecedented. Engagement was astronomical. Clips are blowing up on social media. Everybody’s talking about the case, and everyone in the industry wants a piece of the pie.” Josh sucked in a breath. “I didn’t give them your address. I never—” He steadied himself. “It had to have been the first set of journalists. The ones who lied about being from that art magazine. Fuck. How bad is it?”

I peered through the blackout blinds and examined the reporters littering my property.

I looked for her—Joyce, the one who had brought it all down on me—but I didn’t see her. Plenty of other faces. Plastic ones. Natural ones. Contoured ones. High, plucked brows. Thick, trendier ones. Hers were not among them.

“It’s bad.”

The bravest and boldest crept closer. After last night’s rain, my lawn was a goner, sucking down high heels and belching mud. The more sensible ones stood in clusters at the street, heads bowed, glancing at the house every few moments.

“Really bad. They’re down the road, on my lawn—Are they allowed to be on my lawn? What do I do? Call the police? What are the police going to do?”

Ding-ding-ding.

“Is that them?” Josh was aghast. “Ringing your doorbell like that?”

“Josh,” I hissed. “I need this to stop.”

“Oh my God. I can hear it. What the hell—”

His voice grew muffled, but I could hear him snapping orders at someone else in the room.

I’d moved to the middle of nowhere to get away from this. The attention, the never-ending fascination with the darkest part of my life, the part I wanted to forget the most. I felt exposed. A public autopsy. Cut open for the viewer’s pleasure.

“Why now?” I demanded. “What changed?”

“Nathaniel’s show really hit it big, but—Oh. Oh my God.”

“What is it?”

My phone pinged. I held it back from my ear to squint at the news banner.

BREAKING: RAPTURE POLICE DEPARTMENT REOPENS INVESTIGATION INTO MYSTERY SLAYINGS: “IT’S TIME.”

“Josh,” I choked.

“I see it,” he breathed.

Nathaniel Lennox had done it. He’d blown the case wide open.

The door rattled in its frame.

“Josh,” I said, voice higher.

“Listen to me: I’ll handle it. Keep your phone on. Don’t go outside. Lock your doors and windows. I’ll call back within the hour.”

“You can’t—”

“I’ll make some calls. Don’t leave the house, do you understand me?”

I nodded to the empty room.

“Willa?”

“Yes.”

“Wait for my call. Don’t. Do. Anything.”

The line clicked.

I hid in the bathtub. As if there were a tornado, locked in the innermost room with my thoughts. Clothes on. Lights off.

They couldn’t have done it. Reopened the investigation after all these years. It couldn’t be true.

I was hot and cold and nauseated all at once. The first time around hadn’t been enough?

Chief Landon hadn’t stopped. Not the first night, or the second, or in any that followed. No matter how much screaming he did, how many nights I spent sleepless in that dark little room, how used I got to the hot spray of his spittle on my cheek, he didn’t relent. Even when my eyes sank into my skull, he didn’t stop. Might never have stopped, if the lawyers hadn’t gotten involved.

His nephew was dead, and he would move heaven and earth for answers.

He hated me. I saw it in every pore of his red face as he yelled things at me no one should ever hear and showed me pictures no teenager should ever see of their friends. Parts of them. And by the time I was let out into the daylight, it had spread. Hatred was catching in Rapture, like everything good and bad and ugly. I’d lost my place, a tooth shaken loose from where I belonged and spat onto the floor, and they’d never looked at me the same again.

The investigation had been reopened, my flesh offered for torture, and I didn’t have Mrs. Sloane this time around.

Back then, they had all wanted to know the same thing. It was in their eyes, even while their mouths said differently. Lucky, they’d called me at first. What a lucky girl. Look at what happened to all those kids, and that Willa Greene didn’t get a scratch on her.

They’d soon stopped saying it. The questioning dragged on, and voices grew strained, and my story couldn’t be wrapped up into a nice little bow that pleased them.

The real question grew in the widening gap between the evidence and the unknown: Why wasn’t I lying in that barn, deep in the woods, with the rest of them?

Josh’s name lit up my phone, and I pulled myself back to today, out of the bathtub, barefoot on tile.

chapter
7

It was difficult to concentrate with the constant chatter outside. Occasionally, a shriek of laughter would rise above the rest, sending my heart racing. It should’ve passed. It always did. The excitement was meant to die down for another year before the cycle began again. That’s the way it always was. And yet—

Ding!

My paintbrush slipped, smearing blue onto a sea of gray.

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

The local police in my corner of Pennsylvania—who had arrived at Josh’s behest despite my mild heart attack at the sight of them—had corralled the news vans to the edge of the property along the street. It must’ve been the whole force, five squad cars strong, keeping an eye on the reporters’ antics.

Ding!

Evidently, not a close enough eye if someone managed to ring my doorbell.

Over time, I’d learned to tune out the anniversary episodes this time of year. Podcasts, news stations, armchair detectives on the internet. The American public loved dates. Anniversaries. Concrete reminders of the past. It crested on November 18 but always passed within the week.

But it was November 23, and the vans were still outside, albeit fewer in number. And Nathaniel’s increasingly obnoxious social media posts, which I assured Josh I wasn’t reading, continued to fan the flame. He’d even started uploading short behind-the-scenes videos from his trip to Rapture that were reposted and dissected by true crime accounts.

I couldn’t help but skim “Five Facts About the Rapture Mystery Slayings That Will Shock You” and “How True Crime Fans and a Psychic Got the Rapture Investigation Reopened After Fifteen Years.”

“We can’t get rid of them,” Josh had said moodily when he’d called back. “As long as they stay on the street, it’s legal. You’ll have to wait it out. They’re burning money and resources the longer they stay. They’ll have to leave soon.”

And yet here they were days later.

I squinted at the painting of the day. The blending didn’t look quite right.

My knees cracked as I stood. I swept the curtains back, desperate for more light.

A man goggled at me, nose pressed against the glass.

I shrieked, banging my leg against the coffee table, and the paintbrush went flying. Blue paint dotted the carpet.

The man startled before raising a camera to his face. I ducked as the flash went off. I threw the curtains closed, feeling all my blood rush to my face.

My hands were shaking. I had to sit down. What the fuck?

This was too much. I started toward the front door, only to freeze. I was going to … go outside? Out there, with them? More of them?

They wanted a reaction. They were professionals at drawing it out. To win, I couldn’t let them see they bothered me. Just like high school bullies.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I sat. Plucked a new brush, ignoring the one staining my carpet. Faced the canvas.

Freaks, all of them.

The paintbrush trembled. I set it down.

I looked at the blending again with a critical eye. Maybe it was fine.

No, it was all wrong.

I sighed and checked my phone. Nothing from Rapture PD, thank God. Mostly junk. And a single text from Rachel and a link: So you’ll know where to send the flowers.

I clicked the link, and Millie Sloane’s face filled the screen. Emotion surged in my throat.

She looked older than I’d ever seen her, new lines at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth. Smile lines. The mark of a happy life. Blond hair, more faded than I remembered. The kind of woman who looked like she’d give a good hug. A rosy blush on her cheeks. She was wearing her favorite sunflower earrings and smiling like it was the happiest day of her life.

My eyes welled up without my permission.

You’re a good kid, she’d told me once. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

Millie Sloane was one of the good ones. I hadn’t even known she was sick. Back home—back there, I corrected myself—everyone probably knew. There weren’t any secrets in a town like that. They inhaled gossip like air—at all times and without conscious effort. It was a way of life.

I couldn’t have known about her illness. I hadn’t been back in fifteen years.

But I felt like I should have. She’d been there for me at the worst time of my life, and I hadn’t even known she was struggling.

No, that was a silly thought. I’d been a teenager. A student under her oversight.

Maybe she didn’t even remember me. Hundreds of kids had the same memories of her. Mrs. Sloane was the kind of teacher who made you feel special, like you could do anything, be anyone. She probably did the same for every student who walked her halls.

I scrolled down the obituary.

Millie Sloane is survived by her husband of thirty-nine years, Arthur.

And below it, the funeral date and address. Two days from today, 12:00 PM.

I returned to the canvas. I sat and stared for too long, old memories blurring my vision.

I wasn’t her daughter. Or her ward. I wasn’t her problem past the ring of the bell. But time and time again, she was there for me.

“You’re a gifted painter, Willa.” I looked up from the easel. “No, really. Your work is beautiful.”

Mrs. Sloane’s sunflower earrings, bright and yellow like her blouse, tangled in her hair as she peered at my canvas. “Have you given any more thought to pursuing it professionally?”

My smile slipped. “I can’t do that. You know why.”

“The arts are important! And don’t sell yourself short. I may be an art teacher in a small town, but I know talent when I see it.” She had a little twinkle in her eye.

I hid my pleased grin in my hair. “Can I stay longer today? Please? Until five?”

Mrs. Sloane’s face creased for a moment before she smoothed it out.

“Of course, Willa. Stay as long as you’d like. You’re my brightest star, you know?”

The nerves in my chest dissipated. I could put off going home for a few hours longer.

“My parents…” I began.

She set a hand on my shoulder, featherlight. “Sometimes, our dreams are bigger than our parents can understand.”

DING, DING, DING.

The paintbrush swiped a long stripe over the canvas. Ruined.

I stared at it in disbelief for three unblinking seconds, doorbell echoing in my ears.

I flew to the front door and flung it open.

The wide-eyed redhead in a pantsuit and parka stumbled back, overlined lips parted in a perfect O.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I thundered. “This is my home. My home. You should be ashamed of yourselves! Get the hell off my porch!”

The camera over her right shoulder lit up, trained on me. Holding it was that same pale-eyed creep from the back window.

My head throbbed.

It happened in an instant. Between one heartbeat and the next.

My only thought was to stop that fucking video.

A gasp went up among the crowd.

I stared at what I’d done.

The camera was splashed with blue paint. Leaking into crevices, dripping from the lens. The man too. He brushed a hand over his beard and looked at the paint that came off, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the newscaster snarled, pretty sheen dropping away. Her outfit had caught the backsplash, dark flecks staining red fabric. Good.

“You are not welcome here!” I raised my voice. “That’s what’s happening to the rest of you if you don’t get off my property this instant. Believe me, I have a lot of paint. And that looked expensive.”

They collectively took a step back.

The police descended, radios buzzing. Where had they been? I sent a hard look at the closest one, the youngest, who swallowed and began herding journalists back. Another officer kindly handed me my mail, eyes apologetic.

“She should pay for that!” the redhead hissed at the closest officer, who kept his eyes trained straight ahead as he led her by the elbow.

I slammed the door and sank onto the floor, head in my hands. I took in the stack of rejected canvases on my kitchen table. The pile of dishes towering above the lip of the sink.

If only you could see me now, Mrs. Sloane.

I’d never been much of a crier. But if anyone deserved my tears, it was Millie Sloane. And it was time I owned up to it.

I went back to the ruined canvas. Whatever vision I’d had was long gone.

I sank down onto the couch and, against my better judgement, turned on the TV. I flicked through channels until a bizarre image caught my eye.

I was looking at the side of my own face. There was that slight bump on the bridge of my nose, and a bit of unflattering skin beneath my chin. The version of me on-screen was hunched over, deeply focused.

I leaned forward, and it leaned forward too.

LIVE NOW flashed red in the corner of the screen.

I snapped my head to the window, where a shiny lens peeked through a gap in the blinds.

Rage boiled from my toes to my ears. I leapt from the couch and snapped the gap shut, then pounded on the wall.

Why couldn’t they just leave me alone?

I ran for duct tape to seal around the blinds while the television replayed in slow motion the moment my eyes locked on the camera. Jumping to my feet and sprinting at the camera must have taken a second in real life, but it was slowed down and analyzed in excruciating, unflattering detail.

Once I’d showered, gathered myself, and had a meal, I felt better. More human. I even tried humming to myself as I sorted through yesterday’s mail. A few art journals, a grocery flyer, and one red envelope. Another nonsense name on the return address. As if I didn’t already know who it was from.

This time, there was no letter inside.

Only a photo, faded with age.

WILLA GREENE was written along the bottom. AGE SIXTEEN. MIDFIELDER.

She smiled up at me. Posed in shorts and a T-shirt with a soccer ball on her hip.

A sign in the background read PENOBSCOT COUNTY SPORTS CAMP.

Three months before the incident with Graham came to a head.

At the end of the day, we could never escape our high school selves. Years could pass, and I could close my eyes and be at my desk again. So young and so raw. Facing the vitriol of the town. All but one.

And my past self would be disappointed if we did not honor her.

Hours later, when the clock struck 2 AM, when the road was clear and the reporters were tucked into their beds at their highway hotels, I shot off a text to Josh. Taking a hiatus. Two weeks. Cell will be off. Effective immediately.

Three dots appeared instantly.

I powered my phone off. I had somewhere to be.

Rachel had said not to dig up the past, but the past had a way of digging for us.

Because the truth was, I had killed those kids.

In all the ways that mattered.

chapter
8

There were no other cars on this stretch of I-84. Trees flashed in my periphery. The sun was crawling over the horizon, and I was hurtling across Connecticut toward Hartford. Fatigue should’ve pulled at me after driving through the night, but there was terror where exhaustion should have been. I could’ve been in bed, zooming toward the same destination, and my eyes wouldn’t have closed.

I was going home to Rapture.

I rolled down the window and let the wind whip through my hair.

It was surprisingly easy to float through life. Not to coast, as one imagines the children of the very rich might, but to float. Present but not entirely there. In the right place but feet not on the ground. Going through the same milestones and motions as everyone else but not really feeling them.

Leaving no footsteps behind.

No great loves. No heartbreaks to cry about. The usual ups and downs of teenage years, but in a way that fizzled out rather than matured with age. I might have been vibrant, once.

Even before the horrors, I’d always had the sensation of being a little off-center from where I should’ve been, where all the other kids were. With them but not them.

Fortunately, I’d picked a solo hobby. You didn’t need friends to paint.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t drawn to other kids my age. But it hadn’t been my idea to go into the woods that night, no matter what anyone said. It hadn’t been a scheme.

It had been an invitation.

I grimaced, trying to drag my thoughts away from their inevitable path, but my knee burned with phantom strain from a reckless sprint through a dark forest, and my eyes watered from the sting of branches against my cheek.

I blinked rapidly, and my hands were clutching the wheel too hard. I didn’t remember the last few miles.

I eased my foot off the gas, and the ache in my knee calmed.

I was tougher than this. Deciding to come was the hard part. The rest was just noise.

“Willa, can you grab the Christmas ornaments from the basement? We’re getting set up.”

I stared in horror at the door across from the bathroom. I was convinced it stared back.

“Willa? Sweetheart? Are you there?” Mom called from the kitchen, where she was setting the table.

There was no way.

“I don’t think…” My voice was too quiet, and I knew she couldn’t hear. I put my hand on the doorknob. Eased it open a crack. Stared at the black abyss that swallowed the path of the steps. Unconquerable darkness. A great, gaping maw to hell.

My fingers brushed the wall. I couldn’t find the light switch. I leaned farther inside the stairwell, refusing to move my feet from the lip of the top step. I patted at the spot I was sure the switch should be.

Far below, something rustled.

I froze. My hand trembled on the wall, still outstretched.

She wanted me to go down there? I peered into the void. Leaned in.

A gust of air whooshed up at my face. I gasped and jumped back, bumping into something behind me that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

There was a shout and a crash.

“Goddammit, Willa—”

Dad stood over the remnants of the good china scattered across the hardwood floor. The ones we only brought out for the holidays. His face slowly reddened. Those eyes lifted and narrowed on me.

“Why can’t you be normal? Fucking—” He turned on Mom, who screeched to a halt in the hall. “Why can’t she be normal?”

I stared at the mess, frozen.

“Don’t just stand there, get the vacuum!” he snarled.

My eyes stung. I was too old for this, fifteen now, and I knew it. I was trying so hard, couldn’t they see?

Angry shouting followed my swift flight up to my bedroom once he realized I wasn’t going for the vacuum. I jammed on headphones and threw myself onto the bed with a pillow over my head, hands fisted in anger and terror.

I tried so hard not to see them. It made Mom and Dad so upset. It was hard, but I could pretend with Elliot.

I couldn’t pretend with the basement.

Why didn’t Mom and Dad understand? Why didn’t they even try? If I was trying so hard, why couldn’t they try half as much?

I clenched my eyes shut and turned the volume up until I couldn’t feel the tears soaking into the pillow.

I blinked rapidly, and the highway came back into focus. 7:42 AM. More cars were on the road, heading out or heading home.

As a teenager, I’d always been incredibly upset by incidents like that. Preoccupied with trying not to step out of line, desperately trying not to react to the things I saw and heard. Devastated at my failures because of the screaming matches that followed.

Looking back as an adult, I couldn’t help but think that no broken plate was worth making my own child afraid of me.

WELCOME TO MASSACHUSETTS, a big blue sign proclaimed.

The memories hit hard and fast as I breezed up I-95 along the coast of New Hampshire.

One moment, I was in a dream, the next, my face made contact with the carpet.

The air oofed out of me, and for a moment, I thought I’d rolled out of bed.

The room was dark. It was the middle of the night. Blinking away the crustiness in my eyes, I started to get my elbows under me, and—

“Ouch!”

My cheek dragged against the carpet as my ankle was yanked, and I slid along the floor. I flailed for the sheets, choking on a bottled-up scream, but they were out of reach.

I looked over my shoulder to see what had me, and it pulled harder. Ankle first, on my stomach, I was dragged from the bedroom. I nearly bashed my head on the doorframe trying to crane my neck. I couldn’t see anything, even in the glow of the night-light in the hallway.

“Mom!”

The cry exploded out of me.

The grip on my ankle tightened, and as much as I clawed at the carpet, it didn’t slow my progress down the hall. My stomach burned raw where my shirt had ridden up.

I screamed and screamed.

My parents’ bedroom door crashed open as I was thrown down the stairs.

“Willa?” My father called, loud and booming and everything I wanted in that moment.

I was dragged across the hardwood floor, flesh squeaking along the finish, until I was on kitchen tile. I grabbed at a chair, toppling it in my wake.

“Dad!” I shrieked.

My foot hit the back door, and the phantom grip vanished. Disoriented, I heaved in air as tears streaked down my cheeks. Hands, cheek, stomach rubbed raw.

I had to get out. Out of this house. Out!

I launched onto shaky feet and unlatched the locks.

My mother’s footsteps, light and quick, pattered down the stairs. “Willa, did you fall? Willa!” To my father, a hushed, “Get the gun.”

I threw myself onto the porch, sobbing. Cold spring air hit my overheated skin. I didn’t stop moving until I was halfway across the lawn.

“Willa!” my father shouted from the kitchen.

“I’m outside!”

I looked down at my knees, saw they were red and bloody, and screamed some more. I crouched and dug my fingers into the grass, as if I could anchor myself there. I would’ve run down the street if my bare legs weren’t shaking so badly.

“What the hell is going on?” Dad’s voice was at the back door. The porch light flicked on. He squinted over the dark lawn until his eyes settled on my trembling form. “Willa, that you? What—Is someone else out here?”

“Something—” I choked on the words. “Something’s—”

“Was someone in the house?” He scanned the yard, standing stiffly. His hunting rifle was gripped tightly in his arms.

Mom came out from behind him and raced over. She cupped my chin. “My God, what happened to your face?”

“I asked her a question,” he hissed. “She needs to tell me if someone’s in the house.”

“It pulled me out of bed,” I gasped through the tears. “It—It dragged me. Down the hall. From under the bed? I don’t know.”

They both sort of stopped.

Mom’s concern faded into irritation. “Are you saying this was a nightmare?”

“No! It was real!”

Dad let the gun drop to his side. “She’s too old for this,” he muttered.

Mom sighed. She rubbed her eyes. “Come on, let’s get you back inside. I’ll make you some hot chocolate—”

“I’m not going back inside.”

Dad grew impatient. “Inside. Now.” He strode forward and grabbed my arm.

“I said I’m not going back inside!” I screamed with such ferocity that we both jumped.

His eyes, wide and frightened, took me in.

One by one, the neighbors’ lights flicked on.

“I’m telling you, something grabbed me, Dad. Listen to me!”

“No, you listen to me, young lady!” He puffed up. “This is not acceptable behavior from my daughter. You gave your mother and me a heart attack, screaming your head off in the middle of the night! You need to get a handle on this, girl. You need to be able to tell the difference from nightmares and reality, between your imaginary friends and your little friends at school. This stops now. Do you understand me?”

I stared him down, shivering but defiant.

When the sirens started, Dad’s face went incandescent with rage.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He turned away, hand to his forehead.

“I’m sorry about this, Lauren,” Mom whispered to the first police officer to show up. “I don’t know what came over her. This is so embarrassing.” She clutched her robe tighter over her thin pajamas.

“These things happen,” Lauren assured her. “It’s no trouble at all.” She gave me a sidelong glance.

Then the fire truck pulled up, and I wanted to die.

“Would you like us to check the house?” one of the men asked Dad, shouldering a pack of oxygen and a heavy suit.

“That isn’t necessary—”

“Yes!” All eyes swiveled to me, and I shrank back. “Please,” I whispered.

His eyes softened. “You got it, Willa.” When he got closer, I realized he was Nate’s dad. Nate—my French vocab partner this week—must be fast asleep at home. I hadn’t recognized his dad under the helmet at first.

He waved a colleague over, and the pair entered the house. Lauren followed them in.

I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. Mom tucked me in close.

“I really am sorry about this,” she said to the other firefighters and police officers gathered around.

Through the shallow island of trees separating us from our closest neighbors, a yellow square had appeared. Janine was clearly outlined against the glow of her kitchen window. I stared, shamefaced, at the ground.

“You’re lucky,” Nate’s dad said when he emerged a few minutes later. The crowd of us gathered in the driveway turned.

“Lucky?” Mom said. “What do you mean?”

Nate’s dad held out a funny little orange rectangle. “Carbon monoxide detector went wild in there. Dangerous levels. We found a leak in your furnace.”

I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was bad by the horrified looks Mom and Dad exchanged.

“Another twenty minutes and—Well, I don’t mean to be blunt, but you wouldn’t have woken up at all.”

My mother gasped softly.

Nate’s dad leaned down to my level. “Never forget, young lady. Always change the batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors twice a year.” He glanced up at my dad. “Yours were all dead. You wouldn’t have had any warning. Your daughter’s nightmare might have saved your life.”

All heads slowly swiveled to me.

WELCOME TO MAINE, the next sign read. The blue paint was peeling.

I badly needed to pee, but when I pulled into the first rest stop past Waterville, and the restrooms were nestled against the woods, I talked my bladder into holding on. I pulled back out onto the highway and turned the music up.

After another hour, I finally found a rest stop that didn’t touch the woods. Forty minutes outside Rapture. This one was a small brick building on a tired-looking brown lawn. The sky had a twilight haze even though it was hardly past one in the afternoon.

A man smoking next to his van watched me, unblinking, as I made my way to the ladies’ room. Aside from the two of us, the parking lot was empty.

On my way back out, I contemplated the single flickering vending machine. The burger I’d eaten a few hours back wasn’t pulling its weight. With a sigh, I fished out my credit card and punched in an order. The buzzing of the machine seemed to go on forever, bag of chips teetering ever so slowly before it fell.

I glanced over my shoulder. The man was still staring.

I averted my eyes and plucked the chips from the metal slot. Straightened. And stopped in my tracks.

The woods seemed closer than before. I was rooted to the pavement, unable to drag my eyes away. The trees were shadowed, so close together I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. A black mass of tangled limbs and little light.

A crowd, as far as I was concerned. I turned away.

The man was still watching me. He exhaled slowly, cigarette smoke curling in front of his face.

I gave him a nice long stare in return as I headed to my car. He blinked. I didn’t. I imagined I had more experience being stared at than he did. Exhaling another cloud of smoke, he inclined his head. I turned my face away.

There was a shape in the woods. It walked a jolting, staggering walk, all the wrong proportions for a person.

The chips crumpled in my hand.

A deer emerged from the bramble. It limped oddly, antlers at a strained angle as it tottered on three legs. Beady, judging eyes. He managed another few steps before standing perfectly still. He looked like he was bowing, neck down and a bit crooked, peering at me from beneath his antlers, like a coy woman looking through her eyelashes.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. Why was he standing there?

Balancing on three hooves, head bowed, the deer became a statue. Was he looking at me and wondering the same thing?

“You lost, ma’am?”

I jumped so violently my spine popped. If that man—

But it wasn’t the man by the van. It was a police officer, frowning down at me with polite concern in his eyes. His squad car was parked a few paces down. I hadn’t heard the engine.

I glanced back. The deer was gone.

Across the lot, the other man crushed his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. He hauled himself into his van and sped onto the highway ramp.

I pulled my gray peacoat tighter around my frame. Sucking in a breath, I turned to face the officer fully.

And then the most amazing thing happened.

He didn’t react to my face. Not even a flinch. Not one bat of the eye. Either he was a really good actor or wasn’t from around here.

“Ma’am?”

I squeezed my eyes closed and opened them again with a smile. I had to remember how to be a person again.

“No, I’m not lost. Thank you.”

I didn’t recognize him. I wondered if I should. Brown hair, barest hint of stubble, blue eyes. Tan skin. I studied his features, looking for any resemblance to siblings or neighbors I might’ve known, overlaying faces over a decade out of date. He didn’t look much older than me. Mid-thirties.

“You headed into town?”

I sank my hands into my pockets. “I am.”

“Business or pleasure?”

Not for business. Certainly not for pleasure. Duty? Obligation? Masochism? “Just a visit.”

“We don’t get many visitors around these parts.”

I said nothing.

Would he bring me in for questioning if I gave my name? The investigation was reopened, which meant it was open season on Willa Greene. The deer could cackle from the woods while I was hunted for sport.

“What are you looking at?”

I tore my eyes from the woods again.

His blue eyes pried at my thoughts. He was kind of pretty, I realized, although he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take pretty as a compliment. Shoulders flexed under his uniform as he followed my line of sight.

“I thought I saw something.”

He smiled as if amused. “There’s nothing in these woods, doll.”

That’s how I knew he was an outsider. A transplant. Whatever you wanted to call it, he wasn’t from around here.

If he were, he’d know to be afraid.

I analyzed his stance. Shoulders held loose. Eyes alert but not guarded. Hand at his side, not atop his firearm. Not a man thinking he is facing a threat. I half turned back to my car to test the waters. “Have a good day.”

“Stay safe out there.”

I did a double take, but he kept up that neutral look, no recognition of what he’d said. Like the words held no deeper meaning. A throwaway phrase.

I was getting paranoid. But, as they said, it wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get you.

I slid behind the wheel and waited for him to leave. He didn’t. He just stood there. Staring. A slow blink. Not once did he look at the woods, even with his back to it.

A bit off-balance, I maneuvered extra carefully out of the lot and merged into nonexistent traffic.

I knew it was coming, yet I still wasn’t ready for it. I’d slowed from the breakneck speed of the highway twenty minutes ago and moved at a crawl through the winding country roads. It was nearly two in the afternoon, but clouds were coming in fast. I’d forgotten how dark these roads could get.

WELCOME TO RAPTURE, the sign proclaimed. WHERE THE GOOD NEVER LEAVE.

Home sweet home.

chapter
9

I navigated the little downtown streets with hardly a thought. I’d learned to drive on these roads. Every curve and traffic light were reflexes. The same buildings, the same stores. Little charming storefronts painted white, pink, or blue in alternating patterns, hand-carved wooden signs above their doors. Green lampposts growing out of flower beds empty for the winter. Flags blowing in the breeze. Red brick sidewalks.

A picturesque American small town.

Charming, even. To some.

Reggie’s Diner, where we used to eat every Sunday morning. The best waffles in town, much to Mrs. Sun’s eternal dismay down the street. Her French toast was better, she’d always say, and dared anyone within earshot to argue.

As I drove down Main Street, a few heads swiveled to watch my car go by. I gripped the wheel tighter and stared straight ahead, hoping the tint on my windows was dark enough to provide some protection. I didn’t look at faces.

There was the little inn where my dad had proposed to my mom. The brunch place I’d gone to on my first date, face flaming the whole time, knowing Mrs. Sun would report back everything she’d seen to my mother.

The old movie theater that had closed down years ago flashed by. Stores started to become houses, and houses grew farther apart. It wasn’t until I noticed the approach of a street sign, HUCKLEBERRY LANE, that I realized I’d been driving home on autopilot. Home home. Toward the house at the end of Grove Street and then a little bit farther.

I shook myself and made a U-turn. An illegal one, because I could and there was nobody around.

The street sign was barely hanging on. Once upon a time, Mr. Davis would’ve had it fixed within the day. I wondered how he was doing, and if he still dressed up as Santa during the Christmas parade.

No.

Eyes forward.

I fought against the muscle memory. Grove wasn’t home anymore. Rapture wasn’t home anymore.

I didn’t let myself look at anything but taillights and pavement while I doubled back to the edge of town. Lawns started to stretch into fields, and houses receded from view at the end of long, winding drives.

It would be a quick in and out. Just for the funeral. Two nights. One if I cut out after the service.

I pulled into my rental, a cabin by the little lake behind Mr. Greenley’s farm. If I’d booked the inn on Main Street, there wouldn’t be a moment I wasn’t tracked. Out here, I could breathe. I hadn’t spent much time here as a kid, hadn’t had any reason to, and Mr. Greenley’s cabin rentals had five-star reviews online.

All I had to do was go to the funeral tomorrow and get right back in the car. Show my face, pay my respects to Mrs. Sloane, and return to the open road. I could be back on Pennsylvania soil soon enough if I drove right through the night. Hope the media had dispersed and put this whole thing behind me. A bad dream, nothing more.

But the drive had been long, and my eye bags had eye bags, so maybe I’d stay that second night and head out Wednesday morning.

The key to the cabin was nestled under the doormat. NO NEED TO KNOCK was scrawled in black print on the fabric beneath my feet, WE ALREADY KNOW YOU’RE HERE.

I glanced from the gravel lot to the wide-open field behind the cabin. The little man-made lake had a well-worn footpath encircling it. A good quarter mile of open land away, the edge of the forest loomed. Thick, densely packed trees. In the other direction, two more cabins bordered the edges of farmland. Not a soul in sight. Not even another car next to mine. Late November wasn’t exactly a popular time to visit Rapture.

I fit the key into the lock and stepped inside.

The cabin was well kept, if dated. One room and a bathroom. A bed with a handmade red quilt faced the door. Small kitchen nook. What looked like a hand-carved table with two mismatched chairs around it.

Sparkling clean, per the reviews. Knowing Mr. Greenley, it couldn’t be any other way.

I threw my duffel on the bed and unpacked the bare minimum. I didn’t want to give the illusion of staying too long.

The air was starting to get to me. It twisted deep within the lung tissue, telling me I wasn’t welcome here, snarling, Turn back now.

Like if I relaxed, something terrible would happen.

Although it was Rapture, and something terrible would happen whether I was relaxed or not, so I left my things half strewn around the cabin, buttoned my coat up, and ventured back outside to stretch my legs.

My feet followed the path through the grass to the shallow lake. I walked along the edge, letting the taller grass brush against my legs. A little wooden bench had been placed beside the lake, and I wondered if anyone ever sat on it.

The other cabins were dark.

Evening was falling, even though it was hardly past three-thirty. I looked up at the darkening sky as I followed the path around the lake. My muscles needed to keep moving after so many hours in the car, and every time I slowed, that jittery feeling kept coming back.

A dog barked. I looked for the noise and spotted a Doberman with a pink LED collar eyeing me from the gravel lot across the street. I followed the leash up the hand of a woman with her hood up. She stopped in the middle of the road to stare. I looked at her, and she looked at me, but we were too far apart to make anything of each other.

I turned back to the cabin. The Doberman barked again.

Dogs didn’t like me. They never had.

My stomach growled as I slipped back inside. I could go to the grocery store, but I couldn’t bear the thought of running into any familiar faces in the predinner rush. Instead, I ordered takeout and turned all the lights off. A short while later, someone knocked. I ignored it. They knocked again.

And again.

Jesus. Just leave the food.

Finally, the knocking stopped. Footsteps pounded back the way they came.

I waited until their car sped away, and another five minutes, before snatching the paper bag from the doormat.

They hadn’t brought utensils. I sighed and dug through the kitchenette to find a too-large spoon and miniature fork. I ate at the little desk wedged between the bed and the window.

A rapid knock came on the door.

I froze, penne vodka halfway to my mouth.

“I know you’re in there, Willa.”

My eyes went to the knife drawer.

It was a man’s voice.

“Young lady, I’ll remind you I have the keys to this property. You’ll come out here right now.”

My stomach sank. Mr. Hector Greenley. The owner of the rental.

I set the food aside and opened the door a crack.

Fifteen years had taken a toll on him. His short hair had gone gray beneath his red baseball hat, mustache the same, cheeks ruddy. Same glasses, always a bit too large for his face, but well loved. Just like him.

“Willa Greene,” he said, hands on his hips. “Let me look at you.”

I opened the door farther and blinked owlishly.

“What are you doing here, girl?”

“I rented the cabin, Mr. Greenley.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t get smart with me.”

I shifted in the doorway. “How did you—”

“Know you were here? You may not have used your real name on the booking, but you sure did on your credit card.”

Well, fuck.

“The missus told me I shouldn’t rent to you, but I told her you’re here for Millie. That shut her up real quick.” He peered at me over the bridge of his glasses. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

There was nothing else to say.

After a long, considering stare, he removed his cap and held it over his heart. “It takes guts to do what you’re doing. Coming back after what happened.” Mr. Greenley cleared his throat. “If I were in your place, I don’t think I could show my face around these parts again.”

I smiled thinly.

“Anyone gives you trouble, you let me know. Millie was a good one.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Greenley turned to leave but glanced back. “You’re not going into those woods, are you?”

He pointed to the edge of the tree line past the lake.

My ribs constricted. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” Mr. Greenley said, then nodded and looked away. “It’s dark out here,” he murmured to himself.

Before I could utter another word, he set off at an ambling pace along the road toward his family’s farmhouse, humming a tune.

I returned to my dinner, shaken.

Was I doing the right thing by coming back?

I rubbed my arms. Well, it was done.

I’m here.

chapter
10

“Willa, what is that?” Rachel’s voice shook. “Willa! It’s scaring me. I don’t like this.”

Her eyes were a bit too wide, face too tense for a twelve-year-old.

All around us, the trees swayed. Wind whistled through their leaves, a high-pitched, unrelenting whine. It was one summer afternoon of many, playing my favorite game in the woods.

“They’re just talking,” I told Rachel. “In the only way they know how. You can’t expect them all to speak like us, can you? They’re doing their best.” I gave the nearest tree trunk a firm pat. “And I appreciate it,” I made sure to tell the bark.

Rachel kept a wary distance between us on the hike back to Grove Street.

“It sounded like it was alive,” she accused, once our feet were firmly on pavement.

I frowned. “It is.”

I emerged from the cabin at eight the next morning. I considered hiding the day away until the funeral at noon, but the creeping dread worsened throughout the night, and I woke with the resolution I’d rip my reappearance off like a Band-Aid.

I’d brushed my hair in the little crooked bathroom mirror until every piece laid perfectly. Applied a red lip. Blotted the excess off with a tissue. Gave my hair a bit more of a curl and patted tinted moisturizer on my cheeks. If I were walking to the gallows, at least let me look in top form.

Josh had finally given up on calling. He’d sent me a vaguely ominous text that read, We’ll speak soon. I’d silenced all news alerts, blocked all unknown numbers. As stressful as it was to be here, the one good thing about this town was its strong distaste for outsiders. Shitty on a regular day, but excellent when avoiding the press. Not a camera crew in sight as I drove to the center of town. Back in Pennsylvania, did they even know I’d left?

I pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop I’d never seen before, the Daily Grind. I liked that it was new. No ghosts to walk beside me.

The bell jingled against the door as I pushed it open. The aroma of coffee and fresh pastries brushed against my cheeks. Two older women with their backs to me conversed quietly in the corner, newspapers long forgotten on the table.

The young barista smiled at me.

“What can I get started for you?”

I studied her red hair and freckles, but I didn’t recognize her. This was exceptionally good luck.

“A cappuccino, please.”

She hummed and punched in the order on her tablet. She wore a black T-shirt despite the late November chill, pale collarbones standing out vividly from beneath her skin.

“Just passing through?” she asked, not quite looking at me. Her fingers tapped along the screen.

I hummed noncommittally.

Maybe I really was paranoid and self-centered. Maybe the news media had me in an itchy echo chamber of my own making. Maybe the real nightmare only lived inside my head. Maybe, after all these years, the town really had forgotten.

A figure emerged from behind the tall barista, so petite I hadn’t noticed her. Short. Stout. A face like a bulldog, especially the way her nostrils flared.

Lisa Landon.

A muscled forearm under wrinkled skin landed on the redheaded barista’s elbow. The girl’s smile dimmed.

“Ask her the name for the cup.”

Mrs. Landon stared me down with eyes that glittered with malice. She wasn’t an inch over five feet, but she was as terrifying as they came. We all remembered the morning Jeremy Landon burst into school and regaled us with the tale of how his mother had pried the family dog from the jaws of a wandering black bear and smacked its snout until it turned tail and ran.

I understood the urge as I looked into those fiery eyes.

“Name for the cup?” the younger woman repeated tensely, unsure of what this lesson was or why she was in its crosshairs. Her big eyes were wary.

Mrs. Landon’s grim stare dared me to pretend to be anything other than what I was.

“Willa.”

Chairs screeched in the corner. Conversation silenced.

“Willa,” the barista hummed, picking up the marker, until her own words caught up with her. Green eyes went wider—and there it was. She scanned me from the toes of my boots, up the peacoat, to the red scarf, and finally my face.

“Put the cup down, Molly.”

The frozen barista jolted at Mrs. Landon’s order.

This—I looked at the redhead again in shock—was Molly Brennan. All grown up. A far cry from the precocious middle schooler I remembered.

Behind me, the bell on the door jingled, but I couldn’t look away.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Mrs. Landon demanded. She shouldered Molly aside, and the willowy girl went easily.

“Getting a cappuccino,” I whispered, feeling like a six-year-old in her classroom again.

My face was hot. How silly I’d been. What wishful thinking. The town hadn’t forgotten at all.

Hate, like Mrs. Landon, never dies.

“A cappuccino,” she repeated with venom. “After what you did?”

My throat clicked, an aborted swallow. Her eyes dropped to watch it struggle.

“Mornin’, ladies.”

I startled and turned. The officer from the rest stop was standing close behind me. Close enough to touch. Dressed in his uniform, clean-shaven, gun holstered at his hip. Clear blue eyes examined me, as if I might have hidden secrets in my eyelashes, before focusing on the women behind the counter. He had a flat sort of gaze. Politely interested, businesslike as it grazed over them.

At the rest stop, I hadn’t paid enough attention to the uniform. I’d assumed he was a state trooper, not Rapture PD drifting outside town.

He stepped up to the counter beside me.

“One coffee, please. Black, two sugars. One cappuccino.”

Molly swallowed. A strand of red hair escaped from her bun and ran down the side of her neck.

Beside her, Mrs. Landon faced the officer with crossed arms. Molly cast her a glance that went ignored.

He took out his wallet. Watched the women. Waited.

I remained awkwardly where I was.

The older women in the corner were blatantly staring.

“Are you going to refuse service to me too?”

His words hit Mrs. Landon like an electric current—she jerked to attention, stiff as a board.

My eyebrows rose. I quickly snapped them back into place when her glare slid to me.

She wouldn’t. She absolutely wouldn’t. Not in a town this size. Not when the youngest deputy shoveled her mother’s sidewalk every time it snowed.

Lisa Landon’s poisonous eyes slid back to me. She wouldn’t start a fight with the police department over this. Over me. I knew it and she knew it. Not when her brother-in-law was Chief Landon.

Without a word, she turned, posture like a steel rod had replaced her spine, and set two paper cups on the counter.

Molly jumped in to fill the tense silence. “Oh, uh, of course not, Callum. You’re always welcome here.”

His eyes narrowed.

“O-Officer Forbes, I mean.”

Molly flushed a violent red from her cheeks to the V of her T-shirt. “To stay or to go?”

“To go,” Mrs. Landon said.

Molly looked disappointed as she entered the order on her tablet. Callum said nothing as he tapped his card.

I shifted nervously. Out of nosy curiosity, I peeked at the screen to see if he tipped. He did.

Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have Mother Teresa in our midst.

Molly poured both drinks wordlessly. Without looking over, Callum slid one to me.

Mrs. Landon and Molly stiffened.

My fingers closed around the cup. Callum gave me a sidelong glance. I nervously took a sip.

It was a good cappuccino.

Over the rim, I eyed my hungry audience.

Where did we go from here? Why had he done it? Should I offer to pay for it? But he’d already paid, and it didn’t look like the offer would go over well. Thanking him too profusely would feel a bit too much like rubbing his actions in Mrs. Landon’s face and setting him up for failure with the locals.

“Thank you,” I said quietly and slipped out the door.

Outside, the cold air filled my lungs, and I could breathe again. I took a moment, along the side of the building and away from the windows, to warm my shaking hands on the hot cup.

The bell jingled, and I wasn’t alone anymore. Footsteps paused before pivoting my way. Officer Callum Forbes leaned on the wall beside me, sipping his coffee while the steam curled around his face, as if we were sharing this moment, as if he too were part of my shame.

“Making friends with the locals?”

My eyebrows shot up in disbelief. The corner of his mouth was upturned slightly, sharp eyes glancing off my face before staring out at the parking lot.

A joke. A harmless comment from a small-town cop to the traveler with a stranger’s face. I didn’t let myself think about the knife in the heart that one-liner was. I’d seen enough intentional cruelty in my day to not fixate on it when it wasn’t intended.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

The quiet words passed between us in the wind.

“I do a lot of things I don’t have to do.” His boot braced against the wall behind him. “What’s your name?”

I grimaced internally. “Willa.”

I waited for it. For the inevitable.

Instead of recoiling, he held out a hand. “Callum Forbes.”

Disoriented, I shook it. His fingers were warm.

“I have to say, I was surprised to see you here. How long are you planning to visit our little town?”

The cold case was wide open, wasn’t it? Plastered across the news? But not a sliver of recognition on his face. Dazed, I replied, “I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“A shame.”

I blinked rapidly.

“I could get used to seeing a face like yours around here.”

I barely refrained from gaping, heat flashing through my face. I stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Small-town cop flirting with danger he couldn’t comprehend.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“About five years.”

The way he said it made it sound like he’d been here forever, like he’d seen everything there was to see in a place like this.

“What’s it like?” I risked.

“A whole lot of nothing,” Callum snorted, and I glanced at him in surprise. “Not a lot goes on around these parts.”

I tore my eyes from his and refocused on my drink. I didn’t know what to make of that.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I saluted him with the cup and pushed off the wall. “I owe you one.” Why not play it up, enjoy it a little before it inevitably fell apart? I sent him a sly look over my shoulder. “Next one’s on me, Callum.”

His shoulders shook a little, even as he hid his smile behind the paper cup.

He didn’t correct me on the use of his first name.

It was a harmless little flirtation in this black hole of a town.

I got in the car without looking back and headed down Main Street.

“I’m not having fun anymore.”

“It’s just a game—”

“My mom doesn’t like that we play in the woods alone, you know.”

Rachel smoothed her hands over her jeans.

I laughed, sunshine warming my face from between the webbing of the leaves. “What’s wrong with the woods? It’s fun! Everyone does it. My mom says it’s okay as long as I stay far away from the gorge. I’ve been coming out here alone since I was a little kid.”

She made a face.

“Besides,” I lowered my voice, “we’re not really alone.”

Rachel stopped talking to me after that. She and her mother would hurry past when we saw them in town.

“Friends grow apart,” Mom explained one day while I bemoaned Rachel not coming over anymore. “It’s part of life. I’m sure you’ll make lots of new friends soon.”

The seasons came and went, but the new friends did not.

The next time Rachel spoke to me was the first day of high school, two years later.

It was a hot September morning. The classroom windows were wide open, and the papers on my desk fluttered as if about to take flight. I slapped a hand over them.

“Did you do the Lit summer reading?” Rachel asked, sliding into the seat next to me.

I didn’t answer at first, assuming she was talking to someone else.

“Did you hear me?”

I glanced behind me. There was no one else.

Rachel blinked slowly, clearly expecting an answer.

“The Lit reading,” she repeated. “Did you do it?”

“I did…”

“Good.” She unzipped her backpack. “What’s the answer to number twenty-six?”

“Willa,” Rachel gasped. Real-life Rachel gasped. Thirty-two-year-old Rachel gasped.

She stepped back and looked at all of me, as if to determine whether I were a mirage rather than present in the flesh. The broken wheel on her shopping cart squealed to a stop.

We were in the bread aisle in the only grocery store in town. She was braced against her cart, brown hair mid-twirl along a finger.

“Rachel,” I greeted her quietly.

They used to say we looked like sisters. I never saw it.

Silence passed between us. She looked baffled at the sight of me, eyes flickering between me and the aisle surrounding us.

We weren’t the kind of friends who hugged, even back then, so we remained a careful distance apart. I shifted the weight of the red basket in my hand. Her eyes dropped to it, taking in the meager supplies. Calculating how long I was staying in town?

I found it interesting she’d stayed all these years when much of our graduating class had moved away.

“I didn’t think—” Rachel began, then stopped herself.

She didn’t think I’d come. I didn’t think I’d come. But death is the great equalizer, as they say.

“I had to say goodbye to her.”

Despite the tense set of her lips, her eyes softened with understanding. Pitiful eyes that said, well, even a monster can love.

I grabbed a loaf of sourdough from the shelf to break the awkward eye contact.

Faced with Rachel in real life, I didn’t know what to say to her. Why did you bother apologizing to me over a TV interview? Why didn’t you stick up for me when it mattered? Why were you silent when your voice could’ve made a difference?

Why didn’t you believe me about Graham until it was too late?

And why didn’t you tell them about the woods?

“Has anyone bothered you?” I asked her instead. “Any more reporters after that first call?”

She sagged, a balloon with its air let out. “No. We got a new call screening service, and it’s done the trick. No more…” She hesitated. “No more mistakes like that again. I’m really—Again, I’m sorry.”

The use of “we” implied a husband. I didn’t ask who her husband was. That didn’t escape her notice.

I looked down at my basket, wondering how to cut this off.

“I have children now, you know.”

My eyes shot to hers.

“A six-year-old girl and a baby boy.”

Why was she telling me this? I wondered up until the moment I realized it was the kind of things friends tell each other upon reuniting after a long separation.

“I’m glad.”

Rachel waited for a similar update from me, but she’d be waiting until her bones turned to dust.

“Nice seeing you.” I headed down the aisle.

“Willa?” she called after me. “Don’t—” Rachel cut herself off. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Don’t stay too long, I thought she was going to say for one bizarre moment.

“You got out. You made something of your life—Something of your own choosing, even when they tried to make you something else.” She inhaled with a shameful little smile, because she knew and I knew that she’d been one of them too. “Don’t get sucked back in.”

Before I could formulate a reply, she said, “See you at the funeral,” and rolled her squeaky cart to the checkout line.

I dropped the rest of the items on my list in my basket as quickly as possible. I kept the curtain of my hair between myself and any potential eye contact. One reunion was enough.

A woman in the next aisle was carefully comparing the ingredient lists on two cans of beans in the middle of the aisle.

At my approach, she didn’t look up.

Her cart was blocking the jam shelf. I waited for her to move.

She didn’t.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”

The woman turned around, brow raised.

Oh, God. It was Mrs. Sun. Wendy’s mom.

A little jolt ran through her, and she adjusted her glasses. Crossed her arms and stared me down. Dug her feet in, if that were possible on the linoleum.

“You should have stayed away,” she hissed out the side of her mouth. “We haven’t forgotten your sins.”

I left without the jam.

Really, Rapture, I’d missed you.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and left the cafeteria far behind.

Why were they so, so mean?

As if everything that had happened with Graham were my fault. As if it were open season to be as cruel as they’d like, because it had already been said in the courtroom.

I couldn’t leave the school without causing a bigger scene, and the bathrooms would be packed at lunch hour, but the teachers would be eating together in their lounge, which meant the art classroom would be empty.

The door, to my relief, was unlocked. I slipped inside and didn’t bother with the lights. I settled beside an empty easel in the corner and tried to gather myself. I had English in thirty minutes, and I couldn’t look like I’d been crying.

Was this all I had to look forward to? Was this it? All I could expect from life? Nasty smiles and nastier words?

I muffled the noises coming out of my mouth on my shirtsleeve. Junior year wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The light flicked on.

Mrs. Sloane stood in the doorway, sunshine-yellow curls mid-bounce at her shoulders. Her long floral dress swished around her ankles at her abrupt stop.

I hid my face in my hair. “I … I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be in here. I’m not touching anything.” I reached for my backpack without looking.

“Willa.”

All Mrs. Sloane had to do was say my name in that kind, low voice of hers, and I burst into fresh tears.

She looked shocked.

I clasped my hand over my mouth when it wouldn’t stop making that terrible high-pitched noise.

The gentle arms around my shoulders surprised me.

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Sloane hummed. “It’s all right.”

To my mortification, I found myself crying into a printed sunflower at her shoulder. Here I was, sixteen years old, a near adult, sobbing into a brightly colored schoolteacher.

It was a motherly hug, the kind I wanted from my own mother, if mine could look at me without feeling shame.

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

I sniffled. “They’re saying it was.”

Mrs. Sloane held me at arm’s length and took a good look at me. “Let me get you some tissues, dear. Then let’s sit down and talk about this. You’re on lunch period, right?”

I nodded.

“All right.” She passed me a tissue box. It was the rough kind that left my nose stinging.

“Sit down. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but I’ll listen if you want to.” She took out some paints and pulled over a chair. “Or we can just paint. But I want to make sure you understand this: He was an adult in a position of power, and you are a minor. Nothing that happened was your fault. Now, if you want to get to painting, you can come here anytime you need. I mean it! Anytime you need it, my classroom is yours.”

I took her up on the offer. More times than I could count. Why sit and eat lunch with classmates I had no interest in interacting with? Much better to be squirreled away with the art supplies. In the months that followed, I painted my heart out. On scavenged cardboard boxes. Panels of wood from the woodshop’s discard pile. A pizza box, only once, because it smelled. Mrs. Sloane insisted on naming each piece.

And at the start of senior year, she handed me a key.

“You’ve earned this,” she said. “And you’re ready for canvas. Don’t worry about the cost—I got the budget approved for an advanced student elective.”

Over the next few weeks, I painted and repainted a new vision, one with sprawling sunflowers like her earrings and a sky as free as I’d ever dreamed. Things were getting better. Rachel was talking to me again. Junior year had been miserable, but summer had dulled memories and softened hearts, and Kaylee and Wendy, girls I’d known since forever but never been close with, had nominated themselves as my new best friends ever since I volunteered to paint the backdrop ahead of November’s talent show.

There was even talk of throwing a party in the woods.

chapter
11

It wasn’t a beautiful day for a funeral. It wasn’t an ugly day either. No rain, no snow, just frosty cemetery grass and a white, overcast sky. It was a day like any other, and that was the most unsettling part of it all.

It had always bothered me how picturesque the town cemetery looked when it only had horrors beneath the surface. Well-kept gravestones were scrubbed regularly, flowers left but never to rot. Rapture was a town that cared about its history. The little chapel on the green was pristine white.

On the outskirts of the graveyard, on the side farthest from the road, the woods seemed to wave to me. A lone black branch swayed up and down, up and down, as if on a hinge; the rest of the barren trees were lifelessly still. A greeting of sorts.

I stiffened and turned away.

I was early, and mourners gradually filled in around the grave. Scarf pulled up around the lower portion of my face, I approached while I still had some semblance of privacy. I looked down at the scraggly bouquet in my hands and set it beside the casket.

“Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Sloane,” I whispered and set my hand on polished wood. I kept my head down, trying my best not to draw attention to myself, but the whispers had started as soon as I’d arrived.

Whisper away. The only person’s opinion I cared about is about to be lowered into the ground.

I retreated to the edges of the growing crowd, jaw braced against the harsh words that were undoubtedly spitting from mouth to ear. I clasped my hands and looked at the ground.

You will be missed, Mrs. Sloane.

The voices grew harder to ignore as more people gathered. The whole town had turned up for Millie Sloane. A funeral fit for a queen. She’d be stunned at the turnout, eternally humble, but I couldn’t say I was surprised. Soon, a mountain of sunflowers spilled over the shiny wooden casket. They must’ve gone to great lengths to import them this far north and out of season. Cars lined the edges of the cemetery, townsfolk in black swarming to the gravesite. Solemn whispers grew rapid and choppy as newcomers drew closer and noticed me, even as I turned my face away.

While their presence was an irritation to me, it was an honor for Mrs. Sloane, so I set my shoulders and bore it for her.

They looked like the neighbors I remembered but slightly wrong. As if someone had tried to draw them from memory and hadn’t gotten it right. More lines in their faces, more gaunt, more hunched, or more Botoxed than I remembered.

There were six headstones I carefully did not look at.

Rachel showed up, kids and husband in tow. She rocked gently when the smallest, bundled in her arms, got loud, and her husband heaved their daughter into his arms when she started to grumble. I couldn’t tell if I recognized him this far away. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

One stumbling toddler got within ten feet of me before a grandfather snatched her up. He glanced over his shoulder at me, like I would tear the child from his arms and eat her.

I looked away. They’d forgotten. I’d been a child then too.

I glanced to my left and spotted a familiar small, angry woman.

“Mrs. Landon,” I greeted evenly.

She distanced herself with a cold look.

A guy around my age stared a bit too hard, but when I gave him a polite nod, he looked away. I didn’t think I recognized him, but you could never know around here. My skin buzzed with nerves and adrenaline.

A woman stepped out from his shadow and glared at me. Esme Granger.

A lump formed in my throat. Kaylee Granger’s older sister.

Murderer, she mouthed.

I inhaled sharply, covertly checking if anyone else saw. It was hard to tell with all the whispering behind hands.

Esme didn’t blink. She looked just like her sister, except Kaylee had always been smiling and singing. A born performer living for the spotlight.

Kaylee’s giggle echoed in my ears as she twirled Jeremy, the two of them kicking up straw as they tripped over each other’s feet and landed in a heap. Their laughter was almost loud enough to drown out the wind whipping against the outside of the barn.

She’d looked eerily similar in death, limbs askew and half submerged in straw.

I dug my nails into my palms until the gruesome image vanished. It wasn’t the time for this.

Mr. Greenley, the owner of the cabin, made his way through the crowd with his wife, a steely-eyed Italian woman who pretended not to see me. He gave me a thumbs-up and a wink I wasn’t overly thrilled to be on the receiving end of.

I swallowed as I fought to stay present for Mrs. Sloane.

“I saw you on the news,” Deborah Basil said, shouldering her way to the front. She clicked her tongue in disapproval. Once upon a time, she had been my mother’s church friend. Her stringy bangs dipped over thickly lined eyes. “Hiding your face. But we know all about the things you can’t hide.”

Surprised you can see at all through those ugly bangs, Deborah.

Someone shushed her. It came suspiciously from Rachel’s direction.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming out today.” The priest drew our attention. “We are all gathered here in remembrance of Millie Sloane, beloved wife, teacher, and friend. Please bow your heads and pray.”

While he led the crowd in a series of prayers, I examined the man beside him. Silvery-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose. Warm brown skin, bald head, closely trimmed black beard streaked with gray. Mrs. Sloane’s devoted husband, Arthur Sloane. His eyes glistened with tears, and my throat grew tight in sympathy. His hands trembled from the sleeves of his crisp black suit.

A pit formed in my stomach.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” The priest cleared his throat. “Millie’s husband would now like to say a few words.”

Arthur Sloane stepped forward. “First of all, I have to say how deeply touched Millie would be by the sight I’m seeing. You know how she loved each and every one of you dearly.”

Mrs. Landon wiped her face. A tear she’d missed dripped onto the grass.

“My Millie was the most joyful person I knew. She saw the best in everyone—every single one of her students, her colleagues, her friends—and me. We never had any children of our own, but anyone who knew Millie knew she considered her students her children. I guess she had hundreds of children!”

A communal sniffle went through the crowd. Arthur gave us a watery smile and removed his glasses to dab at his eyes. “Thank you for sharing your children with her. She loved nothing more than to watch her students grow up to become upstanding adults. She was so proud.”

Deborah Basil turned away to blow her nose. Rachel smiled wetly at her husband and ran a hand through her daughter’s hair.

I could hardly see through the tears.

“I know it came as a shock to all of you, but my Millie made peace with her short time left.” Arthur swallowed heavily. “I never did. We’d go out dancing every Friday night at Reggie’s and dance like nobody was watching. She brightened up every room just by being in it, and I was privileged to spend thirty-nine years with her.” Arthur’s voice cracked, even as he smiled. “I feel robbed I didn’t get forty more.” He looked to the sky. “To the love of my life, my light, my heart, my everything: This isn’t goodbye—it’s see you later.”

Tears tracked down my cheeks. I hurriedly wiped at them. I hadn’t been prepared for this. I really hadn’t.

“And to all of you, please know, the next time you hear thunder, it isn’t the angels bowling in heaven—it’s Millie dancing.”

Someone to my left sobbed. Esme Granger comforted a teary-eyed Molly.

So this was what it was like to be loved.

Because it was obvious. Everyone here loved Millie Sloane. She was a woman with a heart big enough for the rest of us to sneak pieces of.

And she still died too young.

Who do you want to become? Mrs. Sloane had once asked me. I had opened my mouth to respond, but she’d shushed me. Don’t answer now. Really think about it. And remember there’s more to the world than this little town.

I’d never gotten back to her on my answer.

Well, I thought, as I watched them lower her casket into the ground while a hundred of my once-neighbors watched me suspiciously, not this. I had a feeling Rapture would sleep with one eye open tonight.

The priest finished with closing prayers, and mourners stepped forward to touch Arthur’s shoulder and place flowers beside the grave.

Goodbye, Mrs. Sloane. You were the best of us. The very best thing this town ever produced.

I love you.

Goodbye.

I let my eyes lose focus. When I shook to awareness, the crowd had dwindled. My eyes found a lone figure standing among the graves, a distance away from the rest. He was turned in my direction.

I blinked rapidly to clear my vision, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

Six-foot-two. Dark hair meticulously styled with gel. Broad shoulders. Sculpted muscle. Built like a weight lifter.

Or a PE teacher.

Hello, Graham.

chapter
12

Long time no see. I’d hoped it would be much longer.

He didn’t look much older than I remembered him. Certainly not fifteen years older. We were always uncomfortably close in age. Always had been, always will be. Twenty-three-year-old teacher and sixteen-year-old student.

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into flesh.

It was painfully obvious that while the rumor mill was fast, it hadn’t been fast enough for anyone to tell Graham I was back. His slate gray eyes were wide and shocked.

Why did he look at me like that? Like I was his ghost? Silly, selfish, backward Graham. Taking everything from me. You’ve got it the wrong way around, Graham. You’re my ghost.

He was dressed in a black leather jacket, like he was too cool for the cold. His shoulders strained against the material as he awkwardly held a bouquet of sunflowers, red ribbons around the stems.

The world had narrowed to me and him. My heart rabbited in my chest.

“What’s he doing here?” I bit out.

Rachel, beside me, grimaced. Her husband looked over curiously, but we both ignored him.

“She was his colleague, you know,” Rachel murmured in a low voice. “At Rapture High.”

Had been, until he was terminated. Because of me.

“Everyone deserves the chance to mourn,” she insisted primly, like a nightmare of a human being wasn’t standing right there.

I kept my back straight and my chin held high. I looked him in the eye, something that once felt impossible.

Graham took a step back. Something inside me cocked its head.

Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted?

In the trunk of my car was a soccer trophy. A letter that said, GOOD OLD DAYS. A postcard of The Pillow Man, wrapped in paper that read, THINKING OF YOU. WILL YOU PAINT ONE FOR ME? Beneath it all, a picture of teenage me at the soccer camp where Graham had been my coach. All nasty little scratches at the scab of a time in my life where he held all the power.

Had he really thought, after all that taunting, that I wouldn’t react? Was he all bark and no bite once faced with me in the flesh? Those provocative letters and nothing to say for himself? Tongue held by a public setting? I bet he had a lot to say. He always did. Was he seething at this very moment behind his public facade? Desperate for revenge? Gagging for it?

I’d lost him his teaching career and his reputation—except I hadn’t. His fate was of his own making, but some men couldn’t accept being wrong. Or being revealed to the world as wrong.

Why now, Graham? Why would you do this?

No matter how many times I ran through it in my head, I couldn’t work out his motivation. If anything, shouldn’t I be the one taunting him? Waving the skeletons in his closet right in his face, demanding fresh retribution now that I was older and wiser?

I narrowed my eyes at him, and he looked away. It hadn’t felt like this before. Like I was an equal. The young girl’s fear was still there in the too-fast beating of my heart, but I had a woman’s anger.

Reformed, my ass. He was keeping an innocent face for the public. But the nasty thoughts that kept him warm at night? Once a pervert, always a fucking pervert.

But we were at a funeral, and a confrontation wouldn’t do either of us any good, and Mrs. Sloane deserved more than being the background to a scuffle. I didn’t think it counted as paying my respects if I scratched out Graham’s eyes, so I turned my cheek.

The silent standoff hadn’t gone unnoticed. Adults—people, I mentally corrected myself, I was an adult like them, we were all the same—were eyeing us, whispering behind their hands. It was hard to keep a neutral face when they all knew such an awful truth. Things that would normally be private laid bare.

Lily Sun, the sixty-something owner of the brunch restaurant on Main Street, who’d once had the Tuesday carpool from soccer practice, skewered me with her eyes. Just like in the grocery store. This isn’t what I wanted. We were here to honor Mrs. Sloane, and it was turning into a circus.

Ignore him. Ignore him like you’re ignoring all of them. He doesn’t matter anymore. He doesn’t control you anymore. He isn’t a factor in your life anymore. Ignore him.

“Excuse me?”

Arthur Sloane approached me, wringing his hands. He pressed his glasses farther up his nose, as if trying to get a better look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said instantly, hot and ashamed at the attention I was drawing. “I’ll go.”

Instead, Mrs. Sloane’s husband pulled me into a hug. “Thank you so much for coming.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been hugged.

He’d seemed lucid a moment ago. Strange.

“I—I’m Willa.” I stammered awkwardly within his grip, gently placing hands on his shoulders. “Willa Greene. I’m not sure if you know—”

“Of course I know you,” Arthur tutted. He held me before him as if taking in the sight of me. “You were her favorite student.”

I barely refrained from bursting into tears. Her favorite.

“Millie always spoke highly of you. Followed your work for years. Up until the end, that is.”

My heart swelled. “She knew? Before the—”

“She knew. Said she’d recognize your art anywhere, no matter what name you signed it. She knew for years before those awful news reports came out. Kept your secret faithfully.” He lowered his voice. “And she was touched by you naming yourself after her. W. Sloane? She was charmed.”

I spluttered.

“That’s what you did, don’t be shy now.”

I couldn’t believe she’d known all these years. Watching my progress from afar. Even when Willa Greene lost her face and became W. Sloane, she knew. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I hastily wiped it.

Arthur brought his mouth close to my ear. “I know what it costs you, coming here. And yet you did it for her.” He looked at me with wet eyes. “Thank you.”

I smiled, a real one. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your eulogy was beautiful.”

“Thank you. So was she. Would you come to my home tomorrow? For lunch? At noon? I’d like to talk to you further in private.”

My stomach twisted. I’d planned to leave. First thing tomorrow, I was due back on the highway. Two nights in Rapture as scheduled.

But this? Those wide, pleading eyes. This kind man?

“I’ll be there,” I assured him, and he rattled off the address.

One more day wouldn’t hurt.

I stared out the windshield, heart hammering. I’d intended to take a long drive to clear my head, but the muscles that clenched the steering wheel had different ideas.

Weeds along the foundation. Faded white siding. Worn-out porch steps leading to a peeling screen door.

My childhood home.

It reeked of unfinished business, like everything else in this godforsaken town.

The lawn was overgrown, but not as bad as it should have been. One of the neighbors must tidy it from time to time. My parents had been well liked, after all.

Someone walked behind my car and turned their head to peer through my windows, white terrier in tow. I caught a flash of them in the rearview mirror and leaned away. This was the only house down the winding, wild offshoot at the end of Grove Street. Isolated from the rest of the houses by a small incursion of the woods. A privacy curtain of green foliage in warmer months, now halfhearted sticks partially obscured it from view.

I was still buckled in despite having turned the engine off ten minutes ago.

I waited for whoever was out there to pass before getting out of the car. It was strange, coming home like this. No one had lived here for years, and it was different from what I remembered.

Mr. Greenley had taken my request to extend my stay an extra night surprisingly well. Even so, this was something I had to do.

I made my way up the gravel driveway and through the front lawn. The long grass brushed at my calves. My key still worked. I’d almost hoped it wouldn’t.

I stepped into the hall. The screen door smacked back into place, and I jumped. The air smelled stale. Not rotten or foul, but the scent of a place undisturbed for too long. The floorboards creaked beneath my boots. For a moment, I feared falling through to the basement. Who knows what might’ve rotted away. But upon closer inspection, as I carefully tapped along the hardwood, the structure seemed intact. My dad used to always say the house had good bones.

The furniture was still here. It was eerie. Same couch, same coffee table, none of the life. None of the things that make a house a home.

The kitchen was dark. I turned on the faucet, but the water had long since been disconnected. Electricity too, as I tried the switch by the yellowed refrigerator.

I ran my fingers along the countertop, leaving trails in the dust. It was freezing in here.

I catalogued the state of the house carefully. If I was going to sell it, it badly needed work. I could get the process going before I left to avoid a second, future trip. I couldn’t imagine making another pilgrimage to tie up loose ends. In, what, another fifteen years? Another fifty, when they’d all died out, and all that was left were ghosts?

Once it was sold, I’d have nothing tying me to Rapture. The cord would be severed.

I skirted by the basement door on the way to the bathroom. I briefly eyed it before passing back through the kitchen and living room to the entryway. The stairs to the second floor loomed across from the front door. They creaked with my weight. My hand came away from the banister gray with dust.

Out front, the screen door slapped against the siding.

Down the hall. Last door on the left. My feet took me there automatically, until I stood in the doorway of my childhood bedroom.

First, I touched everything with my eyes. Rectangular indent on the old gray carpet where the dresser had been. Metal bed frame in the corner, bare of a mattress. Carpet beneath clearly visible through the slats. No secrets were under this bed, daylight hitting every corner.

I spent a long while standing in the doorway, staring at the space under my bed. Long enough for the light to change. I could do this. I could sell it.

But there was something I had to know first.

I crouched down beside the empty bed frame and whispered into the space under the bed, “Hi, do you remember me?”

The space under the bed did not answer.

“It’s me. Willa.”

I got onto my knees and crawled, stomach to the carpet, one elbow after the other, pulling my body under the bed frame. Once I was beneath it, I rearranged myself in a mimicry of the position I had taken so many times before on the mattress above. Head by the wall, body lengthwise. Nose nearly touching the metal slats.

I imagined this was the position he took. I could never quite make out his shape fully, but as a child I’d always imagined him laying as a superposition below me.

My nose brushed the metal slat, an adult woman squeezed into a place not made for her.

“It’s been a long time,” I whispered. “I’d understand if you aren’t still here. But you’d tell me if you were, right?”

Silence answered me.

“Right? You haven’t been here all this time alone in this empty house, have you?”

I swallowed hard.

“Elliot?”

I closed my eyes.

“It’s hungry,” the voice from under the bed whispered.

“The woods?” I asked, dragging the blanket to my chin. The red digits on my alarm clock flickered. My bedtime was hours ago, but I was wide awake.

“The woods.”

“What’s it hungry for?”

A thunderous knocking rattled the house.

I jolted out of the memory—what the hell was that? My first thought was the house was collapsing around me. That it had held its form just long enough for me to step into my grave. My next instinct was to hide—as if I were a child again, as if that would’ve done any good.

But the pounding continued, the walls did not collapse, and the floor did not go out from under me, so I shimmied out from under the bed and headed downstairs.

“Police!” a male voice rang out. “Open up!”

Disoriented, I shook myself to full awareness. I’d been in town for all of two days and the police were already hunting me down? They must really want their shot at that new round of questioning. So eager for another bite of me.

“Rapture PD! Open up!”

My heart pounded. I pulled up Josh’s contact and kept one hand on the phone in my pocket. He’d get me a good lawyer.

The floor groaned under my boots. Underneath those floorboards lived the basement. No—don’t think of the basement. Focus.

I sucked in one last breath and pulled the door open. And met the face of my favorite new police officer on the front porch. Callum Forbes.

So that’s what he looked like when he regarded me with real suspicion. Blue eyes steely, hand at his hip above his firearm. Shoulders flexing beneath the heavy fabric of his uniform.

“Hello,” I said, feeling a bit self-conscious.

Callum looked past me, like he was waiting for something else, before his eyes refocused on my face. I wiped at one eye and my finger came back black—I probably looked like a wreck from the funeral, Jesus—before remembering it was a bad idea to make sudden movements while a police officer’s hand was near his gun.

Callum’s eyes narrowed. “State your business here.”

And to think I’d liked you, Callum. The gall of it all. In my hometown, in my own home, in my own skin, and I had to state my business? So this was it? He’d finally read up on Rapture history, wised up to who I was, and was giving me the old shakedown? The “welcome” I should’ve gotten when I first came to town? The one his supervisors demanded?

I guess Officer Callum Forbes was only nice when buying a stranger a coffee.

Well, the fantasy was fun while it lasted. Back to cold, hard reality. Back to cold, hard Willa. I scowled at him. “I’m minding my own business, that’s what I’m doing.”

Callum’s eyes flashed. He was taller than me, and broader, but this place was mine. I dug my nails into the doorframe.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the house.”

I glared. “Why?”

He looked at me like I was being intentionally difficult. His teeth ground. It was kind of hot with a face like that, I grudgingly admitted, even as my temper flared.

“Most people know criminal trespass is against the law,” he bit out.

Criminal trespass? Now I was the one giving him a condescending look. “It’s my house.” And he knew it. What new mind game was this?

Callum looked at me blankly. “No, it’s not.”

I frowned. “Look, if this is supposed to intimidate me, consider the message received, but it’s a weird way to go about it. I’m not staying long anyway. This whole shakedown is unnecessary. I told you I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than later.”

Callum’s lips parted as he squinted at me. He had full lips, the kind women paid a lot of money for. Although it did look like he was considering whether there was something wrong with me.

I bristled at the implications: I’d had enough of that look for a lifetime.

“Squatting is—”

“Squatting?”

I didn’t know where the possessive streak came from, but this was my family home, as meager and overgrown as it was. It was mine. And this town loved to take, take, take, but couldn’t I catch one break?

I narrowed my eyes at him. “The only one who doesn’t belong here is you.”

Callum jerked a bit, eyes incredulous. “I said—”

“It’s hers.”

I jumped. We both turned; I stuck my neck out farther to see a second cop beside the porch. Little David Sun had become an officer of the law.

“Didn’t know you were in town, Willa,” David said gruffly. He crossed his arms, like he wanted to look bigger than he was, but the uncomfortable look in his eyes let me know the posturing was more for Callum than me.

“David. You grew up.”

He huffed a laugh even as my face flamed. He’d been lanky as a preteen. Wendy Sun’s nerdy little brother. I tried to superimpose the two, but it only gave me a headache.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

David sighed, a reflection of the moody teenage boy he’d once been. A freshman when I’d been a senior. Always eager to try to hang out with the older kids. “The neighbors were worried. Not used to seeing anyone on the property. Thought it might be a break-in.”

“Someone called the police on me … for being in my own house?”

I peered into the shallow portion of woods, through which I could barely see the white siding of the next house.

David looked away before seeming to remember he was the one who had to deal with the situation. “Like I said, they didn’t know you were here. How long have you been in town?”

I had my doubts, considering I’d seen most of the town at the funeral—including David’s surly mother, Lily. Much more likely: This was a purposeful effort to make me feel unwelcome.

I sighed, dropping the attitude. David hadn’t ever been terrible to me. He’d never blamed me the way his mother had for what happened to his sister. “I came for Mrs. Sloane’s funeral.”

He nodded, like he’d expected it. “She was the best.”

“She was,” I agreed.

David finally turned to Callum, who had been watching the exchange closely. “Callum, this is Willa Greene. We grew up together. Definitely the rightful owner of this house.”

I saw Callum take the name in. Comprehension dawned in his eyes, even as he covered it in professionalism. So he knew after all. I looked away.

“I can see we’re done here. Have a good one, Willa.” David gave a half-aborted wave. He leaned in and whispered. “I thought you should know—There is no investigation. Our social media account was hacked by some shit stirrer. We didn’t reopen anything.”

My heart pounded.

Callum watched with a frown. David strode back to the squad car parked on the street without a second glance.

I ran a hand over my face. I couldn’t believe it. A false alarm. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

Someone cleared their throat. I glanced up, surprised Callum was still standing there.

“Sorry about that,” he began. “I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted. My adrenaline had leached away, leaving me exhausted. He opened his mouth, but I gave him a hard look and shut the door.

I hid in the kitchen until the squad car pulled away.

To leave so soon after them felt like giving in to the pressure of my nosy neighbors. I spent the next hour squinting by the light of my phone flashlight into every cabinet, examining the bathroom plumbing, and going over the place with a fine-tooth comb for any signs of mold.

I brushed my hands on my black pants as I emerged from the bathroom—immediately regretting it at the streaks of gray—and came up short.

My toes curled under themselves. Hadn’t …

Hadn’t the basement door been closed? I stared at it numbly.

The door was open. Wide open. A mouth gaping to a black void down the basement stairs.

I hadn’t even touched the doorknob. Had no intention of going down there, that was for sure.

I hesitated in the hallway, unsure.

A thump sounded from beneath the floorboards.

I slammed it shut and hastily left through the front door, letting the screen slam behind me.

I lay in bed in the cabin that night, shifting in the sheets. The moon was high in the sky, shining onto the bed through sheer white curtains. I turned away and closed my eyes. A few minutes later, I huffed and rearranged again.

I finally pulled out my phone. True enough, We were hacked! was posted on Rapture PD’s social media page. An anonymous account had even claimed responsibility. To “raise awareness,” they said. Draw some eyes to the unsolved deaths. Fuck you. But of course, no national news agencies bothered with the correction. I couldn’t shake the dread.

After another restless hour, I finally felt myself begin to drift, and I nuzzled closer into the pillow.

I threw myself onto the bed, sobbing. My mother hovered, anxious, on the other side of my locked bedroom door.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” I screamed until she went away.

It was hot, too hot to be buried under the sheets in the middle of the afternoon, but I didn’t care. What was a little sweat on top of all the tears? I scrubbed the sheets against my face, ignoring the mess of eyeliner and snot that came off.

“She doesn’t understand,” I sobbed. Mom suspected it was a breakup—she’d tried to give me a little speech about first heartbreaks and high school boys.

She had no idea.

I cried until I hiccupped. They didn’t like me. They’d never liked me. But they didn’t need to do that.

The sheets gave me a comforting pat on the shoulder.

I jolted awake, sure I was being attacked.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, and I thrashed for a moment before freezing.

Someone was in the room.

My heart pounded as I waited for my vision to adjust. I scanned the outline of the kitchen table, the chairs, and my bag.

My breathing was too loud. I held my breath and listened to the night.

Nothing.

I inhaled and wiped my sweaty forehead. I looked up again and choked, heart pounding wildly, but it was only the silhouette of my coat on the hook by the door. I tiptoed to the bathroom, feeling foolish, and flung the door open to confirm no one was crouched in the shower.

What had awoken me? I couldn’t grasp the memory of the sound, half dream, half reality.

Ping-ping-ping.

My neck twisted so quickly I strained something and hissed.

Again: ping-ping-ping.

A hollow tapping on glass. Coming from the window. My stomach dropped. The window, covered by a sheer curtain, was right beside the bed.

What would happen, I wondered, if I didn’t look out the window? What if I didn’t push the curtain aside? What if I couldn’t?

Ping-ping-ping.

I crept closer.

Dear God, what was at the window?

Steeling myself, I brushed aside the curtain.

Ping-ping-ping.

The thorny branches of a tall bush swayed with the wind. Ping-ping-ping went a branch against the glass.

I let the curtain fall. I put my hands on my knees and breathed. In that dark little room in the dark little cabin, I told myself nothing was amiss.

A bush had scared me half to death. Embarrassed, I let out a little chuckle and headed for the bed.

Ping-ping-ping.

I tucked myself in.

Ping-ping-ping.

Must be some intense wind tonight. Would Mr. Greenley really notice if I took some scissors to it in the morning?

Then, louder, Ping-ping-ping. Ping-ping-PING. PING-PING-PING.

I threw the curtain aside.

The bush wasn’t swaying anymore. Strangely, there was no trace of wind at all. From the bush to the distant edge of the forest, the scenery appeared frozen. Through the sudden stillness, the way the landscape held its breath, I was able to see it.

Movement by the woods. I leaned in until my nose pressed against the glass.

A figure. A man.

Right at the edge of the tree line past the lake. What was he doing? No one went into the woods here. Ever. Certainly not at—I checked the clock—two in the morning.

I pushed the curtain farther, nose to the glass.

The figure twitched.

Too late, I realized what I’d done. He’d seen it, the flash of white fabric. Seen me. Knew I was at the window watching.

The man raised a hand and pointed behind him. Into the woods.

My heart thundered in my rib cage. Who was it? What did he want?

I pulled my coat over my pajamas before I could think too hard about it.

Here, in Rapture, there are rules. We all knew them. These weren’t always the rules, but they became inseparable from the fabric of our little Maine town.

One: Don’t go into the woods.

Two: Don’t tell Mrs. Sun her scones are dry.

Three: If you hear the whistling, turn back.

Four: Weren’t you listening? Don’t go into the woods.

If this man was breaking the rules, I wanted to know why. I hurried across the grass, making quick strides toward the lake. Small and man-made, it would’ve been difficult to discern the black surface of the water on any other night. But tonight, the moon illuminated its pearly water, and I used it to mark my pursuit.

The wind picked up again.

He was still there. Waiting. Black coat fluttering at the edge of the woods.

This close to the forest, I could hear it. A breathy, high-pitched whine coming from the depths of the forest. Easily mistaken for wind through branches.

I tuned it out as best I could, trudging through the grass.

Between one blink and the next, the figure was gone. I stopped in my tracks. I’d hardly made it past the lake, and there was still a wide swath of land left between me and the woods.

He’d had nowhere else to go except … into the woods. I cast my eyes up and down the tree line, looking for any other possibilities. I found none.

He’d gone into the woods.

Impossible.

Unthinkable.

I crossed the last outcropping of grass until I could reach out and touch the trees. I willed my eyes to see through the dense branches. To flirt with the forest was to take your life into your hands.

I looked down at my feet. Another step, the grass would end, and my toe would cross into the underbrush.

I couldn’t go any farther.

Could I?

No. There was careless, and then there was reckless. Even for me, this was too much. There was something in the back of my mind I was too afraid to say aloud: If I went back into the woods, I was afraid I’d never come out.

Long gone were those summer days of playing, carefree, deep in the forest. The forest had changed. I’d changed. We all had. We’d been forced to.

With a last glance into the trees, I retreated to the cabin. Every few paces, I looked back. It was hard to tell one dark shape from all the others huddled out there.

I stumbled over it on the porch. There was something by the door, something I hadn’t noticed in my rush across the grass.

A sunflower. Red ribbon tied around the stem. Just like from the bouquet I’d seen Graham holding at the cemetery.

I picked it up with trembling hands.

BLACK IS YOUR COLOR was scribbled across the ribbon in black marker.

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t wearing black. Was it a reference to the funeral, our first face-to-face meeting in years? Then it was a tasteless compliment, considering the circumstances. My mind raced. No, it was worse: a reminder he was watching me at the funeral and an implied threat that he was watching me now. This was Graham’s way of ensuring that no matter whether I was awake or asleep, I always felt the weight of his gaze. Just like back then.

My hands tightened into fists.

chapter
13

“Mr. Sloane, thank you for having me.”

His brown eyes twinkled as he ushered me inside. “Call me Arthur. We don’t stand on formality here. You’re grown—You call me Arthur.”

Striped floral wallpaper ran along the hall. Wreaths and garland were everywhere, an explosion of Christmas spirit.

“We decorated in September this year,” Arthur explained. “She always loved Christmas. We weren’t sure how much longer she had, and she wanted to see it once more.”

I followed him through his home, unsure what to say. Anxious of any potential missteps. I felt like an intruder.

I expected a small gathering, but when we entered the kitchen, it was just the two of us.

“I have to say, I was a bit surprised you invited me—” I began. “Oh.”

The exhalation punched out of me.

Right over her breakfast table, in plain view to every guest entering her kitchen, was a painting. An enormous oil painting taking up most of the wall, calling every eye to it. Impossible to overlook.

Bright, brilliant sunflowers, endlessly blooming. A blue, free sky.

I was crying before I knew what was happening.

I stepped closer to the canvas, examining it from every angle.

She’d kept it.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat, tracing the brushstrokes with my eyes. Green, healthy stems. Countless yellows blooming from the brown center, until their tips met blue sky. The faintest of clouds.

I lifted a hand, then dropped it.

I’d left it in her classroom the day of high school graduation. Right there, behind her desk, to be discovered later. Hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t left a note.

Had almost thrown it out.

Had never seen her again.

I’d left town hours later, consumed by a need to run. My suitcase had been packed for days.

I had no idea how long it sat there before she found it. I never expected her to keep it. Perhaps mildly appreciate it, then toss it out with the trash. More than once, I’d wondered if she’d seen it at all, or if it had been mistaken as garbage by a well-meaning janitor doing summer cleaning.

I struggled to regain my voice.

Arthur beat me to it. “Millie loved that one.”

I turned to find him wiping misty eyes with a checkered handkerchief. “She always said it was her brightest star.”

I hastily wiped my eyes.

“I painted it,” I choked out. “For her. It was my first.”

“She knew,” Arthur confirmed with a fond, watery smile. “She loved it so much. We’ve had it up there for fifteen years. Brightened her every morning.”

Front and center over her breakfast table?

I dared to touch the corner with a shaking hand.

“She always said I could do it.” The words spilled from my mouth. I kept my back to him, afraid I’d lose my nerve. “Be a painter, I mean. I never took it seriously. I always thought she was just being nice, you know, encouraging a student to pursue a hobby. But she did know, didn’t she? She always did.” Embarrassed, I sniffed loudly. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Bit out, “I wish I could’ve thanked her.” My face felt hot. “I guess I can’t do that anymore.”

Arthur said softly, “She knew. She followed your career for years. Said she could read your passion in every brushstroke.”

When I glanced at him, he was smiling.

I cleared my throat to try to stem the leak of emotion. “It’s probably worth something now.” It was the only surviving painting I’d signed as Willa Renfri Greene before entering my era of W. Sloane.

“Oh, no, Millie would never want me to sell it. She loved that thing. Had her morning cup of coffee right there—Every morning, in front of it, so she could see it and out the window at the same time. That’s her garden out there. You see what the view would’ve been? Exactly. Weekday, weekend, it didn’t matter. Coffee”—he pointed—“table, painting, window. Said it gave her energy for the day.”

My throat clicked. “Really?” I whispered, feeling like a child again.

“It brought her so much joy, Willa, I can’t even tell you.”

His chin trembled too, and then we were hugging.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping at my tears. “I don’t mean to bring all this up, I’m just—overwhelmed.”

“Don’t apologize. It means a lot to me that she means so much to you too.”

I sent him a watery smile.

“In the end,” Arthur continued, dabbing at his eyes and offering me a tissue, “our memories are all we have.” His eyes landed on a framed photo on the wall, and his gaze grew wistful. He and Millie, living it up with huge smiles on their faces, on a beautiful beach.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her either. She was more than a photo on the wall. More than a memory. My ribs shuddered. She deserved to live on. To grow. She was too important, too good. And she was gone. What if—what if only the good die young, and in the end, it would be me and Graham and no one else left to say how it all went down and—

“I’m going to paint her something.”

The words burst forth of their own accord.

“Something new. For her. For her memory.” I clutched at the idea of some permanence that couldn’t be found in fondly hoarded memories. Something everyone could see. Something no one could deny.

Once the words were out, I risked a look at Arthur’s face. His mouth was tight, as if in pain.

“Excuse me.”

He hurried out of the kitchen.

I stared after him, shocked into silence. The tiny red stockings hanging from each cabinet stared at me. After a few minutes, he reappeared. “I’m sorry,” I hurried to say, “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

He waved off my apology. “I want you to have these.” He opened his palm. Resting against his skin was a pair of earrings. Sunflowers dangling from sterling silver hoops. The petals were crafted with beautiful resin.

I’d seen Mrs. Sloane wear these earrings a thousand times.

“Take them.”

I stared at them, unable to move. He took my hand, uncurled my fingers, and gently deposited the earrings inside.

“These are hers,” I whispered, eyes on the jewelry, as if I might break them if I so much as breathed. “I couldn’t—”

“Take them. I certainly won’t be wearing them. I’d sleep better at night knowing you had something of hers with you. She’d want that.”

I trembled.

“I’m surrounded by Millie.” He spread his arms. “I had a whole life with her. These are for you.”

As delicately as I could, I tucked them into my purse. I felt them burning a hole in the fabric.

“A painting would be absolutely wonderful. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. To us.”

“It’ll take a few weeks. It’s going to take me some time to get my thoughts together. I’ll—I’ll do my best.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Any requests?”

He smiled. “Make it shine.”

I smiled back. “I can do that.”

“Thank you,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Arthur had an extra sparkle in his eye and spring in his step as he ushered me into a chair at the kitchen table and returned with lunch. We ate little tea sandwiches atop the sunflower tablecloth. He talked about her career, all her friends, the years I’d missed. I told him about art school and the rush of my first sale. We swapped stories until his phone rang and I realized it had been four hours.

While he stepped into the living room to answer the call, I checked my own phone: a few more unknown numbers and another call from Nathaniel Lennox. I blocked the number like I should have done ages ago.

Arthur returned with an apology on his lips and a rueful smile—another well-wisher who wanted to speak at length. I said my goodbyes and excused myself. When his back was turned, I wrote my phone number on a paper napkin and left it on the table.

I’d grown used to thinking of the people here as a conglomeration of evil. But hearing Arthur talk about how his wife loved them brought all the good flooding back.

A town that produced Millie Sloane was not absolute evil.

I’d stay. Just a bit longer. I’d stay for her. To memorialize her in the way she deserved and the only way I knew how.

I buttoned my coat, took a steadying breath, and stepped out into the cold.

The art supply store was in the next town over and fortunately still in business. The shopkeeper politely glanced up when the bell rang, then went back to her filing. I browsed the shelves and dropped paints into my basket, humming to myself.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse. Freezing rain buffeted the windows, and wind whipped the American flag out front into a mess.

I hadn’t brought any of my supplies with me, so I stocked up. One of the brushes I wanted wasn’t on the shelf, but the shopkeeper assured me it was somewhere in the back. While I waited, I called the best-rated local contractor. He answered on the third ring.

“All right, you said older house, been let go for a few years, structurally intact but needs a reno?” Paper rustled on his end. “What kind of work does it need?”

I explained as briefly as I could.

“I’ll come out and take a look next week. Wednesday.”

Next week.

“You don’t have anything sooner?”

“Sorry.”

I shook myself out of it. I already owed the Sloanes a painting. I’d be here anyway. Hopefully Mr. Greenley would let me extend my stay again.

“Are you planning on living in it?”

I went quiet. I wondered if he could hear me breathing.

“Would it matter if I was?”

He cleared his throat. “For the purpose of the repairs, ma’am, yes.”

“Isn’t every house meant to be lived in?”

The contractor said nothing.

I said nothing back.

He cleared his throat and asked, “And the basement?”

I nearly bit off my tongue. “What about the basement?”

He hummed, and the speakers crinkled, like he was shifting the phone on his shoulder. “What kind of shape is it in? Mold, water damage, wiring, that sort of thing?”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. Of course. I was being silly. “I don’t go into the basement. I mean, I haven’t been in the basement. I don’t know.”

“All right.” I could hear him flipping pages. “The third at two. See you then, Willa.”

It wasn’t until the shopkeeper returned with the brush and I was pulling out my credit card that I realized I hadn’t told him my name. Or address.

Before I tucked myself in for the night, I stopped by my old house. I took a deep breath and waited until I was sure no one was watching. Careful not to get too close, I threw two raw hamburgers into the woods, wiped my hands, and sped off.

The next few days were a blur of brainstorming. I visualized twenty possible iterations of what I could paint for Mrs. Sloane, but none of them were right. The cabin floor was covered in graphite sketches by midafternoon. Bits of cardboard the art supply store had been ready to toss littered the floor, stripes of color families drying on top.

If this was for Mrs. Sloane, it had to be perfect. Which was silly—Mrs. Sloane had loved human error and uniqueness with every fiber of her being.

I didn’t. Human error had cost me something I could never get back.

So I sketched and painted, sketched and painted, discarding one after the next.

I hadn’t received any new letters from Graham. I made sure to check under the doormat regularly. If he’d been creeping outside my cabin, he obviously knew where I was staying. Maybe he was done. Maybe he’d had a bit of rage to get out and we could both get on with our lives. His true intentions were inscrutable.

Mr. Greenley had taken the second extension of my stay surprisingly well. I had a feeling his lack of winter bookings had something to do with it. The other cabins down the street were still empty. Places like this would fill up for the summer season.

I’d had to get the fireplace going to warm the cabin. I was sure they had a space heater, but the small closet was empty, and the Greenleys didn’t offer.

I lounged on my stomach across the rug in front of the fireplace, thick socks swinging in the air. My works in progress were spread around me, and I debated tossing the most maddening ones into the fire.

I called Josh to assure him I was still alive and well, but instead of letting me have it for ignoring his messages, he cut me off excitedly. “Someone bought twelve of your paintings. Twelve!”

I switched my phone to the other hand. “Twelve? Who?”

“Anonymously,” he hissed, practically giddy. I’d never heard a grown man giggle, but I sure was hearing it. “And it was a lot of money. Two buyers got into a bidding war, can you believe it? The bank transfer’s headed your way shortly.”

Baffled, I stared at the fire.

“Look, take all the time you need, okay? But don’t take too long because we have momentum. But…” He hummed to himself. “Scarcity also increases value … we could play that angle.”

By the considering tone of his voice, I knew I’d lost him to his marketing ramblings. I allowed him to chatter in my ear for another minute before I sighed and prepared to cut the cord.

“What are you doing right now?” he asked abruptly.

I looked down at the paints I was mixing. “Painting.”

“No, really.”

“Really.”

“Huh. Maybe this trip is good for you.”

There was a long silence down the line. I didn’t tell him his hands wouldn’t get anywhere near this one.

“All right, boss lady’s calling, gotta go. Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

The smell of paint was stifling in the tiny cabin, and I nudged the windows open, despite the chill. Once the fire had smoldered out, I allowed myself a coffee run.

The Daily Grind was cozy and well heated. Christmas lights had been added to the windows. Molly, back behind the counter alone today, was restocking the muffins.

I brushed my hair out of my eyes and stepped up to the counter, eyeing the handwritten menu.

“Hi, Willa!” Molly perked up. “Still in town?”

“Still here.”

She eyed me with interest. “What’ll it be today?”

“A peppermint latte, please.”

Molly had a new confidence to her as she started on the drink. I knew what that meant: No Mrs. Landon today.

I glanced around the café. Empty except for a woman with two young girls plowing through a plate of cookies. The girls giggled while the mom looked on fondly.

“How long has this place been open?”

Molly looked up from the latte. “Mrs. Landon opened it about five years ago after retiring from teaching. I’ve been working here for two. There you go.”

I reached for the cup.

She pulled it back. “What’s it like?” she whispered.

I cast a glance at the mother. “What is … what like?”

Molly smoothed down her black T-shirt, tracking a bit of powdered sugar from the pastry case down the front. “Out there? You left.” She said the word like an exaltation.

I looked into those too-green curious eyes.

“It’s a great big world out there, Molly.”

I swiped the latte and leveled her a look over the brim.

Ever the curious girl. As far as I knew, she’d never left this town.

“You survived,” she whispered, and my stomach jolted. “I read all the articles, and I know all the rumors. You lived. That means something. I know what they say about you, but I don’t believe it. I want you to know that.”

The bell jingled at the door, and I glanced back reflexively, expecting Callum to pop his head in. I’d buy him a coffee to make up for last time, even if he was a bit of a jerk the other day at the house. Eager for an excuse to change the subject, I turned with a smile.

Graham stared back at me from the entrance.

He stood in the doorway like the devil coming home.

Ice washed through my veins.

Graham’s face did a little spasm when his eyes landed on me. Slate gray, just like I remembered. Difficult to discern if you hadn’t been up close.

Had he thought I left town already? That I’d been scared off? It was a reasonable assumption. It’s what they all wanted.

My fingers clenched around the paper cup. A few more lines on his face, hair kept a bit longer. Leather jacket again.

My eyes narrowed. I’d been here before he came to town, all those years ago, teaching certificate with the ink still drying. This was my territory before the interloper arrived and started the downfall of it all.

Those gray eyes did an involuntary once-over, a man who could never help himself, and my confidence shriveled. I was wearing a black sweater, visible beneath my unbuttoned coat. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. I thought black was my color, I thought snidely. Instead, he looked at me like I was from outer space. He had trouble meeting my eyes, looking slightly to the left of where he should. A hand went through his hair, presumably to neaten it, but it only mussed it further.

Why? I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t force the word out.

The family in the corner waved. Graham plastered on a smile, although his eyes remained guarded. My presence clearly bothered him. Why—because I was a walking reminder of how precarious the foundation of his new life was? Did he think I’d ruin it all for us both by opening my mouth in front of an audience?

I tried to remain as still as possible.

“How’s the new job, Graham?” Molly asked, waving him over to the counter. She sent me one last conspiratorial look. “Black, no sugar, right? Heard you started your own business.”

Personal trainer, right. I struggled to remember what else Rachel had said.

Molly sent me a glance, and I ducked away with my latte. Sat myself at a table a few paces away because I didn’t know what else to do. Once I was out of the way, Graham ambled the rest of the way to the counter, although his shoulders remained tense.

Once Molly started pouring the coffee, Graham seemed to shake himself and pulled on the shroud of a normal human man. The smile even reached his eyes.

“For a few months now, yes, it’s going great. Making my own hours has been a lifesaver. There’s something to being your own boss, you know?”

It sounded a lot like he’d gotten his life together. A man with a business was a man with something to lose, which made his taunts all the more confusing.

I stared at nothing and swallowed rapidly, forcing the bile back down my throat. I brought the cup to my lips but didn’t drink, inhaling the steam behind the cover of my hair.

What was I thinking?

Coming back here? Thinking I could face any of this with a half-thought-out plan, as if I could pick and choose which parts of my past reared their heads?

Molly chuckled politely, if a bit tensely. Her eyes darted to me. A hand started playing with her brilliant red hair.

My fists clenched.

Molly noticed. She glanced at me through her bangs as she completed the transaction.

She was old enough to remember what happened. Savvy enough to make a memory of it. There was a wealth of knowledge younger girls gained by observing their older counterparts. How to act. How to dress. How to flirt.

How to harden your heart against devils with pretty faces.

And Molly had spent years watching her older sister Kennedy the most.

Those bright green eyes had fastened onto us, Kennedy and me, as we talked boys and college in her kitchen after school. They’d been on me from the living room window when I walked away from her house with her sister, and her sister never came back.

One of the young girls from the corner table brushed by my chair, startling me as she headed toward the counter.

I tuned back in to catch the end of Graham’s speech.

“I’ve turned over a new leaf.” His hand came to rest on the girl’s shoulder. His hand, large compared to the size of the girl, squeezed. “Moved on to bigger and better things, you know me.”

My entire world narrowed to that pinpoint of touch. A grown man’s hand on a little girl’s shoulder.

“Like Jessica here. Seven years old and already the star soccer player. Right, Jess?”

“Yeah, Coach!” the little girl chirped.

Coach.

A ringing started in my ears.

I’ve turned over a new leaf.

Moved on to bigger things.

Better things.

Younger things.

chapter
14

I got in the car and drove. Flew down the winding paths through the trees. Pedal to the metal on the highway. Radio silent, heartbeat pumping in my ears.

I glimpsed a police car in the rearview, but evidently Callum was feeling generous, because he didn’t follow me. Only when I was a sufficient distance away from Rapture, and the trees became a blur of green brown along the highway, did the fog lift.

I’d disappointed myself.

In the end, I was all bark and no bite. For years, I’d thought of what I’d say to him. But when the time came, I’d hardly been able to look him in the eye.

There was a secondary wound, one that festered where the first might have healed with time: He was the reason they hadn’t believed me.

The engine roared.

A single set of headlights passed in the opposite direction, a stone-faced trucker, and then I was the only soul on the road.

I could have left Graham in my past and built my life up despite what happened between us. By senior year, I was healing and looking forward to racing out into the great big world. Even my abysmal social life was repairing itself.

But then, the evening of November eighteenth, seven of us went into the woods to party in Kennedy’s uncle’s old barn, and only I came home.

What Graham had done to me and my reputation in his effort to defend himself was a disease that lingered. A perpetual shadow over my credibility. I could see it in everyone’s eyes in the wake of the eighteenth—at the police station, from the parents who watched me, from my classmates.

They didn’t believe me about Graham, and they certainly didn’t believe my outlandish claims about the woods.

And I was thirty-two and still running from the same ghosts.

I could leave. Right now. Keep going on the open road. Not even collect my belongings. Cancel the appointment with the contractor. Sell the house in its current run-down condition through a proxy at the first offer. Leave this whole place behind and never return.

But I’d promised Arthur Sloane a painting.

I rolled the windows down. Cold air blasted through my hair. I let the wind roll through me.

And I thought of that hand on a little girl’s shoulder, and the pit in my stomach grew into a weight around my shoulders that whispered, you’re not done here into my ear, and I turned the car around at the next exit.

Someone had been here.

It was my first thought upon entering the cabin. I felt it before I’d flicked the light on.

I knew what my mess looked like. Something was different. The scattered piles of half-finished sketches and paintings along the floor were a contained tornado. But I was sure one was missing.

Mr. Greenley was my first thought. He had a spare key. But what had he come in here for? I checked my phone; no note from him. Besides, he had agreed to extend my stay, and he wanted the business—why would he try to scare me off?

And his wife, no matter her silent disapproval, wouldn’t have crossed that line. They didn’t have to like me, but they were decent people.

I traced my fingertips over the pillowcases. Had I left it like that? I could’ve sworn I’d made the bed and smoothed the sheets this morning. I peeled the comforter back. There was a fine layer of dirt on the sheet beneath. Right where feet would be.

Had someone … gotten into my bed? With their shoes on?

I counted to fifty, walking a slow loop of the room.

Someone had been here, and I still had to sleep here tonight.

I swallowed. My mind went to my childhood house, the property I owned in town, but what could I do—camp out in the living room? That place was a wreck. No heat, no running water, no electricity; I’d freeze.

I was so occupied with collecting my thoughts I almost didn’t see it. Under the kitchen table, next to the foot of one of the mismatched chairs.

Broken bits of metal.

I crept closer, wooden floor creaking, not quite understanding what I was looking at. I pulled out the chair and got on my knees.

Metal wires misshapen, colorful resin petals crushed into pieces. My face went hot, then cold.

Mrs. Sloane’s earrings.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, silent as a bat gliding through the air. Dislodged from the seat of the chair. I retrieved it with trembling fingers.

No one will believe you this time, it read when the dark spots from my head rush receded.

I shook with an emotion too strong and too broad to name. I just stood there and shook.

How dare—

Rage embedded every thought, every involuntary twitch of my muscles, every atom in my skin.

That was it. That was why he ignored me in public. He was setting me up. How many people had seen him at the funeral, keeping a seemingly respectful distance from me? And at the coffee shop—he had made polite conversation with Molly and waved to the family in the corner while pretending I wasn’t there at all. That phone call with Rachel where she’d defended him to my face? He had her convinced he was a new man. Hadn’t she said something about him shoveling off Mrs. Gracie’s porch every time it snowed?

He was playing the long con. Those were witnesses. This was his game. There was one show for me and another for them in case I dared to go public with his provocations.

He wanted me to remember what it felt like, years ago, to point the finger and not be believed. To recall how painful and embarrassing it was to get to the truth. To wonder if the cost had been worth it.

This was a warning after seeing me at the café.

He thought himself a puppet master. He thought he’d planned this scene where he could twist, twist, twist, while my lips stayed sealed out of self-preservation.

My last intact reminder of Mrs. Sloane, a precious, precious gift given with trust and love, crushed into pieces. I scooped up the broken bits of metal, folded them carefully in a tissue, and packed them away.

I allowed myself twelve minutes locked in the bathroom to fall apart. I screamed without sound until all my blood was in my face. When I emerged, I had shed my skin and built myself anew.

How superior he must have felt the other night, watching from beyond the lake as I hurried across the grass, feet barely in my boots.

How superior he must have felt tonight, entering my space and touching my things.

I seethed and seethed as the air filled my lungs. My fingertips closed around the car keys.

I still didn’t know the why, but this was an act of war.

The night air wasn’t as cold as it should’ve been. Wind burned my cheeks, but my blood pumped so hot. Strands of hair escaped from my carefully tucked bun and circled my head, a wild crown.

At my back, the leaves rustled. Thousands of them in the night, a chorus whispering behind open hands, murmuring excitedly to each other. Little gossips in the dark.

As much as I dreaded being close to the forest, someone needed reminding of one important point: Two of us could hide in the night.

Tonight was the blackest of nights. Completely dark without even the moon’s gaze. Tonight, I was unseen.

I’d spent years wishing to be invisible. Anything to escape from their cruelty. To be overlooked was a privilege. An acknowledgement you fit into the outline of normal. You were acceptable. Unoffensive. Everything I was not in the eyes of the town. I stuck out, and I was an outlet for the grief turned rage that had nowhere else to go.

But tonight? Tonight I was invisible for me and me alone.

A snowflake landed on my cheek. The first snowfall of the season.

A curtain was pushed aside. A pot of water boiled on the stove, and yellow light spilled onto the grass. Strainer in the sink. Pasta for dinner?

I watched it all as a movie, unfolding.

I was done pretending not to exist out of consideration for everyone else’s feelings. I was done tiptoeing around this town as if to be seen were to sin.

This was my town too. My life too.

A refrigerator door flashed—metal, modern—and greens were placed onto the counter. Washed thoroughly. Chopped precisely. Tossed into a pan to sauté.

The adults who had once looked so scary to my warped teenage view, full of authority, certainty, and judgement—they were the ones who should be ashamed. Grown adults bullying a child for something out of her control? Now that was shameful.

I survived their day of judgement once. Twice. And I could do it again. I was equipped in a way I hadn’t been before.

They were used to me silently taking it. Absorbing the blows. The expectation was visible in every snarl out of Lisa Landon’s mouth. Every disdainful glance from beneath Deborah Basil’s bangs. I was a plastic target. One without arms or legs or teeth. Incapable of fighting back.

Graham had seen me as an easy target from the moment he’d laid eyes on me. He’d picked the one with few friends. The odd one out. He saw it all firsthand as my soccer coach. I was with the other girls but not part of them. Never part of them. And that’s how he liked it. More of me for him.

On this cold autumn night, I smelled a change in the air.

Graham’s house hadn’t been hard to find. Nothing was hard to find around here. Rachel had said Birch Street. That told me all I needed to know.

Steam rose in a great big cloud as the pasta was drained. The window grew blurry, obscuring my view. A red hand towel was thrown over a shoulder.

We could’ve both kept going our separate ways for the rest of our miserable lives. But you decided, after all these years, that you weren’t done with me. You threw a line and reeled me in, even after all this time.

But there’s something you don’t know, Graham. You set the bait for the sad little high schooler you knew everything about. But you caught the attention of a far more refined evil: a fully grown woman with nothing to lose.

Do you think I simply faded out of existence the day I left, and now I fade back, just for you? Do you think I only breathe when you observe me?

I’ve had a lot of time to think, Graham. How do you think I sustained myself all these years, if not with fantasies?

Just like those fantasies of yours. Does your heart speed up at the thought of me? Do you still think of me, late at night, with your hands down your pants?

Except my fantasies go a little bit differently.

The window cleared of steam. A table was set for one.

Your evening plays out before me in your glass house, and I study every detail.

You thought you could intimidate a distant target. You thought I wouldn’t come. You thought you could lord your knowledge over me from afar. Snark into the void and expect no response, the same as those endless people online blabbing about me. The nameless, faceless voices of condemnation and suspicion who will never know my rage because they do not matter.

But you aren’t them, are you, Graham?

You matter. You’re special.

Do you hear that? You’re special. How many times did you say that to me back then?

You, Graham, are special.

Because I’m standing outside your house, and there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

chapter
15

On Tuesday, Graham started his day with a black coffee and a long run around his neighborhood.

By Wednesday, we started our day with a black coffee and a long run. At nine precisely, he greeted the mail carrier by name. By nine thirty, he left for his first client.

He emerged from Roberta Greenley’s house an hour later with a sheen of sweat over his forehead. By eleven, he arrived at his second client, a young couple on Bramble Lane who looked like they worked from home.

My stomach growled while I waited. And waited. At 12:05, the front door opened, and Graham trotted out. Back behind the wheel, he took an odd turn in to a dirt field, and I pulled over and followed on foot, only to spot him gazing over an empty field, window down and one foot on the dash, eating a packed lunch.

Just after two, he went grocery shopping. He purchased a lot of beef and fresh vegetables for a single man. No alcohol. Fresh bread. Both almond milk and dairy milk. There was a sale on lentils, and he stocked up. Chatted with the cashier like he was a normal man on a normal day. She laughed at his joke—I was too far away to catch it—and bagged his groceries, blissfully unaware she was in the presence of a human predator. I dawdled in the canned goods aisle until an appropriate amount of time had passed and then paid for my meager haul.

Graham drove a minivan. I couldn’t get over it. Like a soccer mom. He loaded his trunk with shopping bags, one after the other, unhurried.

There was something in his trunk, barely visible as he shuffled his groceries around. Pink and white, peeking out from underneath the folded-up third row.

A girls’ swimsuit.

My vision tunneled.

The parking lot fell away. The groceries floated from my hands. The sun stopped shining. It was only me, Graham, and the little pink swimsuit that should not have been in his car. My fists clenched.

A horn blared. I jerked back to reality. An older man, nose to the wheel, pointed at my can of beans rolling across the street. I retrieved it, and he sped off.

When I turned back, Graham was looking my way. The trunk was closed.

I kept walking as if I hadn’t noticed him. When I dared to peek, the minivan was reversing.

My heart raced at the near miss. I smothered a nervous giggle with my hand—was this why he did it? Was this what he felt while pursuing me? This euphoria? I lowered myself onto the pavement, coat sliding along the car door, until I was sitting, knees curled to my chest, in the shadow of my car. A single tear squeezed from the corner of my eye.

I snorted loudly and clamped both hands over my mouth. To laugh at a time like this? But once it started, I couldn’t stop. I ducked my face into my knees and remained there, trembling and snotty. Did he hunt me for the thrill of it? For this nameless, illicit feeling of power? Gravel dug into my thighs through my jeans. I closed my eyes against my knees. Did it intoxicate him, as it did me? To know that you were not in pursuit of justice, nor happiness, nor love, but of the lust of the forbidden chase?

“Willa? Are you all right?”

I jolted. Callum was standing a few yards away, frowning at my position on the ground. He had a paper bag under one arm. A bundle of vegetables peeked out the top of the bag. His patrol car was parked halfway down the lot.

I wiped my face and pulled my sunglasses down. “Officer. How are you?”

“Did something happen?” He stood over me, scanning the area.

“No, of course not. I just needed a minute.” I shakily got to my feet. Callum didn’t step back as quickly as I expected, and I brushed against him. His hand came to rest on my arm, steadying me. I could feel his muscles flex.

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“I was just taking a breather. Really. I didn’t mean to worry you.” I swayed into the warmth of him involuntarily.

“Look,” he began, eyes flickering over my face. “About the other day at your house—”

“Officer Forbes!” a voice piped up from behind my car. “Great work with the cat the other day! You’ll have to stop over this weekend and try my famed coffee cake!”

“Thank you, Deborah,” he said with practiced ease, stepping back and turning to the older woman as she came into view. “I look forward to it.”

“And who is this?” Her smile vanished when she saw my face. For a moment, no one said anything. I held her gaze this time, making no effort to smile. She looked away first.

Callum glanced between us.

Deborah Ugly Bangs Basil sniffed and turned away. She glanced back only once, glaring.

Callum watched her go with a frown. “What was that?”

Small-town cops. Knew everyone and everything except, apparently, the skeletons deepest in the closet.

Could give him a bit of a pass as a transplant, but you’d think someone would’ve filled him in on all the dirty details by now. He knew who I was, recognized the name—but didn’t understand the resulting social dynamics.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I brushed the last little bits of gravel off my clothing and waved away his concerns. “I have to get back to work.”

“Work?” he repeated. “I thought you were supposed to have left already.”

I tried to run a hand through my hair but hit the baseball cap I’d forgotten I was wearing. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

His eyes followed the movement. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I raised my eyebrows. I’d only been joking.

“Stay as long as you’d like,” he insisted.

I blinked at him, caught off guard. I almost didn’t ask, but dared to use my bit of good luck and said, “Is it true what David said? The department’s social media account was hacked?”

“Oh, yeah.” He rocked back. “Turns out hacked was a generous word. The password was ‘password.’ Barrow was furious.”

“Who?” I frowned.

“Barrow,” he repeated. “The chief.”

Euphoria bubbled up inside me. Not Chief Landon. Hallelujah.

“You’re really going to stay?” His words cut into my reeling thoughts.

“Only for a little while. I’m doing some work on the house and getting some painting done.”

He scanned me from head to toe, as if he could X-ray my body with his gaze. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

I felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch him. The rules for hot police officers were probably the same as for strippers—look, but do not touch. One person was mildly nice to me, and there I go again. I tucked my hands away in my coat to avoid the temptation.

Callum caught the movement, a furrow to his brow.

I dug around for my car keys. “Perfectly well. Stay safe, Callum.”

He twitched in surprise at the use of his first name. He stepped back, but his eyes bore into the side of my face while I steadfastly avoided eye contact.

Once I was in the car, he slowly returned to his own. I dug out my water bottle and chugged a few mouthfuls.

As I watched the taillights of the cruiser pull away, my thoughts turned back to Graham. I wondered if I was taking this too far. But then my mind went from that little girl with big, innocent eyes, to a man chasing a high from fifteen years ago, and I came to a realization.

There is no too far.

Rachel texted me to meet for coffee.

I politely declined, although she probably saw right through me.

Sorry. Too much going on.

There always is, she replied.

I wasn’t sure if that was sympathetic commiseration or a passive-aggressive guilt trip.

I didn’t reply.

“Are they still at my house?”

“No, I hear they’ve cleared out,” Josh said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and pressed the phone closer to my ear.

“How long did it take them to realize I was gone?”

“You’re still not going to tell me where you are?”

I blinked. I’d forgotten I hadn’t told him. “I am everywhere and nowhere.”

If rolling eyes made a sound, I was sure I heard it.

“They dispersed a few days ago. I don’t think they necessarily knew you left, but they grew bored when they stopped seeing you. Probably figured you holed up to wait it out.”

I nodded. The carpet itched along the back of my neck.

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

Josh sighed. “Whatever you’re doing, Willa, I hope you’ve thought it through.”

I chuckled. “Me too, Josh. Me too.”

I ended the call and returned to my snow angel–like pose. Arms out, legs out, flat as can be against the carpet. I stared up at the ceiling through the slats of the bed frame. Daylight streaked into the stale bedroom, illuminating dust particles scattered in the air.

“Did you hear that, Elliot?” I asked the empty air beside me. “The people bothering me at my house are gone. It’s good news. My other house, I mean.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. A growing feeling of guilt twisted my stomach.

“That was Josh. He helps sell my paintings. I’m a real painter now. It’s everything we dreamed of, isn’t it? Do you remember?”

Silence.

“I’m not sorry I left Rapture,” I whispered. “But I am sorry that meant leaving you.” I closed my eyes and breathed in a deep lungful of stale air. “Are you still here?”

I waited and waited, ears pricked for any sign I wasn’t alone. But none came.

Finally, I sighed and squeezed out from beneath the bed frame.

I trudged downstairs, stifling a sneeze. I pulled on my coat and sat on the front steps to wait for the contractor. I eyed the closest houses through the trees and wondered which one of my neighbors had called the police on me.

At 2:05, a white van pulled up to the curb, and a dark-haired man hopped out.

“Joe,” the man said, holding out a hand. We shook and quickly moved from introductions to the scope of work.

The whole time, he looked at me like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. A quick glance from under his eyelashes as he scribbled on his clipboard. An expectant pause when he finished speaking. How he maintained eye contact while adjusting his baseball cap. A quiet examination behind those eyes.

It hit me later than it should have.

“Joe!” I exclaimed, immediately embarrassed. “That Joe. Joe. My God, I didn’t recognize you.” How could I forget him? Well, I hadn’t forgotten him. But the name and the face just hadn’t matched up in my mind.

He let out a long breath and, to my surprise, grinned. “Hey, Willa.”

“I’m so sorry, my mind’s going a million miles an hour lately. How are you doing? How’s your dad?”

Joe’s lips pursed, and my stomach dropped.

“He’s been gone a few years now. Heart attack. It’s just me and my mom now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Every reminder of time passing, of lives started and ended in the time I’d been gone, hit me hard. “You know I always looked forward to his spring carnival every April.”

Joe’s eyes lit up. “You and everyone else here! They’ve been trying to get me to start it up again, but I don’t know. Not sure I could do it justice.”

I smiled. “I’m sure everyone would love that. Lots of great memories at that place. So you’re the owner of his construction company now?”

“Sure am. It was a lot at first, taking over for my dad, but I started right out of high school so when the time came for me to step up, I was as ready as I could be. Keeps me busy, that’s for sure. That and Ralphie, my son.”

My heart swelled. “How old is he?”

“Six. The day he learned to walk, it was over. He’s a little terror and I love him more than anything.”

“It’s amazing how much time has passed. Sometimes, it feels like it was—”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

I gestured at the house behind me. “It’s hard to let this guy go, but I think it’s time. Without my parents here, it just feels—”

“Empty?”

“Wrong. Like it was theirs and not mine, and now I’m all that’s left. But”—I hiked my purse higher on my shoulder—“I have to tackle it at some point so figured I’d better start now. Then I’ll get it on the market, see where it goes.”

“You’re planning to sell?” His face was inscrutable beneath the brim of his hat.

“I don’t see what else I’d do with it. What kind of time frame are we looking at to fix it up?”

Joe glanced down at his notes. “I’d say six weeks minimum, depending if we need to get materials on order. Let’s do the walk-through and see how severe it is.”

My stomach dropped. Six whole weeks in Rapture.

We walked around the entire house, Joe inspecting the siding and foundation closely, then I led him inside.

The screen door slammed.

“Need a new door,” I muttered, and he hummed in acknowledgement, but I saw him glance at the springs.

“You going to live here during the reno?”

I pulled a hair off my sleeve. “I’m at the Greenleys’ cabin for now, but yeah, I’ll probably use this place as my home base once the electricity’s back on and you can assure me my pipes won’t burst.” I smiled a bit at his matter-of-fact nod.

“All right. We can make that happen.” He pointed at a box beside the door. “What is that?”

“Carbon monoxide detectors.”

He quirked a brow but made no comment.

We walked through the first and second floors, Joe paying particular attention to the plumbing. It was odd to have someone poking around my home, but it wasn’t really home anymore.

“How does it look?” I asked when we regrouped at the kitchen table. The thing was still sturdy, Amish made and in great condition despite the years. Only one of the chairs creaked when I leaned back too far.

I passed him a water bottle from my bag.

“The floors, walls, and foundation are in good condition. We’ll need to fix those cracks in the front rooms by the ceiling. The siding should be replaced out back. I recommend a new stain on the porch. Good news is we have all the materials in stock so we can start right away. Plumbing looks fine, nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix. You’re lucky—roof looks good. The part that could drag this out is your hot water heater. Those things take a while to get in if you need a replacement. I’ll need to take a look at it.”

Six weeks was long enough. I hoped the hot water heater was fine.

“Once that’s all done, we’ll slap on a fresh coat of paint, and you’ll be good to go.” He tapped his pencil on the clipboard. “You know, you could probably sell as is, right? Might not get as much but would be quicker.”

“I’d like to see it through. Give whoever owns it next a good canvas to work with.”

Joe nodded and scribbled some notes, like it wasn’t a big deal, but I noticed his shoulders loosen a bit. He was relieved, I realized. Needed the business, most likely.

“In that case, I’ll send you over the contact info for my interior design place if you’re interested in going to that next level. Lorrie can help you stage the place.”

“Thanks.”

He took a sip of water. “I’ll check the hot water heater, then get everything totaled up and get an estimate sent over to you. Sounds good?”

Thunk.

Joe jumped.

There was a moment of utter stillness in the kitchen. His eyes shot to mine, like he expected me to say something.

I sipped my water.

“Did you … hear that?” he ventured.

I brushed my hair behind my ear. “Hear what?”

His mouth was open.

Thunk.

It came from beneath the floorboards. A hollow noise, not quite a thud, not quite a clank.

From the basement.

I clenched my teeth. “Anyway, I’d like to keep the original flooring, just polish it up a bit. It’ll look nice, don’t you think?”

Thunk.

Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “Maybe I should go … take a look at that noise?”

I held his gaze. “It’s probably nothing.”

“I don’t know how many times I’ve heard ‘it’s probably nothing’ turn into a very expensive repair.”

My smile was a baring of teeth. I couldn’t tell him to go down there. I was physically incapable of it.

He tensed, seeing something in my expression. “Willa, is there anyone else in the house?”

“Just us,” I assured him.

He looked the opposite of reassured.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you did hear that?”

“I … may have heard something.”

Joe’s eyebrows rose higher on his face.

“Back to the flooring, I like the idea of—”

THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK.

Joe leapt to his feet as the table vibrated with the force of it.

We stared at each other with wild eyes. My smile cracked and fell away.

“I should…” He sounded less sure. “I should take a look at that. If it’s coming from the basement, it could be something major. Or just a … pest. Like a raccoon. Yes, a raccoon.”

I sincerely hoped it was a raccoon.

He stood.

My eyes cut to the wrench in the tool belt he’d slung over a chair. “You should—”

I stopped myself. I felt silly, telling a grown man to take a weapon with him going into my basement.

He stopped to listen, pulse jumping in his neck. “I should…?”

I swallowed and shook my head. “You should check that out. Right.”

His eyes followed mine to the belt. He set his clipboard on the table, and I pretended not to see him pocket the wrench on his way to the basement door.

When Joe noticed I wasn’t following, he hesitated. I kicked myself and trailed after him.

He opened the door. The black void gaped before him. He looked back at me. Smile tight, I gave him a reassuring nod. Don’t leave your back to it, I silently urged through my teeth.

Apparently satisfied, Joe faced the door again and patted the wall for a light switch. He found it, but it didn’t work, of course.

“We’ll need to get the electric turned back on,” he muttered and fished a flashlight from his pocket. To his credit, he only hesitated briefly before starting down the stairs. He and his light took a turn at the bottom of the staircase and disappeared.

I listened to his footsteps on the concrete. Heard them stop.

I tapped my foot. Counted to twenty. Hummed the ABCs thrice over. Cracked my knuckles, then my back, then my neck.

How’s it going down there? I wanted to ask but couldn’t face the extraordinary terror if no answer came.

There was only silence after his footsteps stopped, no matter how I strained to listen.

I don’t know what I expected to hear. The tearing and rending of flesh? Desperate, devastating screams? The cackles of demons, en masse, laughing at me?

You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. I was a grown woman. A thirty-something adult. And I was afraid of going into the basement like a little kid.

Even as I scolded myself, goose bumps broke out on my arms beneath my coat. I rubbed at them like I could start a fire with the friction.

Grow up, Willa.

I’d heard it a thousand times from my father.

I checked the time. It had been eight minutes. I tiptoed to the edge and squinted. A faint scratching sound reached my ears.

“Joe?” I asked quietly, too quietly for him to hear, but my voice wouldn’t go any louder. “All good?”

The scratching cut out.

“Joe?”

A wind rushed up from the stairs, buffeting my hair into my eyes. I reeled back, grasping on to the wall. I squeaked his name to no avail.

Maybe a window down there was open. Busted open. One of those little windows that barely peeked aboveground. A perfectly logical explanation for the way I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs.

I started the counting again.

Joe’s face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His flashlight blinded me for a moment before it clicked off.

He looked a bit grayer and sweatier than a few minutes ago.

“All good?” I asked as he emerged.

“Uh-huh.”

He glanced behind him as he said it, distracted. He closed the door.

“What … was it?”

“I didn’t hear it while I was down there.” He touched his head a few times. “Went around the perimeter with the flashlight and checked all the windows. Nothing looked out of place. Did get a good look at your hot water heater, which seems to be in order, but we’ll have to get your water turned on to test it.”

“No raccoons then?”

“No raccoons. If something’s down there, I didn’t see it.”

“Everything all right?” I couldn’t help but ask as his hands fluttered along his pockets.

Joe’s eyes looked a touch too wide. “All good,” he insisted.

“Good,” I repeated.

“Good,” he agreed.

Neither of us moved.

“It’s kind of stuffy. You want to take the rest of the discussion outside? In the fresh air?”

“Yes,” he agreed too quickly.

After Joe’s white van left, I peeled the wrapping off a pack of chicken thighs and chucked them into the trees.

Ping-ping-ping.

I sat up, disoriented and drained.

Ping-ping-ping.

That freaking bush. I’d forgotten about it.

I checked the time. 6:05 AM.

Ping-ping-PING.

I flicked on the light, scraped my hair into a ponytail, and threw on a coat. I listened at the door before unlocking the dead bolt and peeking my head out. The sun hadn’t risen yet.

The air was still. I walked around back where the bush stood sentry. Light from inside diffused through the sheer curtain, casting a glow on the ground. My eyes caught on two slips of paper weighted to the ground with rocks.

I kicked them aside.

The inside of my cabin stared at me from the ground. Photographs of me painting by the fire. I’d been at it for hours yesterday evening.

I heard the message loud and clear.

You see me?

I see you.

chapter
16

Graham had a home gym in his basement that I could peer into if I sat within the bushes lining the side of his house. He watched himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, sweat dripping, face contorting, for hours at night. He demonstrated movements to a camera perched on a tripod and meticulously checked the footage. Personalized online training sessions, his website advertised. The supplemental income helped explain how he owned such a beautiful home.

I shook out my aching knees.

Now that I knew he knew I was watching him, I grew bolder with how long I stayed. Without the pressure of my gaze, he was bound to step out of line. But it had been three days with no sign of any little girls, and he never came out to confront me.

The wind rushed through my hair. I burned a hole in the back of his head with my eyes.

Do you feel that, Graham? A tickle on the back of your neck? A set of eyes where no eyes should be?

Can you feel the violation? The dissection of your life? Can you feel how it follows you everywhere? Can you sense it?

His head whipped around.

I pushed out of view and took off running.

Joe and I settled into a routine. Every day at ten thirty, after spending a few hours with Graham, I’d meet Joe at the house to review the day’s work. Some days he would come alone, some days with a colleague or two. He knew what to do, and I was mostly extraneous.

His estimate came in steep, but I didn’t see any better options.

The electricity and water were turned on and with them came the heat. Most of the bulbs needed to be replaced, but it was a start.

Some days, I returned to the cabin to paint. Other days, I went back to Graham’s. I’d picked up a few sets of new clothes and a warmer coat in the next town since I was spending so much time outside.

Before long, I’d outgrown the small cabin. My paintings littered the floor, sketches cluttering the table and half the bed. The smell of the paint had gathered around my temples in a gentle headache, but my stomach roiled at the thought of leaving the windows open. There was a lingering fear of someone entering again when I wasn’t there.

Snow covered the ground in a thin dusting. When there was a break in the flurries, I packed up my paints and canvases and brought them to the house. I set up a makeshift studio in the dining room, where the old furniture remained. Joe raised an eyebrow when he saw but made no comment. The heat only halfheartedly warmed the house until Joe found the issue and fixed it. I counted that a small victory.

“When are you coming back?” Josh asked.

I juggled the phone to my other shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Your sales are still on fire. I need more paintings.”

“I am painting.” A few of my castoffs from Mrs. Sloane’s could hold their own. Not my usual style, but strong enough. “I’ll send pictures,” I promised.

One evening, I stayed late to paint. Waved goodbye to Joe at five thirty, tossed some frozen nuggets from my trunk into the forest, and locked the door behind him. Returned to my table of paints and battery-operated lanterns. I had a winning contender for Mrs. Sloane’s painting, and I wanted to strike while the iron was hot.

The painting came into being throughout the night. Life had been breathed into it, and I carefully outlined the shapes. Creation dripped from my paintbrush, alive as soon as the pigment settled.

Maybe that journalist was right. Joyce. Conflict did inspire me to paint.

I ducked into the kitchen for a bottle of water, hefting a lantern like a ghoul in the night to light the way.

BANG!

Glass shattered. Something clattered along the floor. Tires squealed.

I ducked and remained frozen—violently frozen if there were such a thing—as the noise turned to eerie silence.

What—

I didn’t dare move a muscle. My heart pounded so violently I feared my neck would burst from the pressure of it.

What was that?

My voice was gone, sealed up somewhere inside me. I crept toward the living room. Lantern out front, I walked as if possessed. It was hard to see beyond the glow of the shaking lantern.

The front door was still shut.

The damage was apparent when I crossed the entryway into the dining room. Glass littered the floor. A large, jagged hole in the front window exhaled outside air.

I saw a broad shape in the corner and flinched wildly, only to realize it was my own shadow against the wall. My paintings weren’t damaged, but they were sprinkled with a fine spray of glass.

My eyes fell upon a brick resting beneath the table. I picked it up and weighed it in my hand.

A note was taped to the other side: GET OUT. KILLERS NOT WELCOME.

I approached the window and hesitated, then peeked through the hole. The lawn was dark. The street beyond was dimly lit by a single streetlight. The wind whistled as the hole sucked greedily.

I set the brick on the table, but when I started to dial 911 with trembling fingers, I paused.

I imagined Callum pulling up. Coming inside the house. Would his hand be on his gun? His eyes on the private spaces where I’d lived my childhood? Would he be able to see the memories play out along the walls? Would he see too much?

I pictured having to spill my shame to those kind eyes. Do you know why someone would do this? Does anyone have a reason to hurt you? Of course they do. And I’d have to tell him the whole somber tale we’d left unspoken. He’d ask questions. Bring up my strange behavior in the parking lot. Call the neighbors in. Ask me to come down to the station. Dig up memories. Dig up worse.

I looked at the note again. This wasn’t from Graham. It wasn’t his style.

I snorted. I knew exactly what this was. I almost laughed. The neighbors had seen the construction. They were afraid I’d stay.

They should’ve been afraid of what was already living here.

I set the phone down and went in search of a broom.

This town deserves a little anger, doesn’t it?

chapter
17

Joe eyed the broken window in dismay the next morning. “And you have no idea how this happened?”

“Must’ve happened overnight.” I shrugged. “I wasn’t here.”

Outside, thick snow covered the lawn. Stray snowflakes dusted my dining room floor.

Joe pulled out a tape measure, eyeing me dubiously. “I’ll make a call. I’ve got a guy who can take care of this quick.” He stepped into the kitchen and looked back. “Are you sure?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you sure you don’t know how it happened?”

I held his gaze. “I’m sure.”

I lost myself in the act of painting. My world narrowed to brushstrokes and stippling, applying pressure but not too much pressure, and blending the gradient of light to dark. Getting the angles right and smoothing the rest out.

“We should take her to see someone,” Mom hissed.

I froze by my parents’ bedroom door.

“She’ll grow out of it.” Dad’s words were punctuated by the screech of clothes hangers pushed aside. “Hand me that pair. Thanks.”

“The monster under the bed is one thing. But all this nonsense about people in the basement? Where do you think she got that from?”

“Probably whatever’s on TV. Really, honey, I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

“There are people in the basement!” My parents jumped at my shout. I turned the corner, eyes wet. “And they don’t want us here! Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean that they—”

A hand grabbed my shoulder.

I gasped and jumped to my feet. Joe hovered behind me, too close. Blinking the past from my vision, I reoriented myself. I was in the dining room, painting.

“Sorry. I called your name, but you didn’t answer.”

I plastered on a smile, trying to calm my racing heart. “It’s fine. What did you need?”

He gestured to the window. “You sure you don’t want to get the police out here? Before we get it patched up?” He twisted his hat in his hands.

Right. The window.

“As sure as I am that you’re charging me double your usual customers.”

The color drained from his face. “Willa—I don’t know what you—”

I waved his spluttering away. “I won’t short you. You do good work. Go on. But I want the window done fast.”

Suddenly at a loss for words, he nodded jerkily and backed away.

I swapped out the painting for Mrs. Sloane’s and got to work. The gradient from light to dark needed to be smoother. My stomach growled. I’d forgotten to eat lunch.

I reached behind me and instead of touching my water bottle, I touched skin. I gasped and shot up.

Joe was behind me again.

“Can I help you?” I snapped. What the hell was with him today?

His eyes were fixed on the painting. I felt exposed. Naked. No one ever watched me paint.

I straightened to my full height.

“S-sorry,” Joe stammered. “That painting—it’s beautiful.”

I moved to shield it. “It isn’t done.”

“It’s still beautiful.”

There was a long silence. He didn’t normally come in here while I was working, busy in other parts of the house.

“It’s for Millie and Arthur Sloane.” I grudgingly admitted. “She meant a lot to me.”

He blinked and looked at me strangely, like I’d said something unexpected.

“I want to surprise Arthur. He hasn’t seen it.”

Joe nodded. “He’s going to love it. That’s … very kind of you.”

“Did you already finish out back? With the snow, I thought—”

He shifted his weight. “That’s not what I need to talk to you about. I thought I should say something, but I don’t want to upset you.” Joe pulled a knife from behind his back.

“Jesus—”

“I found this.” He held it out to me.

Warily, I took it. “Found it where?”

“Jammed in your back door. Wasn’t there yesterday, that’s for sure.”

“We’ll need to replace the back door too, then,” I mused. Realizing he was still staring at me, I set the knife on the table. “Thanks, Joe.”

I picked up the paintbrush.

“You’re … not going to do anything about it?”

I gave him a look. “I’ll take it from here.”

Frowning, he retreated. Once I heard his footsteps pass the kitchen, I examined the knife. A Swiss Army knife. Red.

Two initials etched along the bottom.

GW.

Graham Warren.

I collapsed the blade and turned it over in my palm.

He was escalating this thing between us. Well, then. I would too.

chapter
18

Graham’s car wasn’t in the driveway that night.

I pulled my hood up, stuffed my hands into thick gloves, and went around back to the sliding patio door, the one he always forgot to lock. It opened without so much as a squeak.

I stepped inside and toed off my boots. I padded around in my socks, examining the high ceilings and white walls from a new perspective. He had pristine white carpet.

There were mirrors everywhere. In regal frames of varying sizes. Fitted where pictures might normally go. The entire house felt sterile. Decorated in cold grays and whites. I gave myself the grand tour by the light of my phone flashlight. He even had a towering white Christmas tree. I frowned at it.

What secrets do you keep here, Graham? Tell me. Don’t be shy.

He’d once been a teacher, and I didn’t know what he’d done for work before his personal training, but whatever it was, it must have paid well. I ran my hand along the dark wood banister.

“Who are you?”

The voice came from above. For the first few heartbeats, I thought I was looking at a ghost.

“Hello?” the little white face said.

I reared back. The hood fell from my face. A young girl stood there, face pressed against the railing, mouth widened in a yawn.

I had nothing to say. No words. No air in my lungs.

“Where’s Daddy?”

My eyes went to the door. I could make it back outside before she came down the stairs, but then what? She’d seen my face. She could call the police. I wouldn’t have enough time to even disguise my footprints in the gathering snow.

“Daddy?” I croaked. “Who’s your daddy?”

The girl’s little face twisted, hands bunching in her pajamas. “Daddy. Duh.”

My neck moved of its own accord to a picture frame on the wall ascending the staircase. Two figures. Graham in a suit with a baby in his lap. Graham with the little girl in a ballet costume. Graham and the girl at the pool. At the park. At Christmas.

A daughter.

My head spun. A daughter.

Oh God.

I felt a bit light-headed as reality hit me.

Under her inquisitive little eyes, I took stock of myself. A thirty-two-year-old woman. Creeping in the night. Trespassing in someone’s house. Breaking and entering into a home where a family lived. Where a child lived.

What was I doing?

“Does your daddy normally leave you home alone a lot?” I asked in a voice that didn’t feel like my own.

Was he a good dad, I really wanted to know. Could he be?

“Nuh-uh. It’s snowing tonight, so he wanted me to stay here. Doesn’t like the ice on the roads.”

She pointed out the window where snowflakes danced in the wind.

I startled when I found her at my leg, having moved soundlessly in her socks. Her head came up to my ribs. Now that I got a better look at her, I realized it was the same girl who had been at the café last week. The soccer player.

All my watching and I had missed this? Impossible.

She craned her neck to look me in the eye.

“Can you make me a grilled cheese?”

My eyes shot wide. I felt out of place, out of time. I’d never really been around kids before, not since I had been one, and found myself floundering at her self-assurance.

“I—I don’t know.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Uh—” I tried to think of what to say and came up with nothing. “I—” My throat felt dry. I swallowed and settled into a smile. “A grilled cheese it is.”

I found the bread, the cheese, the pan. Turned on Graham’s fancy induction stove. Selected a silicone spatula from the vast collection he maintained.

What am I doing?

She seated herself at the table while she waited, swinging her feet and humming a tune. So trusting. So unconcerned with a strange woman in her house. She gave no indication she recognized me.

It helped to think of it as playing a part. As not real. As a dream. As if this were perfectly normal.

“Here you are, your majesty.”

I deposited the grilled cheese in front of her and watched her dig in. Poured her a glass of water before she asked. Watched her eat with gusto. Occupied my hands with twisting the remaining bread into exactly the position I’d found it and doing the same with the cheese. Carefully wiping all crumbs from the counter. Burying the paper towel deep in the trash.

Not knowing what else to do, I examined his refrigerator. A glittery little rectangle was restrained by magnets. LITTLE ENGINEERS SLEEPAWAY WEEK, it read. DECEMBER 1ST TO 8TH. I closed my eyes. That’s why I hadn’t seen her in my surveillance. She’d been at sleepaway camp until today. And I had to choose tonight to break in.

Jessica Warren.

I traced her name with my hand. Graham’s daughter.

My God.

I noticed Jessica’s braid was rumpled from sleep. She kept messing with it and huffing as the strands drifted over her face.

“I like to braid hair,” I told her, eyes on the pan. Soon it would be cool enough to wash.

In my periphery, she perked up.

“Daddy’s not so good at hair,” Jess confessed, like it was a secret. She angled her head facing away from me. “Fix it.”

My feet obeyed her orders, hands shaking as they removed the hair tie from the base of her braid. Carded through the soft strands and separated them into thirds at the top of her head.

Left over center. Right over center. Left over center. Right over center. Just like my mom used to do.

I tied off the bottom and smoothed the flyaways.

“Done,” I whispered.

“It’s perfect!” she declared, eager to examine herself in a wall mirror.

Nervously, I looked at the clock. It was past ten. “How long did Daddy say he was going to be gone?”

“A while.” She finished the sandwich in quick bites and let out a wide yawn. “How long are you allowed to stay?”

“It’s a dream,” I blurted.

“A dream?”

“A nice dream. Back to your bed now so you can wake up.”

She rubbed her eyes with little fists. “What if I don’t want to wake up?”

“Your daddy will be here when you wake up. Go on then. Up you go.”

She scampered up the staircase. “Night, Mommy!” she called, linking a hand through the wooden rods.

I froze.

“Have a safe trip back to heaven! I’ll miss you!”

She waited, little luminous eyes expectant. My heartbeat thundered.

“Good night,” I croaked.

I felt like I was the one in a dream.

Pleased, she skipped the rest of the way up the stairs. I heard a door close and little feet patter to bed, and only then did I let a breath out. If I wasn’t careful, I thought I might scream.

I left out the same door I came, dishes washed and dried and put away, leaving only quickly fading footprints in the growing snow.

I watched over the house from the edge of the woods, crouched down in the wind with snow buffeting my cheeks, until Graham’s minivan pulled into the driveway thirty-five minutes later. Only then did I make my way home.

A headache pounded at my temples. I’d tossed and turned for hours after my discovery, guilt and shock gnawing competing holes in my ribs, until I finally gave up on sleep.

With a cup of hot tea, I scrolled through news articles. NEW PHYSICAL EDUCATION TEACHER MAKES GREAT LEAPS FOR RAPTURE YOUTH SPORTS and WOMEN’S VARSITY SOCCER COACH LEADS TEAM TO STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS.

And then, LOCAL TEACHER GETS SIX MONTHS COMMUNITY SERVICE.

No marriage records. None in this town or the surrounding counties where he’d supposedly moved before restarting his life here like nothing happened.

Funny how the community could have a selective memory about its monsters.

Jessica Warren, I searched next. Nothing.

Graham and Jessica Warren.

After what felt like hours combing through articles online, one title caught my attention: LEWISTON WOMAN DIES IN HORROR WRECK.

I clicked.

Yesterday evening, Christina Glen was caught in the path of a drunk driver on I-95. Eyewitnesses said the driver was going the wrong way and hit her head-on. Glen was pronounced dead at the scene.

It happened years ago, but my heart sank.

She is survived by her three-month-old daughter, Jessica.

“It’s a tragedy,” a neighbor said when asked for a comment. “Her boyfriend’s devastated. That little girl’s going to grow up without a mom.”

I scrolled down to a picture, and my breath caught.

She looked like me.

Dark hair. Wavy but not quite a curl. Rounded cheeks.

Graham, raising his daughter as a single dad? I couldn’t picture it. He did seem like the kind of guy who was good with kids—until, well, he wasn’t good at all.

A chill ran down my spine. Surely, his own daughter…? He wouldn’t. Right? Would he?

She was so young, I reminded myself. He’d liked them older. Teenagers. It was different.

It had to be different. He was a father. Didn’t parenthood change everything?

I couldn’t reconcile these two images of Graham. He wasn’t a man I’d trust with my daughter, if I had one. Or in a position of power over any minor. My view might be more critical than most, but wouldn’t that make me the most qualified judge?

I didn’t want to even think it, but my mind kept drifting to that little girl asking for a grilled cheese, and I wondered.

chapter
19

Later that morning, the cabin felt claustrophobic. I spent as much time at the house as possible, only returning to the cabin for the fireplace and more functional kitchen. I drove to the grocery store to restock around nine, hoping it would be empty.

I spotted the instant coffee and made a beeline for it, ignoring the glittery plastic snowflakes at the entrance. Surprisingly nimble, Deborah Basil threw her cart in front of mine. She looked at me as she did it.

“I don’t know how they’re still letting you walk around free,” she croaked. “I’ve wondered that all these years.”

I pivoted as if I hadn’t wanted it at all. Do not engage.

Did you throw the brick, Deborah? With those frail hands of yours? Could you have done it?

I’ll stay as long as I damn well please.

I went for the bread, but she was suddenly right where I needed to be. For a woman who had to be well over eighty, Deborah was swift. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t pretend to reach for anything on the shelf. Just stood there blocking the way with her cart. Fingers tight around the handle.

She gave me a little smirk.

I turned away, face hot, and retreated.

Behind my back, she let out a chuckle.

I paused. Took a deep breath.

I reversed course and walked purposefully back to where she was planted.

Her eyes widened. Even if she didn’t give up ground, her body gave away her unease: a great shuddering of the flesh under her neck as I brushed by, rippling like the surface of a pond after a pebble hit.

Her knuckles went white.

I stretched to my full height, leaning right over her smaller frame. My chest brushed her shoulder.

Her eyes were huge. I could count each eyelash.

My fingers plucked the bread from the shelf.

I inspected it thoroughly, still in her space. Once I was satisfied, I gave her a look. An empty sort of look. The kind they watched me for as a child. A look that hinted at nothing good behind the eyes.

“Happy holidays, Deborah.”

On second thought, I turned back to her. She shrank away, sputtering. My hand closed around the instant coffee. Without a backward glance at the stunned woman, I walked to the dairy aisle, whistling a tune.

The whole day, I worried about Graham showing up in a rage. Every noise made me jump. His daughter must have told him about me, right? I couldn’t be that lucky. I wasn’t.

But the hours passed, and he didn’t show.

I threw another hamburger into the woods behind my house and wondered.

I stood watch outside his house that night. A statue in the night. A tree among trees. Never deep enough into the woods to risk any serious damage, just enough to be obscured. He’d put a single candle in every window, tied neatly with a red bow. Battery powered of course, but flickering and alive all the same. Garland was wrapped around the railing of his patio, emphasized with a big red bow.

Behind a gnarled trunk, I learned this new routine, the one with his daughter.

He didn’t look like a monster. He looked the image of a devoted dad. His personal training job obviously afforded him flexible hours to spend with little Jessica. He packed her lunch and picked her up at school every day.

I was convinced if I kept watching, I would see something. Some terrible sign that everyone else had missed. I thought of all the things a responsible adult would have seen between younger me and Graham if only they had cared enough to look. I was already watching him; it was hardly a burden to look out for her too.

Throughout the night, I waited for the signal, for him to step out of line and hurt that little girl. None came.

The next two nights, I returned.

And then I began to doubt.

I watched him say good night to Jess in her room while my ass was wedged between tree branches. Watched him turn her light off. Waited for the glow of the TV to illuminate the living room through the glass sliding door.

In all these things I saw him do, I couldn’t help but notice all the things I didn’t see him do. I didn’t see him anywhere near the cabin or my house. I didn’t see him sneaking around under the cover of darkness. He barely went out in the evenings at all, preferring to spend the time with his daughter. They did homework together and made hot chocolate and had the kind of cozy evenings that made me envious while I froze outside their windows.

I hated to admit it, but all I saw was a family man and hardworking small business owner who had gotten his life together and wanted to do right by his daughter.

If he could evolve and better himself, maybe I could do the same.

But who else could have sent those letters to me in Pennsylvania? Who else could be leaving pictures outside my cabin or stomping all over my gifted earrings?

It just didn’t make sense.

But I couldn’t stop now. I had to know for sure.

So each night, I watched the evening news with him until he turned it off and went to bed.

I couldn’t sleep. The wind blew and sneezed and snarled outside.

I pushed the covers away and sat up, frustrated. I drank from the water glass beside the bed, but it didn’t quite settle my nerves.

I’d thought the on edge feeling of being in Rapture would fade with time, but it didn’t.

I removed my socks and yanked at the blanket until it came untucked from the mattress. I scooted down the sheets until my bare feet dangled over the edge of the bed.

I sighed and sank into the mattress.

That was better.

Glass smashed at the back door.

Terrified, I raced up the stairs.

Mom and Dad weren’t home. They’d left me with the TV remote and instructions to lock all the doors—which I had!

I flew through the hallway and slammed into my room.

I needed to hide. My eyes fell on the bed. My heart raced. Would he mind?

I sucked in a breath and shimmied underneath the mattress, bed skirt brushing my face. I swatted at it and squeezed into the farthest, darkest corner.

Sure, we knew each other, and kept each other company, but invading his personal space like this?

“Sorry,” I whispered.

There was no response.

Downstairs, the voices of men arguing rose from the stairs.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered to myself.

It didn’t make me feel any braver.

“Please don’t let them find me, please don’t let them find me, please don’t—”

Heavy footsteps crept up the stairs.

“You sure there’s no one home?” someone asked loudly.

“Car’s not in the driveway. Family’s probably out to a movie.”

My parents were. But I wasn’t. I shrank back against the wall and squeezed my hand over my mouth.

“I liked the look of that TV. You take that room. I’ll check this one. Remember: Jewelry is good, and cash is king. Check the drawers and under the mattress.”

My heart was sucked up into my lungs. Under the mattress? Oh, no. No, no, no.

Feet padded on the carpet. It was too late to move.

“I’m thinking we do a roundabout. Like that time with Mickey.”

I flinched at how close the voice was.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,” came the answer from Mom and Dad’s room.

My underwear drawer slid open. Hardly daring to breathe, I peeked under the bed skirt and saw two sneakers in front of my dresser. Another drawer opened, followed by the rest. Socks and pajamas fell to the floor as this man rummaged through my things.

“Remember the mattress!”

“I said I got it!”

I desperately wished I’d thought to grab a knife.

He was so close I could hear him cursing out his partner beneath his breath. The feet drew closer.

A low growl started up beside my left ear.

The hair on the back of my neck rose. I was frozen.

“Jerry, you didn’t say they had a dog!”

From the other room came, “They don’t!”

“I fucking hear it, man.”

The growling grew louder. More guttural. More wet.

“You know I don’t do dogs, man. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Well, I didn’t know they had a dog!”

The growling became snarling. Wet, vicious snarling.

“What kind is it?” was shouted from the next room.

“I don’t know, I can’t see it.”

The flashlight tumbled across the floor.

“Fuck!” he screamed. “It bit me! That damned dog bit me!”

“Where is it?”

“I didn’t see it! It’s too dark. God, I’m bleeding. I can hear it breathing. Must be a big one. Fuuuuck.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here!”

The flashlight was snatched up, and footsteps pounded down the stairs. The back door slammed.

I trembled.

We didn’t have a dog.

chapter
20

“I know it’s a lot to ask on such short notice,” Arthur said over the phone.

I rubbed my eyes. “No, no … it’s just, wow.”

“I hate to push this on you, but it would mean so much to everyone. It was her tradition. A week before the little ones are off for winter break, she hosted this art class. Watercolors, usually. The kids love it. And with her gone…”

“Arthur, I’m really not sure I should be the one—”

“Nonsense, you’re perfect! A real professional painter! Local homegrown talent. I’ll say it’s a special guest teacher this year.” He was practically giddy.

“All right,” I said haltingly. “I’ll do it.”

“Willa, you’re a lifesaver. I’ve got the fliers ready,” Arthur insisted. “And the email list from last year. It’s all handled. Thank you, thank you!”

Fliers. Email lists. Dear God.

I regretted agreeing the moment I hung up the phone. An art class for elementary school kids, open to the public, this Sunday. How was this my life?

The first mother turned around when she saw me in the smock. The second approached hesitantly, her daughter’s hand clutched tightly, and allowed me to point out reference pictures. Her daughter settled at the first table, and three more kids after her, and suddenly the classroom was bustling.

I tried not to think about how this was Mrs. Sloane’s old classroom, and I was wearing her old apron. I privately considered it my new heirloom. Arthur had beamed when he saw me this morning and thanked me profusely.

Lost in thought, I looked up and saw Graham by the door. From behind his legs stepped Jessica.

My stomach dropped.

Her eyes lit up, and I mentally begged her not to say anything.

She opened her mouth.

I held out my hand to head it off, knowing I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stand still and watch my fate hit me like a freight train in the form of a chatty seven-year-old.

“I’m Willa. What’s your name?”

“Jess.” Her brows crinkled in adorable confusion.

“Do you like flowers, Jess?” I pointed out the different models along the table.

Immediately distracted, she perked up. “I like pine cones. Can we do pine cones?”

I glanced back at the references. Not a pine cone in sight. “Well, you’re in luck. I paint for a living, you know. Let me pull a new reference picture, and we’ll go over where to start. What colors do we want to start with? Greens? Browns?”

Her eyes grew large. “For a living? Every day? Whenever you want?”

“All the time.”

Even when I don’t want.

Graham watched the interaction with a careful eye. I studiously ignored his hulking figure in my periphery. Gradually, more children filtered in, and the parents—some I recognized, most I didn’t—gathered in the back to watch like hawks. Graham eventually joined them.

Once everyone was set up at a painting station, giggling and chatting as they painted their masterpieces, I passed out instructions to the parents on where to pick up the drying pieces later in the week.

Rachel arrived and waved, nudging her eldest forward. “We’ve been looking forward to this all week, haven’t we?”

Her daughter nodded silently but earnestly.

Graham chatted with moms who oohed and aahed over his every word.

He fell silent when he took the pamphlet from me. Is it you? I wanted to ask him.

I cleared my throat, trying to find my words, when the door swung open, and a familiar face peered in.

“Hi, Officer Forbes,” Jessica chimed. Most of the kids glanced over and waved.

My eyebrows rose. “Callum. What are you doing here?”

Callum took in the tables of kids painting and crowd of parents. “I couldn’t pass by without a look at this event I’ve been hearing about. It’s all the kids were talking about this week.”

“Oh. You have kids?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “No, I visit the school to talk to the students. This time was stranger danger and winter safety. Although for some reason, all they wanted to know was whether I brought Ricky, our bloodhound.” Callum shrugged, sheepish, and said, “You bring a dog once and they’ll never let you forget it.”

It hit me that I’d never seen him out of uniform before. He looked good. Softer, and more approachable in his dark sweater and parka. His cheekbones had a hint of pink from the wind.

I had the oddest urge to wrap a scarf around his neck.

“Uh-oh,” a little voice said, and I glanced over.

“One second.” I swooped in to catch a spill before it could dribble off the table. Once I’d piled on more newspaper, I looked up to find Callum and Graham eyeing each other.

I smoothed the newspaper on the table down anxiously before returning to Callum’s side.

“You’re running this show by yourself?” he asked.

I cast a glance at the fifteen painters; the kids seemed to be focusing and behaving. All the spills were under control, and everyone seemed to be having fun. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“It’s nice, what you’re doing here.” Callum raised his voice pointedly. “Just in case anyone forgot to say thank you.”

Cue a bunch of hurried, red-faced “thank-yous” from the crowd of hawkeyed parents. One mom laughed and whispered something to Graham, who didn’t reply. His gaze was laser focused on us.

I stammered, and my face heated. “You really don’t have to—”

“A little birdie told me you’re using your own funds to put this on,” Callum continued, speaking to me but not to me. “Those paints sure look nice.”

“The newspapers were donated,” I mumbled, but the parents behind him leaned in, ears pricked.

“It’s not every day a kid can walk in and be taught for free by a famous painter. Does anyone else here have paintings on display in the New York Public Library and the Philadelphia Museum of Art?”

He’d looked me up. My cheeks burned.

The murmuring picked up, this time sounding more impressed.

“Philadelphia!” a young boy inexplicably screamed at the top of his lungs, and I laughed, the sound emerging as an involuntary bark.

From the corner of the room, Rachel grinned, a knowing twinkle in her eye. The expression threw me, because I hadn’t seen anything like that on her face in years.

I could feel my face getting hotter. I glanced at Callum, only to find him already watching me. He held up one of Arthur’s fliers. “You’re here until three?”

I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I wiped nonexistent paint on Mrs. Sloane’s apron. “Yep.”

“I’ll see you at three. I imagine you could use another pair of hands to clean up.”

I blinked. “Oh, you really don’t have to.”

Callum held my gaze. “I want to.”

I swallowed. “Thank you,” I whispered, nearly inaudible.

He opened his mouth and—

“Miss Willa!” Jess cried, and I glanced over. She pointed excitedly at her painting.

I shrugged apologetically to Callum.

“Duty calls,” he said. “I get it. I’ll see you later.” And then he was gone before I could utter another word.

I was touched by Callum’s gesture. Whether it was an apology for the squatting accusation—which I’d long put out of my mind—or a reaction to the rude exchanges he’d caught around town, it was nice to feel seen.

I cleared my throat and peered over Jess’s shoulder. “That is a very fashionable purple pine cone. I like your vision.” Graham was back to chatting it up with the moms. I perched on the seat next to Jessica and lowered my voice.

“Do you know what a mural is?” I asked, swapping out her cup for clean water.

Those little inquisitive eyes latched on to a word she didn’t know. “A mural?”

“It’s a painting done on a wall instead of paper. The whole wall is the painting.”

Jess’s nose wrinkled as she thought about it. “Like by the inn?”

I fought to remember. A vague picture of a painted sunset lingered somewhere just out of reach. “Exactly like that.” I swiped a stream of purple with a towel before it could dribble off the table. “Don’t you think it looks much better than a white wall?”

She nodded rapidly.

I smiled and sent her home to her dad’s pristine home and his white walls.

Long after Joe left for the day, I roamed the old house, unable to settle. The more we worked on it, the more it stank of unfinished business. I constantly looked over my shoulder while painting, as if I weren’t alone.

I needed to shake the feeling.

Or embrace it.

My feet carried me up the stairs to the dusty gray carpet of my old bedroom.

In the fading light, the carpet was striped from the shadows cast by the metal slats. I traced along one with a fingertip.

“It’s me again, Elliot.” I shouldered my way under the bed. “Joe’s been doing a good job with fixing up the place, hasn’t he?”

I cracked my back and tried to get comfortable.

“I always liked how you talked to me when I was little. Everything seemed so scary back then. Even the basement. Especially the basement. Do you remember the fits I used to throw when Mom and Dad made me go down there?” I smiled a little. “You always made me feel better afterward.”

I stifled a yawn.

“Besides, the people in the basement never talked to me.”

I dug my nails into the carpet.

“Not like you did. I still can’t bring myself to go into the basement, you know. I think they’re still there. I can hear them sometimes.” I sighed. “Why are they still here when you’re gone?”

I stared through the bed frame at the ceiling. I imagined this being my only view for fifteen years and felt sick with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I left you. You were a friend to me. Before anyone else was. I never thanked you for that. Do you still remember me?” I closed my eyes and imagined I was back then. “Are you still here?”

No one answered me, of course.

“I worry that even if you are here, I can’t hear you anymore.”

My eyes watered, and I let my thoughts drift. Was it really such an impossible wish to find one part of this town exactly as I’d left it? To have someone who loved me waiting for me with open arms?

Someone mumbled to my right. Three syllables, too faint for me to make out.

I snapped to attention.

“Did you say something? Elliot, was that you?” My heart rabbited, and I patted at the carpet. “It was easier to hear you when I was little, wasn’t it?”

I could have sworn it sounded like someone muttered under their breath, but was it just the noises of an old house?

“Have you been here all this time? Do you hate me?”

I closed my eyes and tried to reach out with my ears.

Thunk.

I came to with a start.

It was pitch black. I leveraged myself upright, but my face bounced off something cold and hard. I shrank back to the ground—carpet?—and patted at whatever my face had collided with. It was only an inch or so above my nose. Claustrophobia began to creep in. Had I woken up inside my own coffin?

Oh.

Of course.

I was still under the bed.

Feeling along with my fingertips, I dragged myself along the carpet like a slug. I banged my hip as I slithered out and rubbed my sore spine.

I felt around for the edges of the room and clicked the light switch. The bulbs were burnt out.

I sighed.

I dragged a hand against the drywall as I tiptoed down the stairs. As if there were someone I might wake up.

The wind howled, and the screen door slammed.

With a sigh, I located my keys on the kitchen counter, locked up, threw a hamburger into the woods, and started the short drive back to the cabin.

An hour later, I was bundled up in Graham’s backyard—my usual spot. Mounds of snow that had slid from the trees lent me cover.

Graham was agitated. I shifted for a better look. I was later than usual, and I’d clearly missed something.

There, on the wall going up the stairs: Three flowers were scrawled in sloppy paint. Mucking up his spotless white walls. Graham had stopped dead in his tracks, looking at it. The angle was wrong to see his face, but he was fuming. I could tell.

My throat constricted. Fuck—what was I thinking? Bringing his daughter into this? I trembled, thinking of what my own father’s reaction would have been.

I’d done this.

I fled his property.

I was parched. No, I was dying of thirst. That’s what I told myself, at least. I was eleven, it was late September, and I’d been in the woods all morning. Mom had waved me off, phone pressed to her ear, when I pointed to the back door. Dad was still asleep upstairs.

Saturday mornings in the woods were calm. They felt peaceful, just me out here.

But it was unseasonably hot today, and I hadn’t brought water.

I was dizzy. There was a wetness on my leg. I looked down and sucked in a breath. There was blood on my leg. Mom was going to be so mad. I touched it, looking for the source of the bleeding. Had the thorny bushes cut through my jeans? I pressed on the bright red stain.

It didn’t hurt.

This wasn’t blood.

It was juice. I pressed my hand against the stain and sniffed it. It smelled sweet. I crouched down. The bushes I’d just passed through were heavy with clusters of shiny red berries.

Those would taste so good. Refreshing.

I brushed aside the leaves—green, tapering to a pointed tip—and plucked a berry.

I brought it to my lips.

The forest screamed. A branch smacked my face. I dropped the berry with a cry and wiped at the stinging sensation.

Terror propelled me forward, and I sprinted back to the house.

Mom gasped when she saw me.

It was another three weeks before I worked up the courage to go back into the woods. They were quiet, like nothing had happened at all.

“Careful with those.”

I leapt from my daydream, straightening to face an older man who was walking his terrier. They both eyed me warily. The streetlight above cast us in an orange halo.

“What was that?”

“Winterberry,” he said. “Poisonous. Causes your throat to burn. Will give you heart and breathing trouble.” He peered critically at me. “You looking for that kind of trouble?”

“No,” I said, brushing off my hands. I was still on Graham’s street, walking back to my car. The berries had caught my eye. What was I thinking, getting distracted here? “No. Excuse me.”

Before he could ask what I was doing out here, I hurried off.

I returned the next night to watch the evening news with Graham. I couldn’t watch him every moment of every day, but I could try. Luckily it wasn’t a Tuesday night, so I didn’t risk glimpsing Nathaniel’s obnoxious show.

I changed my angle, concealing myself in my favorite bushes, and stopped in my tracks. On the stairs, the flowers staining the wall hadn’t been scrubbed off. Instead, a simple black frame had been fastened over them. Showcasing Jess’s flowers like a work of art.

My throat felt thick, and I faced a painful truth.

He was a good dad.

He loved his daughter.

He wasn’t the same man I knew.

The TV flicked off. Early tonight. He crossed the room out of view. I craned my neck to see where he’d gone. On my hands and knees, muscles sore from strain, I heard it.

“Willa?”

The voice came from the forest. I didn’t dare turn.

“Willa?” it repeated, breathless.

It sounded like—

I turned. In the woods was a face. A woman. One I distantly recognized.

The journalist.

Joyce.

“You,” I breathed, and my fists clenched. She was the one who had started it all. This latest media frenzy. Trapped me in my own house, in my own life, leaving no escape but to the place I wanted to go least.

Joyce Kimura took a step back. She eyed me with a wary frown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” she countered, eyes wide and guarded as she took me in.

“Come for another story?” I asked, mouth twisting.

Joyce did a slow turn, looking from the woods to the house, and back at me. “Something like that.”

My heart thudded dizzyingly. I’d been caught. I couldn’t process the thought. I’d been caught, and by an investigative reporter. Headlines danced in front of my eyes on the snow and over the skin of Joyce’s face.

I glanced back at the house—if Graham looked out his window, he’d see us both in plain view.

Joyce’s gaze followed mine.

I fled to the street, trying to hunch a bit under tree cover without looking like I was doing it.

Joyce followed, obviously trying to puzzle out what I was doing. “You haven’t been seen at your house in days. I told my editor I was coming here, and he was sure I’d be wasting my time. But you’re really here, aren’t you?” she mused.

She wasn’t dressed for the weather. Jacket too thin, shoes not waterproof. Soaked to the calf from the snow.

“Did you follow me out here?” I asked once we were out of view.

Instead of answering, she said, “This is not what I expected to find.”

I ducked into the public park down the street. My car was shielded under a snow-covered branch. On the other side of the lot, I spied a car that hadn’t been there before.

“Why are you here, Joyce?”

“Who is he?”

My already bad mood soured. How long had she been watching?

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The reality of the situation started to seep in. A journalist had caught me snooping. Was the rest of her team about to jump out of hiding, cameras ready? Were scores of reporters about to descend upon Rapture?

I countered her question with one of my own. “Are there more of you? Just tell me. Is this place about to turn into a circus?”

Joyce held my gaze for a few long moments. “No,” she said finally. “Just me.”

I don’t know if I believed her.

I unlocked my car and glanced back. She was still watching me, arms folded.

“A word of advice. Stay out of the woods. You don’t know what you’ll run into.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

I got in the car without looking back.

Early the next morning, I finished Mrs. Sloane’s painting. I knew in my bones this was the one. I left the room and returned, over and over, imagining I was seeing it for the first time.

“A memorial?” I repeated into the phone.

“Yes, it’s a wonderful idea, don’t you think? A public unveiling of the painting. Everyone’s curious about it!” Arthur exclaimed.

I’d imagined a private setting, but I swallowed my pride and said, “Sure.”

“The high school gymnasium,” Arthur continued. “On the twenty-third. Right before Christmas. You know how she loved Christmas. Short notice, but I’ll get the invites out quick.”

He was lonely, I realized. Grasping for human connection.

“You’ll say a few words, won’t you? Stay for a coffee and doughnut social after?”

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

There was one more thing I couldn’t leave this town without doing.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets. I’d forgotten my gloves. The wind whistled through my hair.

“Hey. It’s been a while. Your mother retired from teaching and started a café. You must be really proud.”

I rubbed my arms. It was freezing. “Lots of changes around here, right? Remember when we used to hang out by the soccer field? Now it’s a dress store—Can you believe that? Sometimes I feel like I don’t recognize this place, Jeremy.”

It was dark for the middle of the afternoon.

“And what about you, Wendy? Your brother’s a cop! Gun and everything.” I inhaled deeply. “Time flies. I’ve been painting lately. A lot. It’s my job now. Full time, can you believe it? I live in Pennsylvania. It’s a bit of a drive, but … that’s no excuse. I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see you.”

I swallowed and forced myself to look at the headstones. Six that stood apart from the rest: Jeremy Landon, Wendy Sun, Kaylee Granger, Tina Hudson, Nate Martinez, and Kennedy Brennan. Different birth dates, death dates identical copies.

“Kaylee, I’m working on a painting for Mrs. Sloane’s memorial. I know you remember her. Finished it, actually. Do you think she’ll like it? It’s—”

“Hey, get away from there!”

I stiffened and looked for the source of the cry. An older woman with a scarf over half her face shuffled toward me. Was she talking to me? I didn’t see anyone else in her line of sight.

I turned away, frowning.

“Hey!”

A stone hit the grass and skittered past my feet—I jumped back, stunned.

“You get away from those kids’ graves right now. You’ve done enough. Out!” She swatted at me with her cane like I was a dog.

In moments, I was surrounded. I took a few steps back, but the glares only grew more pronounced, the frowns deeper, the faces twisting. Lily Sun was among the faces. Esme Granger planted herself in front of her sister Kaylee’s headstone.

“I have a right to be here.” It came out hoarse, dying only a few inches from my lips.

Another stone clattered at my feet.

“Get out of here, murderer!” Esme shouted.

It was a shocking word to throw out there, but once it was spoken, the rest were emboldened, crowding in, snarling at me.

I glanced around wildly. I wasn’t too far from the parking lot, but I was boxed in and—

“Killer!”

Deborah Basil—where the hell had she come from?

“Child killer!” another yelled, until the vortex of their voices was all I could hear.

Lily Sun was silent, but her cold stare said it all.

A rock glanced off my arm and stung.

Aghast, I stared at these faces. My neighbors—how could they?

I scrambled back, but they didn’t give way, and I was tottering on my feet and tripped over the rock. I hit the ground hard. A sharp pain went up my spine, knees clacking onto the stone pathway.

A gasp went through the crowd. A collective, stunned noise, followed by a holding of the breath.

It was silent as I tried to push off the ground with my arms and only succeeded in slipping onto my hip. A messy, bleeding imprint of my knee was left on the snow-covered stone.

Face hot and eyes smarting, I felt every eye on me.

“Come on.”

I didn’t recognize the voice at first, not until I blinked and Joyce, the reporter, was crouching down beside me. Her face was solemn.

She sent a dark look to the crowd and pulled me up.

And then we were moving.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“We’re getting out of here.”

Joyce shuffled with me, her jacket draped over my head, a gentle but firm hand guiding me.

Her hand tightened on my shoulder.

“Move!” she snapped, and for a second, I thought she was talking to me, before the offender—Esme—darted out of the way, eyes wide.

“You!” Joyce snapped, “put your phone down! Did it occur to you that you’ve just filmed an assault? No? Guess you have rocks for brains then too. You know what kind of jail time you can get for assault?”

I didn’t see who it was, as Joyce kept her jacket over my face while we hobbled forward. Her heeled boots clicked on pavement as we reached the parking lot.

She threw open the passenger side door to a black SUV and ushered me inside.

“Buckle your seat belt.”

She slammed the car door with more force than necessary and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine purred. I looked down at the mud on my hands and rattled off my address, but she didn’t seem to need my directions. Figures the journalist already knew where I lived.

There was no conversation. No words exchanged. Joyce took deep breaths, eyes fixed on the road. I started to shiver, pants thoroughly soaked from melted snow, and she cranked the heat up.

It wasn’t long before we arrived at my childhood home. We sat there for a few moments in silence. I pushed open the door, but my knees buckled under me.

Joyce was out of the car and beside me in an instant, taking my weight. “It’s not right how they treat you.”

I gave her a flat look and extricated myself from her grip. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite woman.

“I’m fine. Just caught me off guard.”

Her own coat was covered in mud from my hands.

I sighed. Hemmed and hawed. Considered and reconsidered.

Closed my eyes.

“Come inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Has it always been like this?” Joyce asked, peering around my living room as she scrubbed at her coat. Her hair was down, and her face was flushed from the hot tea we were drinking.

“Like what?”

She gave up on the coat and plopped on the couch to sip her tea. Steam curled around the edges of her face.

“The way these people treat you. What was that back there?”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. This again.

“No, seriously. It’s appalling.”

“Joyce, you can’t be that surprised. You seemed fully informed when you came to my house under false pretenses for your sound bite.”

She had the good sense to look a bit ashamed. “Not like this. I knew there was public scrutiny and intense speculation about your role in what happened with the Rapture Mystery Slayings, but this is…” She struggled for words. “This is your hometown. Your people. I just thought…”

She waited, like I would fill in the blank for her. I gave her nothing.

“That they’d have your back.”

I scoffed and continued wiping blood from my knee. “They’ve never had my back.”

Why was I blurting all this out to a journalist? I’d lost my mind.

“Look, they were nasty then, and they’re nasty now. Do we have to keep talking about this?”

“Then why are you back?”

I sighed. “A teacher of mine passed away. I came back for her funeral, and now that I’m here, I’m getting the house ready for the market and tying up some loose ends.”

Joyce glanced around. “You’re selling this place?”

“If I’m lucky. It needs some work, and this isn’t exactly a town people are tripping over themselves to move to. I’d rather it didn’t go to some true crime fanatic, but at the end of the day, I don’t know how much choice I’ll have.”

“You’ll return to Pennsylvania then?”

I blinked at her. “Of course I will.”

Joyce pursed her lips. I settled onto the couch beside her. “Is your back all right?” she asked. “You looked like you fell hard. Do you want to see a doctor?”

“It’s all right. It’ll bruise, but nothing serious. It could’ve been worse.”

“It could’ve been much worse,” she said, then hesitated. “Look, I—”

THUMP.

Joyce jumped, tea spilling from the rim of her cup.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” She lunged for a paper towel.

I sipped my tea, fluttering a hand. “It’s fine. Carpet’s not exactly new.”

She patted at the carpet anyway and tossed the paper towel in the garbage, drying her hands just as—

THUMP.

She looked at me lounging on the couch. I looked at her. Brought the mug to my lips.

Her head swiveled to the side.

“I think—I think that noise is coming from over there.”

I hummed noncommittally. “Where did you say you’re staying again? The inn downtown?”

Joyce didn’t seem to hear me. Her feet didn’t make a sound as she padded over the carpet, through the kitchen, and around the corner, as if pulled toward the basement door.

“What’s behind this door, Willa?” She pressed an ear to the wood.

“The basement is off-limits.”

Joyce nearly leapt out of her skin at my proximity. “I thought I heard something.” Her hand was on the doorknob.

“It’s private.”

She frowned at me. “Don’t you want to know what that was?”

“It’s an old house.”

The screen door slammed, startling us both. I sent her a warning glance as I went to fix the latch.

She slipped me her business card before she left. “If you ever want to talk—about any of it—I’m in town for a few more days. Or even after. Call anytime.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for the tea,” was thrown over her shoulder.

“Joyce,” I called after her. “About earlier, I’d appreciate if you didn’t, you know…”

All the air fizzled out of her. “I’ll come up with something else for my editor.”

With a final look into the house behind me, she smiled thinly and stepped into the cold night.

I shuffled up the stairs, shaking out my cold hands as I slipped into my childhood bedroom. I sank to my knees and squeezed myself beneath the bed.

“It’s been a tough day, Elliot.” I sniffled, like I was a little kid again. My parents weren’t here. Mrs. Sloane wasn’t here. Maybe Elliot still was. “I could really use a friend.”

My throat felt thick, like tears were coming.

“It would mean a lot to me if you said something. Anything, really. I’d just like to hear your voice.”

The wind picked up outside, but the bedroom held its breath.

“Elliot?”

My voice wavered, and I scrubbed at my eyes, feeling foolish. I was many years too late to recapture the feeling of comfort this place had once had. I was alone in an empty house with only my memories for company.

I went lax against the carpet, breathing through my nose to stave off the prickle of tears. The wind intensified. In, out. In, out. In—

“It’s only the woods,” Wendy laughed, brown eyes gleaming, as she climbed out of the driver’s seat. “You sound like my mother.”

I glanced out over the trees, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. The sun had long since set, and barely visible tree branches clicked against each other in the wind. “You said Nate’s already there?”

“Yes. See, his car’s parked over there.”

I squinted. I saw the car, but there wasn’t a single light visible in the forest. Only tree trunks and their shadows stretching into the night. “How far did you say the barn is?”

“Not far. Maybe a quarter mile?”

“Through the woods in the dark? That’s kind of far.”

“If you twist your ankle, I’m sure Nate wouldn’t mind princess carrying you back to the car.”

I rolled my eyes. Wendy shone her flashlight in my eyes, and I spluttered.

“Come on! Kennedy showed me the way.”

I trailed after her, blinking white spots from my vision.

From the black abyss ahead, a whistle pierced the night.

The crunching of Wendy’s boots on dead leaves paused.

I sat up violently, smacking my head on the metal bed frame. That night had been years ago, but the details remained crisp. That was my punishment. Rubbing my forehead, I dragged myself downstairs for another cup of tea. And to convince myself that watching Eye of Lennox tonight was a bad idea.

I looked down at my clipboard, checking off another name. “Thank you, enjoy your masterpiece. Happy holidays.”

To my surprise, the mother smiled at me. Her son babbled in delight as he held his lily watercolor over his head. The next parent stepped up to my table.

I’d picked up my car at the cemetery early in the morning and driven it home. Pulled myself together enough to set up a table inside the Daily Grind after school dismissal.

Molly passed out coffee to exhausted parents, watching with interest. She drew closer when there was a lull at my table. “I’m not much of a painter, but I draw sometimes. It’s not much, but maybe you’d like to take a look? Give me your opinion as a professional artist, I mean.”

Molly said it like a confession, anxiously watching my face.

“That’s a little outside my wheelhouse—” Her face dropped, and I quickly course corrected. “But I’d love to take a look.”

Molly glanced over her shoulder and whipped out her phone. I braced myself to smile and nod through a poorly drawn flower.

When she turned the screen, my breath caught in my throat.

She’d drawn the woods.

Brought to life in shades of gray and careful, sloping lines, it was an eerily realistic sketch. My wide eyes hooked on all the little graphite details from the blades of grass to the towering branches. I couldn’t look away.

The hand holding the phone trembled. “It’s awful,” Molly jumped in. “I knew it.”

“No! You really have something there. Where did you learn to do that?”

“I’ve taken some online classes here and there, but I’m hoping to attend a program in person one day. Somewhere outside of Rapture, I mean.”

“You’re really talented, Molly. That’s something to be pr—”

The chime at the door rang, and Molly shushed me. Her phone disappeared into her pocket. “Don’t tell anyone. I’m not ready to share it. But I wanted you to know.” On second thought, she added, “Thank you.”

Rachel waved from the doorway, her daughter glued to her leg. Molly hastened to take her order, cheeks red. I stared after her.

Rachel approached, hot coffee in hand, while her daughter scampered away. “How are you?”

“Fine, Rachel.”

“It’s a good thing you’re doing here.”

“I know.”

Rachel lowered her voice. “Really, how are you doing? I’ve been thinking about you since the funeral. Honestly, I expected you’d be out of town by now.”

I gave her a look. “It was hard coming back, but it was the right thing to do.” I checked off her daughter’s name on my list. “Now take her watercolor and have a good day.”

Rachel rolled her eyes and took the painting.

“You better put that on the fridge!” I called after her.

Lisa Landon emerged from the bathroom and watched without comment. Another group of adults and children entered the café, including Graham’s daughter minus Graham, and I waved them forward.

Callum hovered at the door. I sent him a questioning look, but he didn’t approach until the last three families at my table had cleared out.

“No coffee today?” I raised an eyebrow at his empty hands. “Hey, thanks again for helping me out the other day at the art class. That was really kind of you.”

Callum smiled a bit, but it looked strained. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, and his face sobered. “A report’s been filed.”

I stiffened. A spark of pain went up my back.

“Willa … did someone throw a rock at you?”

I took a sip of water as I thought the question over. He was an officer of the law. Anything I said to him was evidence. Lisa was cleaning the counter vigorously when I glanced over.

“Who filed the report?” I asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

Callum gave me a look.

I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or grudgingly grateful at Joyce’s audacity.

I visualized public charges, an arrest, all the stares in a courtroom. I considered my skinned knee and the ache in my back.

I sighed and gave up the pretense. “I’m not interested in pressing charges. If someone did throw a rock, which I’m not saying they did.”

Callum’s eyes held mine, something swirling in their depths. “I encourage you to think about that and get back to me. I’m here to talk. Anytime.”

I forced a smile, but it might have been a grimace.

He sighed. “Are you all right?”

“I said I don’t want to—”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you’re all right.”

All the wind blew out of my sails. “Right. I’m fine. Thanks.” I rubbed at my eyes and wondered what I was doing in this miserable town. “I’m done here. That was my last pickup. Walk me to my car?”

Callum didn’t say anything, but I felt him following at my heel. I popped the trunk and tossed in my empty bags.

His eyes landed on my duffel. His gaze sharpened. “Is it that bad?” he asked suddenly. “Is it unbearable?”

“What?”

“You think I can’t see what’s right in front of my face? Are you leaving?”

I ignored the real question. “I’m just moving the rest of my belongings into the house. I was staying out by the Greenley farm, but my place has been patched up enough for me to set up shop.”

He hummed as I slammed the trunk.

“Hey, Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to your window?”

I stiffened.

“I noticed it had plastic on it the other day. Like it had been replaced.”

“It needed replacing.”

Fuck this town. Fuck it for making me the bearer of its secrets and its victim all rolled into one.

Esme, parking her car a few spaces away, sent me a glare.

“Does everyone treat you like that?” Callum’s eyes followed her.

“It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing.”

“It’s just how it is, okay?” My tone was too sharp, and I knew it the instant the words left my mouth. “I’m sorry.” No need to alienate yet another person.

“No wonder you need a breather sometimes.” At my blank look, he elaborated. “At the grocery store. In the parking lot. With Mrs. Basil. If that’s how I was greeted in my hometown, I’d need a breather too.”

Our faces were inches away. I looked down. My hand was on his arm. The muscles flexed.

“Sorry,” I whispered into the space between us.

His pupils were huge.

“Drop the report. I’m not interested,” I whispered and got in the car. He stood there, watching me drive away.

“Molly went into the woods after her shift. She hasn’t been seen since.” Rachel’s voice was a whisper over the phone. “I thought you should know.”

The line clicked.

I don’t know how long I stood with the phone to my ear.

chapter
21

I slammed the car door and stalked into the woods. How dare it? How dare it take Molly?

Dead leaves and snow crunched under my boots. The evening grew darker as the trees grew denser. I shook with anger. Not Molly, not when it already had her sister.

A tree branch ahead of me snapped. I paused, chest heaving, trying to identify where it came from. I headed in the approximate direction with renewed vigor.

Deeper and deeper into the woods I went. The light was diffused, a glow reflected up from the snow underfoot.

A sound like a long, croaky moan rose from the depths of the forest.

“What the hell is that?”

I couldn’t see Wendy’s face, only the beam of her flashlight skimming the forest floor.

“Let’s just get to the barn. I’m cold.”

“I thought you liked the woods,” she muttered. “Rachel told me about it.”

My head snapped to her. “Rachel told you about what?”

“Isn’t that what you do? Talk to the woods?”

I ran toward the noise.

“You wanted me here!” I called. “I heard you. I’m here!”

I trudged deeper, snow up to my calves. It soaked my pants over the top of my boots, clammy and freezing against my skin.

“Hello? I know you know I’m here!”

My breath froze on my eyelashes.

A rumbling started around me. Trees vibrated with the force of it, dusty curtains of snow spilling off branches.

“I’ve come to see you, just like you wanted!” My shout echoed through the sticks and rocks and snow. “You’ve wanted me back here since that night. Is that why you took Molly? To get my attention?”

Deeper now.

The rumbling became groaning, more guttural.

“What are you trying to say? Say it! Spit it out!”

Only a senseless jumble of noise followed.

“It’s been years! What do you want from me?”

A cacophony of disembodied moans answered me.

“You want to reminisce? To bring up the past? Unfinished business?” My voice grew louder with every word. “Like old friends?”

It was hard work, a slog like this, through the snow. My boots sank deeper with every step. My ankles were made of ice.

“I was your friend!” I screamed. “Why did you do it? Why did you take them? They were just kids. How could you?”

The groaning grew louder, coming from all directions. Trees quivered with the force of it.

My nose was red and wet. “And now you’ve taken Molly? Her sister wasn’t enough?”

I braced myself on a tree, ragged and exhausted. I was a shell of a person, thinking of a party in the woods a decade and a half ago.

“If you were so hungry, why didn’t you take me?”

The forest went quiet.

I didn’t recognize myself, this screaming woman I’d become.

I wasn’t the one who had turned on the land I’d called home and killed its children. The same children who once played in the forests, carefree little sprites. And left another child to carry the blame for the rest of her miserable life.

I fell to my knees. “Take me! Just give Molly back, please. Take me! Take me! TAKE—”

The noise started again, so loudly I jerked backward and plunged my hand into the snow. Collective vocalizations, some high, some low, some shrieking, some grunting, some no more than a growl. It washed over me as I spun in all directions and spat out rogue strands of hair, squinting against the wind.

My hand felt hot; I turned it over and saw blood. The ice hadn’t cut deeply, but it bled profusely.

Something shifted behind a tree.

I moved to the right, and it moved with me.

I sprang to the left, branches scraping my face, pulling at my hair, as if to hold me back, but I kept my eyes locked on my target.

Half hidden behind a tree, there was a man. He wore all black and stood perfectly still, scarecrow-like.

The instant my eyes fell on him, all noise vanished. The growls, the shrieking wind, the groaning—all silenced. As if a storm had cleared, replaced with a cloudless day.

Heart pounding, I tried to get a better look at him. Who the hell was that?

I’d been turned around chasing the noise, but a quick scan of a nearby rock formation and a little heart-shaped clearing told me exactly where I was. These were the woods of my childhood after all, of endless hours of amusement. I knew exactly what direction he’d come from. The same direction I’d come from. The same direction my car was parked.

In fact, the path of my footsteps led right back to the man. He’d followed me.

I squinted, and what I saw made my heart beat in triple-time.

He was wearing a ski mask.

I took a step back.

He took a step forward.

My heart started to pound with a different kind of terror.

The man leaned forward, as if to lunge.

Just then, I felt how deep I was into the woods. I’d come for one kind of confrontation, with the horror I knew, not whatever this new terror was. I hadn’t considered I was isolating myself with an entirely different threat.

I was a long, long way from my car.

I turned tail and ran. He followed. Snow crunched under my boots. He was between me and the car, but there were other ways to double back. I was extraordinarily glad I hadn’t gone farther, pushing into the deepest parts of the woods where drop-offs into the local gorge would make evasive maneuvers impossible.

The snow was past my knees. It was like running in a dream. Twice the effort and none of the progress.

Miraculously, every time I glanced back to check his progress, no branches whacked my face. I never lost my way. I continued on a roundabout path back to the road.

He was running now too.

What the actual fuck was this?

I burst from the trees and saw it—my car, parked right where I’d left it. A dusting of new snow covered the windshield. Thank everything there is for my years spent exploring these woods and an impeccable sense of direction.

Numb from the ankle down, I pushed as fast as I could go. I threw myself into the car, with shivering limbs and snot running down my face and started the engine. Blood streaked across the steering wheel.

I slammed on the gas, and the car lurched forward. I could hardly see through the snow on the windshield. The car slid around a turn, and I nearly took out a stop sign.

Undoubtedly a danger to myself and others, but by God, there was a danger to myself and others right behind me.

Then I was in my driveway. I couldn’t say how I got there.

With badly shaking hands, I got the key in the front door and locked myself inside.

I awoke to a terrible pounding in the night.

My first thought was a profound certainty it was coming from the basement.

BANG BANG BANG, a thunder through the walls.

Flashes of a man in a ski mask ran through my head as I forced myself upright, neck crooked from where I’d curled up in the fetal position on the couch.

It was coming from the front door. A vague shape shifted through the frosted glass.

Just one night, I thought. One night of peace. That’s all I want.

I doubled back for a dusty bread knife from the kitchen and flung open the door.

Callum, in full uniform, was on my front porch. His gun was drawn. It was that sight, more than anything, that snapped me fully awake.

I froze.

“Oh, hello—” I floundered with the knife.

“Willa,” he breathed. Looked intently at my face, scanned my rumpled clothes—I self-consciously touched my pants, suddenly aware I was still wearing the same clothes as my romp in the woods—and peered into the house behind me.

I looked back. Who else did he expect to find answering the door so late?

“Are you—You know it’s the middle of the night, right?”

“I thought—” his mouth snapped closed.

Callum regarded me silently. More intently than I was comfortable with. I cleared my throat when the silence drew on too long.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, finally holstering his gun.

He looked a bit embarrassed. His eyes drifted behind me again, like he thought I wasn’t alone.

I couldn’t help the reflex; I glanced back too. I set the knife aside and pulled my jacket tighter around me. I’d slept in it. The seams were probably imprinted on my skin.

“Why do you have a knife?”

“I just—You startled me.”

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

The street behind him was devoid of life. A single streetlight cast an orange glow where the pavement ended.

I wanted to say something witty and possibly a little offensive about ordering a cop stripper, but I was too tired to formulate the joke.

Callum’s throat clicked when he swallowed.

Was he waiting for me to invite him in? Was that something people did when attractive men showed up uninvited in the wee hours of the morning?

Creeeeak.

My jaw twitched, but I didn’t turn.

Callum stiffened. “Is someone else here?”

“It’s only me.”

He didn’t look like he believed me.

“Your door. I was driving by on my patrol route and saw it.”

I stepped outside, socks on the cold porch, to see what he saw.

Blood was smeared across the door handle, a shocking spread of red brown. I looked down at my hand. The wound had formed a line down my palm. I wiped at it, and Callum’s eyes followed the movement.

“What happened?”

He sounded almost angry.

“I fell on the ice earlier and cut myself. I didn’t realize—I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll get that cleaned up. I can’t believe I didn’t see that.”

“Willa,” he said quietly, “did you really fall on the ice?”

I gave him a look. “That’s what I said.”

The screen door creaked as I adjusted my weight.

“If someone pushed you—”

“They didn’t.”

We stared at each other.

“You should have your hand looked at.”

I held it up to the light. Needed a good wash, but nothing deep. “It’ll be fine.”

“Willa—”

“It’s really just a scratch—”

“I have a first aid kit in the car. Allow me.”

I wasn’t sure why I let him, but he retrieved the kit, and I opened my door to him.

He glanced around at the living room decades out of date and made no comment. We settled at the kitchen table, and he painstakingly cleaned the cut.

The antiseptic stung.

Callum’s thumb stroked in a soothing motion as he bandaged me up. I wasn’t sure if he was conscious of doing it.

I shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

Should I tell him about the man in the woods? Would he believe me if I did?

Was it Graham out there? It had to be, right? But I couldn’t figure out why he would wear a mask. Why bother hiding his identity when it was just the two of us playing this game? If this was a warning to stay away from his house where his daughter lived, an attempt to scare me off, wouldn’t he want me to know exactly who was doing the scaring?

My head pounded with exhaustion.

“There,” Callum said, jerking me from my thoughts. He smoothed the bandage down. “Good for another hundred thousand miles.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. I mean it. You can call me anytime.” He handed me a slip of paper. “My personal number.”

I examined it, and when I looked up, his face was so close. For one ridiculous moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

Creeeeak.

We leapt apart.

“What was that?”

My smile turned brittle. This fucking house.

“It’s an old house.”

The screen door slammed.

“I thought I got that fixed,” I murmured, rising to my feet. Heat rose in my cheeks. “I’ll see you around, then?”

I led him to the door. He seemed reluctant to leave.

“Wait.” He turned quickly, like he’d expected it. “Molly. Is she—Did they find her?”

Callum’s brow furrowed. He almost looked disappointed.

“Molly’s fine.”

My heart thudded.

“I saw her at Reggie’s tonight. Why did you think something had happened to her?”

“I thought she went into the woods.”

“People hike, Willa.”

Not around here.

“Good night, Callum,” I sighed.

“Good night.”

I wiped the door thoroughly with paper towels, grimacing at the mess. It wasn’t even the middle of the night as I’d assumed. The sun was down, but my phone read barely past nine.

The cop car remained outside for another hour. I waited for him to leave, and when he did, I tossed the last burger from the pack into the woods and opened my contacts.

The knock came at half past midnight. A dusting of snow drifted in through the door onto the carpet.

“Hi,” Rachel said, standing on my porch with a scarf over her hair. The tip of her nose was red. How long had she stood outside, debating whether to turn back?

“Come in.”

Her white SUV had reindeer antlers sprouting from the front windows. I did a double take.

Rachel slipped off her boots and brushed back her scarf, eyeing the house with a familiar wariness that struck me as nostalgic. How could I forget she had nearly as many memories of this place as me?

Her eyes swept the walls, the stairs, the living room to her right and dining room to her left.

“It looks different.”

“Joe’s doing the renovation. I want it done before I head back out.”

“Joe does good work,” she hummed. “Are you going to sell it?”

“I don’t know what else I’d do with it.”

Rachel smiled sympathetically.

“You looking to buy?” I asked, only half joking.

She flashed a real smile. “My husband and I live over by the cemetery. I can’t see us outgrowing that place anytime soon. We have more space than we need.”

Another silence settled over us. We hovered in the entryway, not quite comfortable around each other.

“Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?”

“I’m fine.”

I took her coat and locked the door behind her.

“I brought what you asked for.” Rachel withdrew a thick black book from her tote. Rapture High School Yearbook.

I reached for it, but she retracted her hand.

“Why do you want this?”

I sighed and motioned for her to sit on the couch. She did so cautiously, eyes sliding around the room.

“I went into the woods.”

The simple sentence hung between us. Rachel’s eyes, which had been examining divots in the carpet, swung to mine. She looked at me like she couldn’t understand the words.

I thought of the husband and children she’d left at home, tucked in their beds. Thought of the little girl I’d played in the forest with all those years ago. Which one was she tonight?

Rachel swallowed. “Why would you do that?” she whispered harshly.

Satisfaction bloomed in my gut. It had been years since I’d heard any acknowledgement of what was in the woods from a mouth that wasn’t my own.

“Nothing good ever comes out of the forest,” she hissed when I didn’t answer, compulsively running a hand once, twice, three times through her hair. “You know that. I know that. How deep did you go?”

“Past the heart-shaped clearing with the rocks.”

She knew the landmark immediately, throwing her hands up in a quiet display of horror.

“And you … did you…”

“I heard it,” I confirmed.

Anger flashed across her face, fascinating to watch. “It’s been asleep, all these years, and you—You—”

I scoffed. “It hasn’t been asleep, Rachel.”

“Yes, it has! We’ve had nothing happen since that night in high school. It’s been asleep.”

“What about Molly? You said she went into the woods, and Callum said she’s perfectly fine!”

“And guess who’s back—You! Wait. Back up. What’s the story with you and him? Anything you want to share with the class?”

My face went hot. “Rachel! Not the point. Why did you call me and tell me?”

“Not so you could go in after her!”

“Then why?”

“I’ve been watching it, okay? While you’ve been gone, who else will? I know what it was like back then, and I know how it’s been in all the years since, and—”

“Just because you can’t hear it doesn’t mean it’s been asleep.”

Rachel stood and paced. “And it just starts back up when you come to town? Fifteen years of peace, and it just so happens to get chatty when Willa Renfri Greene sets foot on Rapture soil?”

I grimaced. “Has it really been quiet all this time?”

“Yes.”

It didn’t make sense. The forest had always been so alive throughout my childhood and adolescence. The chatter had never stopped. I used to lay in bed on summer nights with the windows open, enjoying the evening breeze and listening to the murmurs of the forest.

I shook myself out of the memory. “That’s not the part I wanted to talk to you about. Someone followed me.”

“Into the woods? Who?”

“A man in a ski mask. He was watching me through the trees. Chased me all the way back to my car. I thought he was going to kill me.”

Her throat worked, but nothing came out.

“I thought it was Graham at first, but—”

“Graham?” That got her going. “Willa, why would he—I told you, he’s doing better now—”

“He’s not. You don’t get it. It’s better if I show you.”

I dragged my duffel from beneath the couch and retrieved the letters, the photos, the trophy, the ribbon, and the pocketknife. I set them on the coffee table and watched her eyes grow wider.

Rachel’s hands clenched. “What is this?”

“I received this in the mail at my house in Pennsylvania. That one was left outside the Greenley cabin while I was asleep. That knife? Jabbed into my back door.”

Her eyes darted over the paper, again and again, as if the words might change.

“It means—”

“I know what it means.” Rachel flexed her wrists. “Fuck. In November, when I told you about Mrs. Sloane over the phone, you asked me about Graham.” Her hard eyes were belied by her trembling hand. “Was that before or after you received this letter?”

“After. I was holding it when I called.”

She sucked in a breath. “Graham’s been harassing you.” She sank back into the couch. “On second thought, I’ll have that tea.”

“Yes,” wouldn’t roll off my tongue. Because I really didn’t know. I’d been so sure at first, but I just couldn’t reconcile this behavior with the content girl dad I’d spent so much time watching.

He’d brought his daughter to my art class and hadn’t walked out when he’d seen it was me!

I boiled water and prepared two cups of tea.

“You think he followed you into the woods?” Rachel prodded, sipping at her steaming mug.

“I can’t be sure. The guy was wearing a ski mask and gloves, but he looked like a similar build. But if it wasn’t him…” We exchanged an uneasy look.

If it wasn’t Graham, who was it?

“What did the police say?”

I crossed my arms. “I didn’t tell the police.”

“Why not?”

I gave her a pointed look.

“The new chief, Barrow, he’s a good man—”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“Chief Landon was a bulldozer, but he was a good man—”

“Chief Landon was a coward and a bully. I have nothing to say to him, and I never will.”

She bit her lip.

“What grown man hides behind a teenage girl? He lost any chance of being a good man after he publicly named me the person of interest. I was a minor! He fumbled the investigation, gave my name to the media, and never admitted differently. He couldn’t handle being wrong and was never disciplined for the mishandling of the investigation.”

“He couldn’t explain what happened—”

“So he threw me under the bus! He never found an answer he liked, and he made my life miserable because of it. He’s the one who spread the rumors in town, and they never died! Why did they find me, covered in blood and crying, tell me they’d help, and then turn my words against me? Why did they scream at me in the interrogation room before my parents arrived? Why did Officer Tilbury threaten to take me back into the woods ‘and see how I liked it’? Do you know what he said? Do you? Chief Landon said his job was to protect the town. Who was protecting me?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s in the past—”

“Someone threw a brick through my dining room window, Rachel.”

She sucked in a breath. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter! It’s this whole fucking town. I shouldn’t have to put up with Esme fucking Granger throwing stones at me in the cemetery, either!”

“She what—”

“And Deborah! That woman’s old as shit, but she’s got an arm on her!”

“Hold on—”

“Rapture is poison,” I finished, breathing hard.

For a long moment, she said nothing. She sipped her tea and looked at me. “It wasn’t right. I know it wasn’t. But if there’s a freak in a mask chasing you around the woods, why would you let that stop you from going to the police? You need to make a report. They need to have a paper trail. If this escalates further—What then? You’re setting yourself up for a tougher time down the road. How do you think this will end?”

“I refuse to put them in a position of power over me again.”

“What about Callum? It seems like you like him.”

I rubbed my eyes.

“This? All of this?” She pointed at the table. “This is bigger than what you can handle by yourself. You’re a sitting duck for his next move. He knows exactly where to find you. It’s a small town, Willa. You’re in danger and you’re not taking the proper precautions.”

“Maybe I should leave. Go back to Pennsylvania.”

“So you’ll let him chase you out of town again?” Her eyes flamed.

“I need to be right about this. The scene in the woods—I’m questioning everything now. Give me the yearbook.”

I had to know for sure.

I flipped until I found Graham’s picture. Mr. Warren, the caption read, PE teacher and girls’ soccer coach. He’d written a short note, starting with HAVE A GREAT SUMMER, RACHEL! on the same page. Sophomore summer. Ugh.

I held it side by side with the first letter. The one that said, GOOD OLD DAYS. REMEMBER? in block letters.

“Is the handwriting the same?” I flipped it around to Rachel.

She squinted at it. “I’m … not sure.”

“We have to be sure.”

“I know. It could be, but the squiggly part of the g looks straight there, and the proportions of the r’s are different.” Rachel sat back. “I really can’t tell.”

I bit my lip. I couldn’t tell either.

It was past three by the time we finished talking. If her husband texted, she didn’t mention it.

Rachel stood, and I braced for her to comment on the time and politely say her goodbye.

“Do you have a gun?” she asked instead.

“Do I have a—No, I don’t. Even if I did, pretty sure it’s illegal to cross state lines—”

“Can you get a gun?”

“I’m not even a resident of this state—”

Rachel sighed like I was being intentionally difficult. She grabbed her tote by the door and withdrew a lump wrapped in a pretty scarf. As she approached, she slid the scarf away.

It was a handgun.

My eyebrows shot up. “Do you really carry that around with you?”

She rolled her eyes, and I saw a bit of that teenage firecracker Rachel in her again. “Take this. Don’t leave it out in the open, and don’t lock it away in some far corner. Pick a spot and put it there. Practice using it if you have to.”

“Rachel, I can’t take this. I don’t have a license and it’s—”

“Take the gun, Willa.”

“No!”

“You know how to shoot, right? You used to go hunting with your dad?”

“I mean, ages ago, but—”

“The basics haven’t changed. Hide it. Don’t tell me where you put it. Maybe you’ll never need it, but if you do, you’ll know where it is.” She buttoned her coat. “I’ll keep my eyes on Graham. If he tries something again, call me. We’re not going to let it slide this time. He puts one more toe out of line and we’re stomping it off.”

I stared down at the gun in my hands.

She had an odd smile when I glanced back, all bundled up at the door.

“What is it?”

“It’s funny,” Rachel said. “A girl like you. Our whole childhood together, and there was only one thing you were really afraid of.”

“And what was that?”

“The basement.”

My stomach dropped.

“It’s good to have you back, Willa,” she said, and ducked outside before I could respond.

chapter
22

I released the cabin back to Mr. Greenley the next day.

It felt funny, moving back into the house, even if it was temporary. But the cabin with its one room felt too exposed. Graham had already shown his willingness to manipulate my surroundings. At the house, at least, I felt safer. Like I had some modicum of control over this spinning, lurching world.

I picked up some supplies on the way. More clothes so I could stop wearing the same things over and over. An air mattress. More groceries too, just to make them nervous. Extra meat. I spotted Callum in the grocery store parking lot and stopped by to say hello.

“Feel free to tell me if I’m overstepping, but would you…” He trailed off.

I perked up. “Would I what?”

But he wasn’t listening. His gaze was on the sparse section of trees behind the store, all humor lost.

“Callum?”

I only saw skinny, unremarkable tree trunks.

“I thought I saw something out there,” he said, shaking his head and turning away from the trees.

“I don’t see anything.”

His eyes softened. “Anyway—”

SNAP!

I jumped, and Callum whirled around, hand on his belt. A large tree branch had split apart and fallen to the ground.

“Must’ve been a hell of a squirrel,” I said, and he laughed and looked at his feet. “You were going to ask me something.”

Callum cleared his throat. “Would you like to go to dinner on Friday—Saturday?” he quickly amended, stammering a bit. “Dinner on Saturday?”

I swallowed.

“No,” was locked and loaded on the tip of my tongue, a knee-jerk reaction to stepping outside my comfort zone.

But something about today had me feeling like a new person. So instead, I looked up at him and said, “How could I say no to that?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled.

I made one last stop to pick up something nice to wear to Mrs. Sloane’s memorial, then headed home. Her painting had been drying in my dining room the past few days, and each time I walked by, it felt more right.

Still smiling in the afterglow of Callum asking me on a date, I hummed to myself on the drive over.

But when I pulled up to the house, my heart dropped.

The door was wide open.

The painting was gone.

In its place, a cutesy little missive with a heart.

I’LL HIDE, YOU SEEK.

I wanted it done before Jessica came home from school.

I didn’t turn any lights on. Didn’t need to. I knew the layout by heart and the late morning light was plenty to see by. I was on the hunt for the smoking gun, and I wasn’t leaving until I found it. Room by room, I combed through the entire house, beginning with the living room, kitchen, and laundry room. He needed to do laundry, that was for sure, judging from the pile in the basket. I considered getting it started for him, just so that he’d know I was here.

I paused by the door to his garage beside the washing machine. I twisted the doorknob and peered inside with a flashlight. Neatly packed shelves of tools. Recycling bins. A tarp over what looked like a motorcycle, but I’d never seen him ride one. Not great in the winter, I imagined, and especially not with a young daughter that needed shuttling around.

I peeled the tarp back, and there it was. Leaning against the bike, swallowed by its shadow. My painting. Right here in Graham’s garage.

This was the proof I’d been looking for. This was indisputable.

How many ways were there to strangle a man? At least seven, I was sure. One for each day of the week.

My hands became claws as I clutched at what was mine. It was only after I’d grabbed it, yielding to that magnetic pull of art to artist, child to parent, that it occurred to me to scan for cameras. Would he want to watch the moment of discovery? Know how he’d almost tricked me into thinking he wasn’t pulling all the strings?

I shone the flashlight at the ceiling, the corners, the shelves, and saw nothing. If he had them, they were well hidden.

I gave a nasty look to all sides just in case.

I crept through the yard with my spoils, quick footsteps in the snow, careful to only step in his larger footprints. A thief in broad daylight.

Was it really thievery if it was stolen from me first?

I examined my prize back in my living room. A bit of dust. Nothing that couldn’t be cleaned off. Black marks on the back from the motorcycle, but overall undamaged.

Satisfied, I put the rag down.

The phone only rang once before it was answered.

“We’re going to get coffee. Tomorrow. 10 AM. The Daily Grind. Don’t be late.”

Somewhere between sleeping and waking, the bedroom door creaked open. Ever so slowly, a cautious nudging.

“Close the door,” I mumbled into the pillow.

There was a hesitation. Another creak. The click of a doorknob.

“Thank you.”

I rolled over and drifted off.

I glared through the glass at a croissant while my stomach growled. Little snowflake stickers freckled the display case. Garland was strung around the register. Metal tongs wrapped around the croissant.

“Will that be it, Willa?”

I dragged my glare to the redhead. “Why did you go into the woods, Molly?”

She shifted nervously. Her pale cheeks flushed deeply.

“Two nights ago, you went into the woods. I’d like to know why.”

“That’ll be seven fifty.”

I made no move to pay. “You don’t deny it then.”

She flushed deeper.

I cocked my head. “Have a sudden interest in hiking?”

Molly glanced around the near-empty café and lowered her voice. “I just wanted to see.”

“See what?” I whispered back.

“See what would happen.”

A chill ran down my spine. I gaped at her. Her big green eyes blinked back.

I leaned over the counter, and she leaned back. “Are you joking? Molly, look at me.”

“I already am.”

We stared at each other. Baffled, I took my card out and paid. She accepted it without breaking eye contact.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“Now that you’re back, things are happening, aren’t they?”

“Nothing’s happening—”

“I hear these sounds, sometimes. From the woods.” She stole any words from my mouth. “Haven’t heard them in a long time.”

I didn’t ask what sounds. She didn’t describe them. There was a hard edge to the green in her eyes.

“I go out there to draw sometimes. It’s quiet. No one’s there to bother me.”

“Your sister—”

“What about my sister?” she snapped. I swallowed, taking a step back. We stood in silence for a full thirty seconds.

Finally, I collected my pastry and coffee and hissed, “Stay out of the woods. You know better.”

“Do I?”

Disturbed, I backed away to a small table along the wall.

“Did you mean what you said?”

I frowned at her.

“That there’s a great big world out there?”

“Bigger than you can imagine. Endless chances to become someone new.”

She resumed wiping the counter. I sat on legs that felt like jelly.

The door jingled. “Willa?” I glanced up.

Joyce poked her head into the Daily Grind like she was expecting an ambush. I waved her over to my table. She sent a wary backward glance at the mistletoe hanging above the door.

“I’m surprised you called.”

“I’m surprised you’re still in town.”

She set her coat on the chair. Molly dropped her coffee off—clearly Joyce had made herself a regular here already—obviously hoping to catch snippets of conversation. I waited until we were alone before speaking.

I thought of Rachel’s gun, carefully taped beneath my couch.

I looked at the journalist over the rim of the cup. “You want a real story?”

Joyce snapped to attention. “A real story,” she echoed.

I tilted my head. She followed the movement.

There were more ways to ruin a man than death.

I opened my front door on the first knock.

“I have to say,” Graham started, hands in his pockets, “I was surprised to get your invitation.”

“I don’t see why.”

His dark eyes made a slow slide across me.

“Come in,” I gestured impatiently. “You’re letting the heat out.”

chapter
23

“What am I doing here, Willa?”

Graham stood in my entryway, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He stood on my doormat, snow-covered boots squarely within the perimeter. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I wanted to talk. Cut to the chase.”

His eyes narrowed. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

So he liked to do it the roundabout way?

I smiled. “I’d say we have a lot to talk about.”

He looked around warily, like the walls might bite. “I shouldn’t be here.”

I crossed my arms. “Why not? It’s my house.”

He seemed to look everywhere but at me. “That’s the problem,” he muttered. It was funny, such a large man hunching in on himself.

“The past is the past,” I hummed.

“The past is the past,” he agreed, sounding relieved. “I’m so glad to hear that. Really, I—”

The future is by my design.

“I don’t want to talk about the past,” I cut in. “I want to talk about the letters.”

“The letters,” Graham repeated dully.

“Is there an echo in here?” I asked.

A floorboard creaked, but he didn’t seem to hear.

I clasped my hands in front of my chest. “It’s just us,” I assured him. “You don’t need to deny it.”

He said nothing.

“Come with me. Shoes off.”

He didn’t move.

“Graham,” I snapped, and he twitched. I pointed to the dining room doorway. “In here.”

Graham toed off his boots and padded across the floor, footsteps cautious and halting. He looked lost.

Mrs. Sloane’s painting was displayed prominently on the dining room table. The large canvas was a shock of color in the muted, dusty room.

I stopped beside it and looked to him expectantly.

A few moments passed. He glanced at me. “It’s a … nice painting.”

I sighed. “Of course it’s a nice painting. I painted it for Mrs. Sloane’s memorial.”

I held my breath, waiting for his response.

Graham actually looked a bit touched. “That’s lovely.”

I turned to face him fully. “Stop being difficult. I want to have a conversation, Graham. I want to know why you’re doing this.”

He frowned sharply, lips twisting downward.

“What, you can’t handle being called out on it, face-to-face? I have to say, that day, out in the woods? You really got me good. Scared the hell out of me. The mask was quite the dramatic touch.”

The color leached from his skin in a splotchy, fascinating way.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t. You’ve managed to convince everyone in this town that you are a reformed man. A productive member of society. A single dad the PTA moms can swoon over. You own your own business, a job that doesn’t require working with children, you shovel snow for Mrs. Gracie. You can convince them.” I crossed my arms. “You can’t convince me. You have an unhealthy obsession, and I want to know what you want.”

“Obsession,” he spluttered, jaw dropping. His eyes narrowed. “From what I can see, the only one with an obsession is you.”

That was more like it. I squared my shoulders, leaning in. He was taller, broader, but I wasn’t going to back down.

“Bringing this up, to my face, after all these years? I lost my job because of you—”

“You lost your job because of you!”

“I lost the respect of the community, of everyone I knew, and do you know what it was like? For a man accused of something like I was?”

“Accused? Did you forget the word for convicted?”

His nostrils flared.

I stared him down.

He scoffed and looked away. “You were never like this.”

A fury ignited in my blood, a righteous, indignant fury at the offhanded reprimand. An echo of how he used to manipulate my behavior with his moods. All those years ago, I could hardly look him in the eye in that courtroom. My face when I gave testimony had been tilted toward the floor. Watery eyes glancing up when spoken to, before snapping back down.

Even now, I felt the heat rising in my cheeks at being seen and judged.

“For fuck’s sake, I grew a backbone. I grew up. Because I was a minor when you molested me!”

Graham stuttered a step backward, eyes wide and shocked.

“You wanted my attention?” I advanced on him, floor creaking under my weight. “You have it. Right here, right now. It’s just the two of us. I’m looking at you. You have my attention. What do you have to say?”

He did nothing but stare as if I were some creature from outer space.

I snarled and pulled out a dining room chair; Graham flinched at the screech along the floorboards. I forced myself to sit, even though it was painful to put myself in a more vulnerable position.

With a well-placed kick, I pushed out the chair across from me.

“Sit.”

He didn’t move, frozen.

“Sit.”

He almost looked afraid.

“I’ll order takeout,” I sneered. “We’ll have dinner. As if we were a couple. A family. That’s what you always said to me, wasn’t it?” I gestured down at myself. “I’m even wearing black. Your favorite color.”

Graham’s heartbeat pulsed in his neck. His wide gray eyes were locked on me. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side.

I gestured to the chair again; he spun on his heel.

With a sigh, I stood and followed. “I played your game, and you can’t even say what you’re really after, even when it’s just the two of us? You used to say all kinds of things when it was just the two of us.”

“Stop it!” he shouted from the living room.

I prowled around the corner. “Would you like me to list all the things you—”

The words were quiet, but he reacted like I had shouted.

“Stop!” Graham clawed at his ears, deforming his face as he squished his skin as if to keep the sound out.

“I’d only be stating facts. Are the facts too hard for you to face, Mr. Warren?” I raised my hand. “Can I talk now, Mr. Warren? Do I have permission to use the bathroom?”

“That’s behind me!” he screeched, cheeks red. “I’m past that now. I’ve moved past it. You—”

“I what?” I snarled.

Graham flinched. He looked at me like he’d never seen such a terror in the shape of a woman before.

“I’m not past it? Surely that’s not what you were about to say. I was. You know why?” I laughed, bitter and too loud in this old house. “Because you weren’t the worst thing to happen to me. I was invited into the woods to party with my friends to cheer me up after how shitty my life got after what happened with you. That’s why we were in the woods on November eighteenth when they were all killed!” I breathed through my teeth. “You were a blip in my life. A horrid anomaly I’d looked past. Because, you fucker, I had bigger fish to fry. My life wasn’t about you anymore. I’d moved on!” I felt light-headed. “And then you had the nerve to send me that fucking letter and I—”

“What letter?”

Graham’s haunted look became something sharper.

I felt like he’d slapped me. “Are you kidding—”

“What letter?”

I yanked the duffel out and sneered, “Good old days. Remember?” I tossed the picture of my teenage self at him, and he knelt to pick it up. “Willa Greene. Age sixteen. Midfielder. Thinking of you. Will you paint one for me?” I let loose the voyeur pictures of me painting by the fireplace. “Creeping on me while I paint? While I sleep? I saw you. Outside the cabin that night, by the woods.”

He remained on his knees catching the items I’d tossed. The whites of his eyes flashed as he rapidly scanned the papers.

I threw the red ribbon at him, watching BLACK IS YOUR COLOR spiral to the floor, then pulled out the pocketknife. “And this—lodged in my back door. Monogrammed GW. Gee, I wonder who that could be.”

Graham glanced over my shoulder and jumped. “Who is that?”

I ignored him.

“Why did you contact me after all this time? Was it seeing me on the news that did it? I was perfectly fine before, living out my life. Did you wake up one day and decide you hadn’t had enough? Really, I’d like to know.”

“Willa. There is someone crouching behind your couch.”

“Answer the question!”

“Who is that?”

I flicked an annoyed glance over my shoulder. Half concealed between the couch and floor, Joyce slowly got to her feet.

Graham looked like he might make a run for it.

I stepped between him and the door.

“This is Joyce. Say ‘hi,’ Joyce.”

She waved wordlessly.

“Who is she?”

I crossed my arms. “Joyce is here to tell a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“I think you know what kind of story.”

The three of us stared at each other. Joyce remained unusually silent.

“You’re that journalist,” he realized.

“So you did watch.”

“It was hard to avoid!” he snapped, flush high in his cheeks. His eyes widened. “You’re setting me up,” Graham breathed. “It’s revenge. I can’t believe this. I suffered for this already! I paid the price. I’ve just rebuilt my life and now you’re coming for me? This is cruel.” His voice was tight.

My blood flared beneath my skin. “You know what’s cruel?” I breathed. I smiled wider, showing teeth.

“Willa,” Joyce cautioned, the first words she’d spoken since Graham arrived. “I think—”

I ignored her, smiling wider until my face hurt. Something was building beneath my skin. Something that bubbled like euphoria but throbbed like pain.

I inhaled, savoring the words about to come out of my mouth, when—

“Well, I’d like to know,” a fourth voice said.

The air punched out of me.

Graham and Joyce both jumped in a bizarre, synchronized move. A gasp tore out of Joyce, loud and out of place.

I was rooted to the floor, every muscle locked. Trembling as I pivoted in place to see a sight that could not be reality: Nathaniel Lennox, all Cheshire cat grin and blinding Hollywood teeth, was in the kitchen.

chapter
24

The house went silent. Joyce was frozen against the wall. Graham opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I stopped breathing entirely.

The image in front of me couldn’t be real. Nathaniel Lennox couldn’t be in my kitchen. My fingernails pressed into my palms. Was I hallucinating?

“Willa Renfri Greene.” Nathaniel lifted a hand. Stacks of gold rings glinted along his fingers. “It’s nice to see you. Finally. You’re a difficult woman to get ahold of.”

He breathed in the scene like he was stepping into his favorite movie.

“Get out of my house,” I snapped, finally finding my voice. “What are you doing here? Was ignoring your calls too subtle for you? I don’t want to be on your show!”

I kept one eye on Graham, lest he slip away in the chaos.

“Listen to me,” Nathaniel started.

“Are you actually kidding me? You can’t just show up at someone’s house—inside someone’s house! Get the hell out!”

“Willa—” Nathaniel tutted.

“How long were you in here?” I gasped. The things he must’ve heard … This information wasn’t public. I’d been a minor. The records were sealed. If he sold this to the news … I ran a trembling hand through my hair.

Joyce crept backward. She did it soundlessly, like she was trying to vanish into the wall.

Why did her face look like that? Like she was afraid? Like she had realized something I hadn’t?

“This is breaking and entering. This is not okay. I’m calling the police.” I headed for my purse on the counter, glaring at him. “I’m not kidding!” If Callum didn’t show up at my door in thirty seconds, I was going to lose it. “You’re getting arrested tonight.”

A gun cocked.

My blood ran cold.

“Step away from the phone.”

Nathaniel had a gun.

A gun.

Nathaniel Lennox was standing in my childhood home with my stalker, a reporter, and a firearm.

Joyce inched backward through the living room, trying not to be seen, a National Geographic video of a stalking lion played in reverse.

A croak came out instead of my voice. I tried again. “Why do you have that?”

The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth twitched upward. He gestured with the handgun, and I backed away from my bag. Graham hadn’t moved an inch, a hulking shadow in the living room.

“I need to talk to you, Willa.”

Deep circles ringed Nathaniel’s eyes. The whites around his irises were tinged red. Once I took him in, I realized he was a far cry from the polished man on TV. The skin on his face was flaky and dry, and he was overdue for a shave.

“I’ve been leaving you voicemails. I don’t know how many times I’ve called, pouring my heart out, and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer?”

Voicemails? I swallowed. I’d blocked his number. I had no idea what voicemails he thought he was leaving.

“You shamed me, you know? On national television. You called me a spineless leech. You said I was a disgusting fraud and accused me of preying on my fans. You said that about me. You did.”

I was frozen, heartbeat thundering in my neck.

I had.

“I offered you every opportunity to apologize. I called you. I spoke to the press. I invited you on my show. I was offering to raise you up on my platform, give you my audience—everything! You could have set the record straight. You could have told them all it was a misunderstanding. All these opportunities and what did you do?”

The gun shook, and I shook with it.

“You ignored me.”

Fuck.

Joyce continued creeping backward, every movement measured.

Nathaniel smiled, or rather, his chapped lips pulled away from his teeth. “Do you know how that felt? Have you ever been ignored, Willa? Or are you so used to being the center of attention that you can’t even imagine it? Every eye, every channel—it was on you. And what did you do with that? Nothing!” he spat. “The longer without an apology, the worse it became. They came after me on my own show! Embarrassed me—and tricked me into broadcasting it to the world! I’m the laughingstock of everyone I know!” His eyes narrowed. “You did this to me.”

His head swung around to land on Joyce. “And you aired it.”

She froze, eyes on the gun.

“The internet has made an art form of basking in my humiliation.” Angry brown eyes glared at me. “All I wanted was for you to apologize. I was the bigger man—I extended the olive branch! And you ignored me. Ignored—” Nathaniel took a deep breath. “That’s why I’ve brought you all here.”

Brought us all here?

My eyes snapped to Graham. His mouth was agape, eyes darting between us.

“Stop looking at him,” Nathaniel snapped. “Look at me! I’m the one with the gun. I’m the one who put in all the work for this little reunion. The least you could do is appreciate the effort I went through.”

I clutched my own hands until the bones ground together to stop the shaking. “What did you do, Nathaniel?”

“What I had to do!” he snapped. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

Joyce, so uncharacteristically silent, looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“I called you again and again, and you never answered. Well, you answered once—and hung up on me! I gave you more than a fair chance. So I did some digging.” He raised his eyebrows. “And then I sent a letter.”

My eyes flew to Graham. No. He couldn’t possibly be saying—

Nathaniel smirked, tracking the realization across my face. “And then I sent another. Thinking of you,” he parroted. “Will you paint one for me?” He plucked the photograph of me at soccer camp from the floor. “This one was hard to find, you know. Did its job well, though. Had you running scared and off to Rapture the next day.”

My eyes flew to Graham. His face looked gray in the dim light. “That wasn’t—” My throat closed, and I had to start again. “That wasn’t you?”

Eyes wide and scared, Graham shook his head.

The past few weeks flashed through my mind. I was going to be sick.

Nathaniel laughed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I just wanted to cause a little drama at first. Dig up some skeletons, upset you a bit. Payback, you understand. But then things changed.”

“How did you do it?” Joyce asked, speaking for the first time.

Nathaniel twitched, as if annoyed by the interruption, but quickly lost himself to preening over the attention.

“A good PI can work magic. You’d be amazed what kind of off-the-record information people are willing to spout at the slightest opportunity. And the paper records a town like this keeps.” He glanced at me. “Your old school isn’t so good about locking their doors. No one ever noticed the trophy was missing.”

His words sat in my stomach like stone.

“And that beauty on the dining room table? Really is a magnificent painting. Some of your best work, I’d say.” He grinned. “I had such a wonderful time hiding it in Graham’s garage.”

Graham seemed to come back to life. His eyes sharpened. “You were in my house. In my house, where my daughter—”

Nathaniel cut him off with a loud sigh.

I whispered to Graham, “I thought you stole it. I thought you were taunting me this whole time.”

He stared at me.

Ten minutes ago, I was thirsty to destroy a man’s life and now … Nothing made sense. Nathaniel had played me. Played all of us.

I turned on the celebrity psychic. “I don’t understand.”

“You,” he snapped at Joyce, “away from the door. I see what you’re doing.” He let out a breath. “I need to talk to you, Willa. You and me, one-on-one. There are some things I need to know.”

I wanted to run, but instead, I dared to ask, “Like what?”

Nathaniel eyed Joyce and Graham suspiciously.

“Last month, I came here to film a segment for my show. While I was filming, I got this … feeling. Like someone or something was trying to reach out to me.”

I racked my brain. He must be talking about the footage that aired during the anniversary episode of Eye of Lennox. I vaguely recalled that scene of him in Rapture, looking out into the woods and all but declaring me guilty according to the “spirits.”

Nathaniel continued, “There’s something in this town I can’t explain. I’ve never felt anything like it. After the explosive reaction to that anniversary episode, people were expecting things from me, do you understand? They wanted more, and I wanted to give it to them. I kept trying to recapture that feeling, doing reading after reading, but I couldn’t get anything like it.” He swallowed. “I even dreamed about it.”

I stared at him, growing more and more horrified.

“So I came back to Rapture. To your little unremarkable town hiding something truly remarkable. I’ve been here for days trying to find it again.”

Days? He’d been in town for days and I hadn’t known?

“And I did. It comes in bursts. Visions. Overwhelming blasts of emotion. It’s brought me to my knees before. But then it always vanishes when I try to grab hold of it. I need it, don’t you get it? What you have hidden here—that’s once-in-a-lifetime power!”

He blinked, but it was the left eye and then the right.

I was frozen in fear, too afraid to twitch a muscle.

“I felt it for the first time when I reached out to the victims of the Rapture Mystery Slayings, and it projected your name into my head. W-I-L-L-A.”

I remembered it more clearly now. Watching him on the TV, squinting at the forest. Calling out my name, letter by letter. He couldn’t possibly expect me to believe that was real.

“What the hell’s going on in this town, Willa? I need you to tell me. There’s a secret here. And I know it all ties back to you.”

White noise filled my head. Logical reasoning dribbled from my ears, leaked out of my pores, and I couldn’t even move to sop it up off the floor.

Graham shifted, and I flinched away on instinct. He glanced at me, lips pressed together, before facing Nathaniel. “We’ve never met. We’ve never spoken. Why would you implicate me in whatever scheme you’re pulling here?”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. The gun angled toward the floor, degree by degree in his inattention. “Willa made my work easy for me. Rev two dogs up and let ’em go at each other. But it’s about more than you two now, and—”

Joyce made a run for the door. A shot buried into the wall next to her. She froze.

My ears rang. The scream that was stifled in my throat pounded to get out.

Graham slowly lowered his hands from his ears.

“Try that again and the next one’s going in you. Come into the light. Slowly. Yes, just like that. I want all three of you lined up in the kitchen.” I felt the heat of Joyce’s slender body as she pressed in close. “Now, I’m not done with you until I get my answers. All of you, get in the basement.”

“No,” I gasped immediately, a knee-jerk reaction. All three twitched at my outburst.

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

“The basement. I won’t do it.”

He leveled the gun at me. “Want to try that again?”

“I’m not going down the basement!”

I couldn’t go down there. I couldn’t do it. Please, God, no. I could feel Joyce’s eyes boring into me, questioning, judging.

Graham looked at me like I was the problem.

“This is the simplest thing I could’ve asked you, and you fight me on this?” Disbelief clouded Nathaniel’s eyes. He stalked closer to me. “Now is not the time to be difficult, Willa.”

My fists clenched.

“You’ll go wherever I tell you to go!” Nathaniel barked, right in my ear. I flinched. “Now move.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t.

They had no idea what was down there.

“Willa,” Joyce whispered while hardly moving her lips, “what are you doing?”

I gritted my teeth. Terrified tears welled up.

“Maybe we should—” The rest of Graham’s words were lost in a shocking impact. Kitchen tile slammed into my cheekbone. I curled my hands around my head, too stunned to do anything but gasp for air.

Joyce’s blurry form had her hands over her mouth.

“Pick her up. To the basement, now.”

Gray-white starbursts overtook my vision as I was hauled to my feet. My stomach turned. A muscular arm held me steady as I floated away, a distant pressure. Someone was whispering apologies over and over. Bits of tiles and walls. My head lolled.

“Faster, or I’ll hit you with this too,” came Nathaniel’s disembodied voice.

A near-silent curse was hissed into my hair.

I wobbled dangerously and was hauled upright. Where was the floor? And then I realized: We were going down.

“No,” I gasped. “Stop!”

Someone shushed me.

Hand on my face, I moaned. “You need to put the food out.”

Nathaniel’s face swam into focus. “What?”

I was suddenly surrounded by Joyce, whose arms wrapped around my frame. “She’s concussed. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“No!” I shoved at her weakly, trying to blink Nathaniel’s face back where I could see it, but it slipped downstream. “The food! It’ll be angry if you don’t. So angry. So hungry.”

Nathaniel sneered, “I’m sure whatever wildlife you feed will be fine. If I were you, I’d worry more about myself.”

I was about to snap back when the sensation of weightlessness took over and darkness rushed in.

chapter
25

I awoke with a jolt. Concrete floor. Dusty hands. A shoddy bare bulb hanging from a wire.

No. Absolutely not.

My heart pounded. My wrists were tied together with rope.

The basement.

My head ached.

It was nighttime, and I was in the basement.

“Willa?”

I jumped. Joyce was sitting beside me. “Are you feeling okay? That was a hard hit you took to the head. You were babbling nonsense earlier.”

I coughed until the muck cleared out. “What’d he hit me with?”

She grimaced. The shadows played across the creases of her face. “The gun.”

Every heartbeat hammered at my skull. I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t be in the basement.

I slammed my eyes shut to buy a moment to prepare myself. The thumping might have been something else. They might not be down here anymore. I might open my eyes and see only a dusty, concrete room.

I opened my eyes, hoping for the best.

I choked on a gasp.

They stood along the walls. Two of them in the dim light of the single bulb. People but not really people. Noses against the concrete as if they were children sent to time-out.

I could barely breathe.

They were exactly as I remembered—shaped like people, long in height and broad in the shoulders, but covered in long, black veils that blended into the shadows. Devoid of movement. Ignoring us, for all intents and purposes, with their backs to the room. Looking away.

A finger tapped my shoulder, and I jumped.

Graham stared at me from my other side.

“Whoa,” I gasped, hands twitching against their bonds.

“Hi, Willa,” he said ruefully.

Laying eyes on him was fight-or-flight. I was stretched between two terrors, and for a moment, my vision fizzled gray.

“Do you have a headache? Dizziness?” Graham asked, gray eyes wide and innocent. It turned my stomach.

My brain knew he wasn’t responsible for this, but the rest of me hadn’t quite caught up. Graham wasn’t today’s villain, but he’d still done what he’d done.

“I—” I started but couldn’t finish. Couldn’t focus on anything but the two veiled figures hugging the walls.

“She needs a doctor,” Joyce grumbled, unimpressed with his attempts at playing nurse.

“I’ve seen concussions before,” Graham said, face transforming as he glared at her over my head. “I used to coach soccer—” he cut himself off.

My eyes flicked to Graham and Joyce, who didn’t seem to notice our company. Some part of me, too far away, was angry that they couldn’t see. That I had to bear the burden. My parents could never see the people in the basement. I’d always wondered if I was different, or if Mom and Dad were. Unfortunately, my question had just been answered.

“I’m all right,” I said slowly, when our voices triggered no response from the people-shaped silhouettes against the walls. My heart beat ferociously. “It hurts, but not too much.”

The basement was an unfinished shell of a room filled with rows of storage bins on metal shelves and tarps over misshapen things. A coffee table was pressed against the pink insulation of one wall. The gently swaying lightbulb illuminated a shaky, shifting halo around us; the rest of the room was a vast darkness. I couldn’t make out the opposite wall. Or what stood against it. Who knew how many there were. Lurking. Waiting.

I locked my eyes with Joyce’s, terrified of what I might see in the shadows behind her.

The temperature was dropping. Cold concrete chilled me through my jeans.

“How long have we been down here?” I whispered.

“I’d say an hour,” Joyce answered. “It has to be almost ten.”

Two hours? With those things just standing there?

“Anyone still have their phone?” Joyce asked. “Smartwatch? Anything?”

We shook our heads.

Joyce wilted. “We need to figure out what’s really going on here.” Her voice was low and flat, like she was reading instructions on how to operate a coffee machine. “All of that stuff Nathaniel said about psychic readings and getting answers—I don’t know what to think. But we have the best chance at getting out of here if we pretend to play along.”

“I don’t understand what he thinks I have to do with it,” I whispered. “He’s irrational! You heard it all. You can’t reason with someone like that.”

“It’s about pretending to play along with his narrative to buy time. He looked awfully nervous holding that gun.”

I opened my mouth to reply when, just over her right shoulder, a black shape unfurled.

My stomach dropped. I desperately locked my eyes on her face, resisting the urge to look at the movement. If there was anything I’d learned from my childhood, it was always worse if they knew you could see them. Like a busker on the New York City subway: Once you made the mistake of catching their attention, you were theirs.

I didn’t need to look to know it was a third person-shaped shadow creeping along the wall.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes to get out of here,” Joyce said. I’d missed half her speech. “Are you with me or not?”

Don’t look. Oh, God, don’t look.

“Willa!”

I snapped to attention.

“Don’t you care that our lives are in danger?”

My fear was stretched in too many directions to think straight. Nathaniel. Graham. The things lurking along the walls.

“Joyce,” Graham said in a low voice, “she’s just woken up. She has a head injury. Give her a minute to process.”

Joyce huffed. “Sorry. You’re right. I just—I can’t do nothing, you know? Every minute we spend down here feels like the walls are closing in.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m with you.”

An artist, an investigative reporter, and a disgraced PE teacher walk into a bar. It was the setup to a terrible joke.

Out of the corner of my eye, one of the veiled figures lifted a leg and stomped.

Thunk.

The blood drained from my face.

Joyce twisted around. “What was that?”

She couldn’t see it, but she’d heard it?

Graham squinted in the direction of the noise.

“I—” I fell silent. The silhouettes were back to their statue act, and I was afraid any verbal acknowledgement would change that.

Joyce shuffled around the perimeter of the room, peering at the too-small, crusty windows. Trying the latches, feeling along with both hands where the light didn’t quite reach. She tried the workbench, but every drawer was locked. She stepped toward the darkest corner, near the tarp over an ancient Christmas tree. Near where one of the figures stood.

“Don’t—” my voice caught in my throat.

Joyce looked back, annoyed. She rubbed at the rope on her wrists.

“Never mind.”

“Is there any back way out of here? Any secret tunnels? Doors in the floor? Anything I should be looking for?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“It’s your basement, isn’t it?”

“My childhood basement. I don’t live here anymore. I don’t come down here.”

She gave me a weird look and continued sticking her nose into every dusty crevice as if the meaning of life were crammed inside there. When she passed by one of the person-shapes, I held my breath, but it remained motionless, nose to the wall.

Our only source of light was that bare bulb that buzzed like a mosquito. I didn’t tell her it hadn’t been replaced for twenty years.

I shuddered to think of what would happen if it flickered out.

Beyond her, an army of storage boxes loomed. They’d been there, undisturbed for years. What Mom and Dad assumed was a temporary measure as their kid grew, became a final resting place.

I didn’t like that I couldn’t see behind them.

After all, I’d only spotted three.

“My daughter’s home alone.”

Joyce and I turned to Graham.

“Jessica. She’s only seven.”

The blood drained from my face. Jessica. How could I have forgotten about her?

“She was in bed before I came over. The thought of her waking up tomorrow and realizing I didn’t come home…”

“That’s good,” Joyce piped up.

“Good?” Graham repeated, and I jumped.

“She’ll tell someone, won’t she? Or the school will notice if she’s absent and will call you, right? And when no one answers, they’ll get concerned. Someone will notice, is the point. Then we all have a better chance of being found.”

Graham took a steadying breath. “She doesn’t have school tomorrow. It’s the weekend.”

Joyce cursed. “But she’ll know to tell someone?”

“Our neighbor. Abigail Gracie.”

“And will she call the police?”

Graham bit his lip. “Not immediately, no. She’ll probably call around town first to see if anyone’s seen me. She knows my clients.”

Joyce pressed, “How long will it take her to call the police?”

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes narrowing in irritation.

“Don’t you have an editor you check in with?” I asked Joyce.

She sighed. “Every other day. Shane won’t have an inkling anything is wrong until tomorrow afternoon.”

My stomach churned. I was worried I might puke. I hoped not; that would mean I really had a concussion, and I wasn’t getting medical treatment anytime soon.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I murmured, eyes closed, massaging my temples. Maybe I’d die down here from a brain bleed and leave Joyce and Graham to deal with this. “Aren’t you supposed to be training Esme Granger?”

Overhead, a floorboard creaked.

We stiffened. I peeled an eye open. The footsteps continued, and the moment passed.

“How do you know that?” Graham whispered.

My stomach dropped. I dragged my eyes to his face. I’d camped outside his house. Watched him eat dinner. Watched his every step. He really had no idea. Weeks I’d lived like this, and he had no idea.

How—how did I end up the creeper in this relationship?

“How do you know my schedule?” he pressed.

I gritted my teeth.

Something shifted in the far corner. It was unmistakable, the sound of a foot dragging over concrete. My head snapped up.

Joyce made an irritated noise. “Let’s get back to the fact that we’re trapped in a basement.”

I ignored her, peering into the darkness. The darkness stared back.

The basement didn’t belong to us.

“The primary way we are likely to overpower him is with a coordinated ambush attack…”

I nodded along, but my eyes kept returning to the corner.

Too dark.

“What are you even looking at?” Joyce finally snapped, glancing over her shoulder with suspicious eyes.

I swallowed. “Nothing.”

“Are there … any medications you might be missing? We’ve been down here for a while. If you’ve missed a dose of something—”

“I’m not taking any medication.”

“But if you were—”

“I said I’m not.”

Graham looked at the floor, projecting misery down to his very core.

So they thought the problem was in my mind. That’s fine. It was safer for them to believe than the truth.

“What else do we know about him? Nathaniel?” I asked.

“I know that’s not his real name.”

I blinked in surprise at Joyce. “It’s not?”

“Nathaniel Lennox is his stage name. His legal name is Neil Chopra. Parents were Indian immigrants who settled in Boston. He was born and raised there but dropped the Boston accent when he went to UC, Berkeley for psychology. Did stand-up comedy on the side as a student, if you can believe it. His big break was in his late twenties when he was discovered by a talent agency, and he spun it into a career as a celebrity psychic.”

My mouth dropped open. “How do you know all that?”

Joyce grimaced. “I’m working on a profile piece as a follow-up to your story. Even reached out to his professors at Berkeley for some quotes.”

“Does he know that?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think he has any idea.”

“Fake name, fake chin, fake psychic?” Graham scoffed. “What’s real about this guy?”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I spy what looks like a tastefully done chin implant. Guy’s reinvented himself for TV. He’s got a ton of Botox in his face, and they can probably see the whites of his teeth from Mars.”

Joyce’s mouth twisted. “Good to know you were admiring his skin when you should’ve been doing—I don’t know—anything to fight him off before he got us down here?”

“My point,” Graham glared, “is his career and physical appearance mean a lot to him. I’ll admit I’ve seen his show. It’s in a prime-time slot, and he pulls a lot of viewership. The guy is a walking Hollywood billboard, and he decides to throw it all away for your attention? Because you ignored him? Really? Something’s not adding up.”

You once threw it all away for my attention too.

“We met before,” I said.

Don’t look at the people. Resist the urge. They could turn around at any time.

Joyce narrowed her eyes.

I swallowed, struggling to split my focus. “I was barely twenty, and he was doing cheap tricks in the corner of a bar in Manhattan on the Lower East Side. This was before his fame. I guess he was honing his craft by cold reading the tipsy weekend crowd. Everyone else, he talked about love and wealth, but for me … he looked right at me and made this face. I don’t know how to describe it. He followed me around, babbling about seeing the dead. I had to get the bouncers involved.”

“He thinks of you as the one that got away.”

I glanced sharply at Joyce. I didn’t dare look at Graham.

“Not you you, but your story. Your mystery. I wasn’t kidding last month when I told you he’s haunted by the Rapture Mystery Slayings. He hates that he couldn’t solve it.”

“I don’t even know how he knew who I was in that bar. I didn’t give my name.”

“A lot of these TV mediums research their audience beforehand. He could’ve heard someone talking to you and looked you up. You’re also a bit … recognizable to those of us in the journalism and true crime circles, especially if that was only a few years after it happened.”

“He called me. A lot. After the broadcast in November.” I glanced at Joyce. “I answered once by mistake but declined the rest before I blocked him.”

She frowned. “Why does he even have your number?”

I rubbed my eyes. “A few years ago, he asked me to be on his show. Wanted to do the whole Eye of Lennox song and dance. He got my number from someone—I don’t know who, and he didn’t say. Maybe the same PI he uses now. I declined. It was a brief interaction.” I let my head thunk against the wall. “What does he expect to come from this?”

There was a long silence. The deep freeze had settled in.

“I don’t know,” Joyce said finally. “And that worries me.”

Graham was huddled around himself, chin on his knees. His stomach growled.

Food. Hunger. That was it—the forest would be hungry. It hadn’t had the offering since the night before.

Dammit. Please don’t go after the townspeople. Please don’t do it.

I’d once made the mistake of missing one night of feeding, and I regretted it every day of my life.

“He’s a psychic, not a secret agent.” Joyce contorted herself on the floor, straining her arms and shoulders at various angles. “He probably watched a tutorial on how to tie people up. I saw something once, about breaking your own thumb—”

“Pretty sure that’s for handcuffs,” Graham muttered. His biceps bulged as he tried brute force.

Even if our hands were free, the door upstairs was the only exit. And beyond that door was a man with a gun.

Graham slumped, out of breath and no closer to getting his hands free. I coughed. Everything down here was covered in a thick layer of dust. I tried not to think about how unwelcome our intrusion must be.

“Do you think he’s still in the house? Or did he leave us for the night?” I frowned. “Do you think he’s sleeping in my bed?”

Joyce grimaced. “Gross.”

“Should we do the same?” I asked. “Sleep, I mean.”

Joyce rested her arms on her knees. “How can you sleep when he could come back any minute? Why would he lock us in here then go to bed? He has to be coming back.”

“It’s been hours,” Graham interrupted. “If we don’t sleep at all, we’ll be slower and weaker. We could miss a chance to get out tomorrow.” He rubbed at his eyes.

Joyce sighed. “Shifts, then?”

“You guys sleep first.” I risked a quick glance at the veiled figures standing against the walls. The ones no one else saw. “I’ll keep watch.”

My eyelids lowered despite my words, and my thoughts started to drift.

The basement door flew open. A slice of white light from above blinded me.

“Get up, Willa,” Nathaniel called from the top of the stairs. “We’re going to see those ghosts of yours.”

chapter
26

The darkness of the witching hour in the forest was absolute. Stars peeked through the canopy of branches, but the moon was hidden, and the forest writhed with living shadows. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

Deeper into the murky blackness I marched. Would he do it here? Kill me? Out in the woods?

The memory of Joyce’s face as I shuffled up the stairs walked with me. She didn’t think I was coming back.

Snow and dead leaves crunched under my boots. A second set of footsteps stuttered behind me.

“What’s the holdup? Pick up the pace.”

I could barely make out Nathaniel’s shape.

“I can’t see where I’m walking,” I muttered. “I’m trying not to trip. Don’t you have a light?”

“We’re not using the flashlight. You’ll have to make do.”

We’d been walking for thirty minutes. That was my best guess. Thirty minutes right into the core of the woods. There were no birds. No trampings of deer in the distance. Just our feet blundering where they should not be.

I shivered. He’d thrown my coat at me and freed my hands so they could snake into the sleeves, but my breath turned to icicles on my eyelashes.

He hadn’t said where we were going, only to keep walking. He wore a backpack, but I couldn’t guess what that meant. We were deep enough to have left the neighbors far behind. Deep enough that a scream might go unheard. Yet it was a welcome reprieve from the people in the basement, as I’d named the unnatural person-shapes as a kid, for lack of a better term. I didn’t want to be in the forest either, but it was a choice between two hells.

Nathaniel grumbled to himself, and a shock of blue light flashed in my periphery. He was messing with his navigation app, tilting his phone this way and that, trying to get the orientation right. Looked like he didn’t know where we were going either.

In the distance, someone whistled.

The hair on the back of my neck rose. The sliver of Nathaniel’s face illuminated by the phone didn’t react. I swallowed and pressed onward. If he didn’t hear it, I didn’t hear it.

“This forest is a nightmare,” Nathaniel muttered, trudging along. “My navigation’s going haywire. Reception is shit too. God, I miss LA. Why’d you have to come from some bumblefuck town?”

I glanced nervously at the shapes of the trees. “How much farther?”

“Keep going,” he muttered, barely listening.

My foot slipped into a hole, and I pitched sideways before catching myself on a tree. The bark was slick under my hands. My own heavy breathing echoed back at me.

Nathaniel squinted at my approximate location and clicked off his phone.

It was a mistake to sacrifice his night vision.

A stick crunched—it couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away. Fifteen feet in the wrong direction to be Nathaniel.

I peered into the night. Anything could be out there. Watching. Waiting. My hands trembled.

“Hurry up!”

He shoved me roughly, and I stumbled over a rock. I stayed on my feet, but it was a close call.

I glared at his outline.

“There’s no one out there to help you, darling. If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about this town, it’s that no one goes into the woods after dark.”

I smiled tightly. “Lucky me.”

“You’d think with the natural topography out here, some hikers would venture out to check out the gorge, even if it’s hard to find. But they don’t. A superstitious lot, aren’t they? I mean—”

The air whooshed out of him, and Nathaniel doubled over. He let out a shuddering breath.

“There it is. That feeling. Like something’s talking, but I’m on the wrong frequency to hear it.” Nathaniel checked his phone again, casting a glow over his face. It was freezing, but when he straightened, a bead of sweat streaked from his hairline down his temple. “It means we’re headed in the right direction. Let’s keep moving.”

I rolled my eyes and trudged forward through the snow. This song and dance wouldn’t work on me. This man was leading me to my death and still wouldn’t shut up about himself.

A crash exploded beside me—I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Oomph,” Nathaniel exhaled, righting himself. “Damn tree root came out of nowhere.”

He shone his phone flashlight on the ground, revealing a gnarly, twisted root jutting up from the ground. The kind that looked like it had been there forever, only revealed by decades of soil erosion.

Nathaniel brought his foot down and smashed it.

I reared back.

He stomped on the root, over and over, until it was flattened and deformed. Once he was done, the tip of it hung there, partially detached and swinging dejectedly.

“What?” Nathaniel snapped, breathing heavily from the exertion.

I looked away. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I tried to line up our path with my admittedly outdated mental map of the area, but I couldn’t figure out where his final destination was. Maybe there wasn’t a destination at all, and he only wanted to get us far enough outside town where no one would hear the gunshot. But wouldn’t a car have been more efficient?

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Nathaniel asked, “Would you make a painting for me?”

A painting?

I couldn’t have heard him correctly. He wasn’t planning to kill me tonight? Then what were we doing out here? “Why would you want one of my paintings?”

“I have all your other ones.”

I nearly tripped over my own feet.

I remembered Josh’s call, how thrilled he’d been that so many of my paintings and prints were selling, his hushed words that the same buyer had purchased twelve originals for an astounding price, and my blood ran cold.

“I’m a collector. If I put some paints in the basement, will you paint a new one, just for me?”

Ugh. “There’s poor ventilation,” I muttered. “I need airflow for the fumes.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled.

A halo of moonlight burst through the treetops.

A twig snapped to the left.

Nathaniel jolted, swinging wildly with the gun. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think it was?”

“It’s the woods, I don’t know!”

“Guess!”

“A squirrel,” I spat, annoyed.

“Do squirrels crack twigs?”

“Do I look like a squirrel expert?”

This man was ridiculous. I picked up the pace; faster to the next horror, perhaps, but less time spent with his incessant, obnoxious chatter? It was not a hard decision.

Nathaniel scrambled to keep up. “I want answers, Willa. That’s what I came here for, and it’s what I’m going to get—”

Crack and then a solid thump.

The light swung wildly as Nathaniel tried to identify the source of the commotion.

“You’re pointing that in my eyes!” I hissed.

“What the hell was that?”

“You’re blinding me! And you’re not even pointing it in the right direction. It came from that way!”

The beam of light jerked in the other direction, and I blinked white spots out of my vision.

I felt a bit more disoriented than when he’d hit me in the kitchen, but I kept that to myself too.

He focused the light on a large tree branch a few yards away. “I think it was that branch. It must’ve just fallen.” He gave a low whistle. “Nearly hit the both of us!”

Something whistled back.

Nathaniel jumped, his light scattering into the trees.

“Jesus, Willa, don’t do that. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

I stopped walking.

“That wasn’t me.”

There was a moment of absolute stillness.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nathaniel blustered. “It’s only the two of us out here. I heard you whistle, clear as day.”

I heard it too, I could’ve said. Instead, I muttered, “Whatever,” and trudged forward.

Another whistle pierced through the night.

“Stop doing that!”

“It’s not me!”

“You’re not in a position to mock me! Remember I hold all the power here.” Nathaniel nudged me with his gun. It was sloppy aim. He got my elbow at best.

I glared at approximately head height. “You think I’m whistling at you? What the fuck?”

“Then what do you think it is?”

I squinted into the trees. “I don’t go into the woods.”

“You’re lying.”

I spun to glare at him.

“I saw you only a few days ago in the woods, shouting.”

“That was you? With the mask—Ugh, of course it was you. You scared me half to death.”

“I know.” He sounded smug. “So about the woods … wait.”

The flashlight shone in my face. His jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me—You? Willa Greene, the biggest skeptic of them all, believes there’s something spooky out here?”

I set my jaw. Couldn’t he have just gotten it over with? Why did I have to listen to this?

“You do, don’t you?” His eyes lit up.

“Could be a bird,” I offered.

His answering silence was dubious.

“Like a whistling bird.”

Nathaniel remained silent. I imagined I could see his eyebrows in the dark, perched high on his forehead.

The gun nudged me.

“Just keep walking.”

I did.

“Wait, I lost my place. Is it left or right?”

I turned to him incredulously. “Are you asking me?”

There was the light again, swiveling as he rotated himself in a circle. Twice. “All right, this way. We’re close.”

Close to what? I wondered what Graham and Joyce were up to, back in the basement. They were down there with my nightmares, where anything could happen. I thought of Rachel, in her home, fast asleep with her family. Of Callum—would he be on the overnight shift? Or sound asleep? What was Josh doing at this exact moment in time, hundreds of miles away?

“Who is that?” Nathaniel asked suddenly. He gripped my arm, halting me.

“Not this again,” I sighed and wrapped my arms around myself. How long had it even been since we’d entered the woods? “I can’t see anything.”

“Yes, you can!” he pointed. “Right there! Don’t you see it? Looking at us like that?”

Fuck this guy, dragging me out there here in the middle of the night to have a paranoid freak-out of his own creation. Who was he trying to convince with this performance? I already knew he was a fraud. A little pointing and hysteria weren’t going to make me believe it.

“Nathaniel. There’s no one there. It’s like 1 AM. People don’t hike at this time. No one hikes around here ever.”

He didn’t seem to register my comment. The whites of his eyes grew impossibly large.

“What’s it pointing at?”

He’s faking it, I told myself. It’s just another ploy for attention. That’s what he does.

It didn’t stop me from sending an extra glance behind me.

“Look! There. Don’t you think there’s something out here? With all your little local superstitions?”

“I said I don’t go into the woods,” I snapped.

“Is that a deer?” he asked suddenly.

“Probably not,” I muttered.

“Why’s it look like that?”

I couldn’t help it; I looked. But I saw nothing beyond the heaviness of the night.

A long, low groan rose from the ground. It surrounded us on all sides, impossible to tell which direction it was coming from.

Nathaniel spun around, horror clear on his face. He gasped and clutched his head. “I can feel it. Something’s here. I’m getting an image, but it’s too blurry to make out.”

I set my teeth and stared straight ahead. Do not engage.

The groaning grew louder now. More guttural.

“What the fuck is that noise?” Nathaniel’s gun trembled. His finger was on the trigger. At least it wasn’t pointed at me.

“The wind,” I deadpanned.

He turned to me incredulously. “You can’t be serious. The wind?”

My heart raced even as I tried to swallow my pulse.

“You’re not feeling this at all? It’s like—it’s everywhere. This pressure.”

I shook my head.

“Tell me what it is! Willa, tell me!” He grabbed my sleeve and shook me so hard my skull rattled. “It hurts,” he gasped.

“Get off me!” I spat the words, prying his hand away.

My eyes darted around without my permission. I didn’t want to see it. But I couldn’t stop myself.

Nathaniel dragged me by the hair.

I yelped. “Stop it!”

“No, you don’t get to do this. You do see it, you do!”

“I don’t see anything,” I denied, clenching my eyes closed.

“I can’t breathe,” he choked. “I need air. Come on!”

Nathaniel threw us into a run, veins standing out like cords in his neck.

More voices joined the moans. A cacophony of voices raised against the wind.

“Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

“Then run faster!” he gasped.

“Where are we even going? Are you trying to get us lost out here?”

“Shouldn’t be far now! I marked the coordinates.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

There was a small, second clearing up ahead. Moonlight drifted in a haze across the grass. Silhouetted against the stars, a lone structure stood.

A decrepit old barn.

The forest went silent. As if holding its breath.

“No,” I gasped. “No!”

Nathaniel caught his breath. “Thank God,” he muttered before straightening. “Recognize it now? I wanted it to be a surprise. Took me forever to find, I’ll tell you that. Didn’t have much to go on in the beginning.”

I scrambled backward, but a hand tightened on my shoulder.

“You’re going the wrong way. We’re going inside.”

“I’m not going! Let me go!”

He struck me, and I kicked him in the stomach.

The groaning started up again, this time coming from behind us.

We both jumped; Nathaniel grabbed my wrists to drag me forward, and I latched on to the closest tree with one leg and swung at him sloppily with the other. A rattling noise began, an eerie, dry noise drowning out Nathaniel’s gasp, as if a massive rattlesnake were making its displeasure known.

“We’re going inside, and I’m getting what I came for!” he shouted, trying to speak over the racket. The whites of his eyes stood out against the night. He yelped and clutched his head, and I lashed out with my foot.

We struggled, pulling and clawing in clumsy motions, and while he was taller and stronger, I had my legs locked around the tree and nearly scaled it, only to be yanked down by my foot. I threw the other foot out, clipping his jaw, and—

BANG.

A single gunshot in the night.

I froze. The forest froze. Silence descended upon us.

Nathaniel panted wildly, trying to get ahold of his breathing. “In the barn. Now.”

I slowly lowered myself from the tree.

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “That’s more like it. Slowly. Hands where I can see them. But quicker than that; we don’t have all night.”

Had anyone heard that shot? I crossed the clearing, Nathaniel at my back. Even if they had, who in their right mind would venture out into the woods to investigate?

I swallowed my disappointment. Nathaniel cut in front of me and heaved open the barn door.

The door let out a shriek; he flinched violently, and I smothered a smirk.

Nathaniel pushed me into the barn and slammed the door. A single lightbulb flickered to life.

“Good grief,” he panted, hands on his knees. “What in the fuck was that?” He swiped sweat off his forehead.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to calm my heart, but for a different reason: I swore I’d never return here. It was a surprise to me the barn was still standing—I’d assumed the family had gone through with demolishing it years ago after Kennedy’s uncle’s suicide. As the owner of the barn where his niece and five other teenagers had died, the guilt had overwhelmed him.

“Willa.”

“What?” I snapped. I wiped hair from my forehead with a sleeve, smearing it across my face. I swiped at it again, irritated.

“Are you serious?” Nathaniel cried, jumping up from where he’d been leaning against the barn wall. “You can’t possibly act like that was normal. Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me anything about what just happened was normal.”

He shoved me when I didn’t obey. It was a weak shove. The single lightbulb hummed judgmentally.

I cracked an eye open to glare at him. I was already having a crisis here; I didn’t need to experience his too.

He grimaced and pressed on his temples. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? You were right there with me. We’re in this together. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

What was there to say? How could I be afraid when the forest had already taken everything from me? When the worst had already happened, wasn’t the rest inevitable?

He’d brought me back to the barn where all my friends had been killed, and he wanted me to be worried over a little background noise?

I squared my shoulders. “Are we going to do this or what?” Not that I knew what “this” was.

Nathaniel gaped. “I want you to acknowledge what just happened. What we just experienced. You’re a skeptic, what do you think? What’s it done to your worldview?”

“My worldview is exactly the s—”

My eyes spotted movement in his pocket. A rectangular outline. My stomach dropped. “You’re recording this.”

“It’s an exclusive! Of course I am. We can show some of this in the preview, and the audience will be on the edge of their seats. Can you imagine how many people would tune in not only for Willa Greene’s return to the site of the Rapture Mystery Slayings, but also for undeniable proof ghosts are real? And we haven’t even really gotten started—This is amazing and—”

My hands balled into fists. “Proof ghosts are real? That’s what you think that was? What a joke.”

“Are you—What? You’re admitting you heard it too! We can do something here, prove something—”

“Stop being a baby then,” I scoffed. “Let’s get on with it.”

His mouth opened and shut like a goldfish.

Ghost hunting. I couldn’t believe it. That’s what we were doing here? I hated him more by the minute. He didn’t bring me here to kill me—it was much worse: He wanted content.

I allowed myself to take in the barn as he set up cameras and microphones from his pack. It looked different from how I remembered it. More menacing. Less cute. It looked how I felt—run-down and one strong gust from falling apart. Straw, discarded wooden planks, and bits of junk covered much of the ground floor. I didn’t want to look too closely, afraid I’d see blood.

Against my will, my eyes went to the corner where Kaylee had—

No, don’t look. Don’t think. Don’t give him any ideas.

Outside, the wind howled. The structure creaked ominously.

“Can you hold this wire for me?”

I glanced at Nathaniel and wrapped my arms around myself. It was freezing.

“No.”

He sighed obnoxiously, like he hadn’t really expected me to help anyway, and returned to fiddling with the equipment.

By the foot of the ladder leading to the hayloft, the four prongs of a pitchfork peeked up just above the hay. Buried and forgotten.

My eyes darted to Nathaniel’s back.

I looked back at the pitchfork. “You said it was hurting you.”

“I came for answers, and I’m going to get them,” he grumbled. “It surprised me, that’s it. I’ve never felt something that strong before. It’s overwhelming.”

I stepped toward the pitchfork.

“So, this is where it all went down, right? Teenage Willa, out in the woods for a party. This was the night it all changed for you. Are you finally ready to tell the world what really happened that night? Hasn’t it been eating at you all this time?”

I whirled around. Nathaniel, evidently finished with the equipment, was watching me eagerly.

A little red dot on the camera he’d hitched to his chest winked at me. A second one blinked from a mount on the wall.

“Are you live streaming this?”

“No.” Nathaniel made a face. “I’m going to sell it, not give it away for free. Can’t let anyone know where we are, either. Do you think I’m incompetent?”

Yes.

“I told the police what happened,” I muttered, neck craning to peek into the hayloft. I was unsettled here, a visitor in my own skin. “That was enough.”

“But not everything,” he singsonged, wiping sweat from his brow. “Tell us the rest of it. Let us judge. We all want to know what you did.”

That caught my attention. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t you?” He cast his arm around the room. “Tell me where you were sitting. Where your friends were. Come on, it’s harmless. The whole country already thinks you did it. That you got away with it because you were too young, too beautiful, too good of an actress. Just give us a few more details, please, please, please!”

My stomach felt like ice. “What are you talking about?”

A particularly violent thrash of the wind set my teeth on edge. The wooden structure shuddered. We both looked up at the ceiling until the noise subsided. He’d clearly had the same thought—this place looked like it might come down on top of us.

Nathaniel rubbed his shoulder. “If we’re going to do this investigation right, we need all the facts. Leave no stone unturned. I need to know what you’re hiding so I know the right questions to ask that will confirm we’re not alone. It’s simple. I’ll ask, and the ghosts will answer.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

Nathaniel tilted the gun.

“That’s not a good look for you,” I said, nodding at the camera.

“That’s the magic of editing,” he muttered. “Why are you so difficult? Okay, let’s start with a timeline. You came here for a party Friday night, November eighteenth, fifteen years ago. You were in high school. Six of your friends were with you. They say it was about 10 PM. Did you really walk all the way through the woods? So late at night?”

No, because we weren’t as ill-prepared as him and thought our plans through before dragging others into them. There was a dirt access road nearby where we’d parked our cars. We weren’t stumbling through the woods in the middle of the winter night like Nathaniel fucking Lennox.

I said none of this.

“Was there alcohol?”

I glared at him.

“Here are the facts. Seven teenagers went into the woods that night. Only one came out. What happened in between, hmm?” He tilted the camera to get a better view of my face. “The police said there’s no proof anyone else was out here. There was only one person alive who was at the scene of the crime, and I’m looking at her. Awfully suspicious, don’t you think?”

My nails dug into my palms.

“What happened to Kennedy?”

My eyes shot to his.

“I have their names here.” He squinted down at his phone. “Kennedy Brennan. Tina Hudson. Nate Martinez. Kaylee Granger. Wendy Sun. Jeremy Landon. I saw the leaked crime scene photos. It was brutal stuff. Much more than most would say a teenage girl is capable of.” He tilted his head. “Others say anyone is capable of anything.”

I looked away in disgust.

Creeeeak, went the door.

“So did you…?”

“I didn’t do it,” I spat. “They cleared me a long time ago and you know it. Chief Landon mismanaged the investigation and never retracted his personal speculations. I was a minor, and he ruined my life.”

“Sounds like you have some words to say to the former police chief of Rapture,” he said, and grinned.

High above, the lightbulb flickered.

“I was an easy target,” I whispered.

“If you didn’t do it, what do you think happened?”

I almost wanted to say it, just to see the look on his face, but with that camera pointed at me, my lips were sewn shut.

We were plunged into darkness, and my heart almost gave out.

The bulb swinging from the ceiling sparked back to life. I breathed out.

“It’s a good thing I’ve got night mode,” Nathaniel murmured, eyeing the bulb uneasily. A powerful gust of wind sent a violent shudder through the barn.

I was going to be sick. Memories lurked in every corner. We’d come here to have fun. Kennedy swore we wouldn’t get caught, that her uncle never checked this place at night. Nate was in charge of the alcohol. He’d convinced his older brother to buy it in the next town over.

Here I stood in the remnants of the worst night of my life, a rickety old barn about to crumble.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” I muttered. The hayloft had looked questionable, even all those years ago. Nate had dared me to go up it, but I’d taken a shot instead and picked truth. I could still feel the burn of Fireball in my throat.

Nathaniel fumbled with the recorder. “I know I heard something.”

He exhaled deeply and pressed play.

Against my better judgement, I leaned in.

Static blasted from the speaker. I flinched as Nathaniel adjusted the volume.

“Sorry,” he said.

If he was apologizing to me, he must have really been out of it.

“There we go.” He hit play again.

Feigning disinterest, I held my breath.

“Dark,” a voice croaked. “So, so dark.”

We both jumped. We exchanged identical wide-eyed looks, as if we weren’t captor and captive, and the recording turned to static.

“That was you,” I accused as soon as I came to my senses. I pointed aggressively at the audio player. “You whispered into the microphone.”

Nathaniel’s eyes started to sparkle. “It wasn’t.”

“Nathaniel, this is too far. You wanted me here? I’m here. You want to get some creepy footage? We’re getting it. But to bring recordings to fake evidence? Unbelievable. Actually—you went too far the moment you showed up in my kitchen with a gun. No, when you pretended to be my gym teacher mailing creepy letters to my house—”

“Watch,” the voice said, breaking through the static. “Watch, watch, watch.”

It sent chills down my spine.

“Stop playing that!”

Nathaniel ignored me and addressed the room. “Hello! Whoever I am speaking to, please identify yourself. My name is Nathaniel. This is Willa.”

I sent him my nastiest glare.

“I am holding an audio recording device. If you speak into it, I can hear you more clearly.”

I only just held myself back from pointing out the teenagers who died here knew what microphones were.

“Who am I speaking with, please?”

A pause.

“Are you from this town? We are in Rapture, Maine. Did you know that? Did you grow up here?”

I counted my breaths: One, two, three, four, five.

“Did you die here on the night of November eighteenth?”

I exhaled slowly. It’s all fake. He does this stuff weekly for a live audience.

He pointed at me. His finger shook. “Do you know who that is? Can you say her name for me?”

Creeeeak went the door again.

The lightbulb swung, and a shadow darted across the hayloft. Maybe a squirrel was nesting up there, hiding from the cold. I took a nervous step away.

“Is there anything you want to say to her?”

Another long pause.

“Did she have anything to do with your murder?”

I forced my face to remain impassive. This is his game. Don’t react for the camera. Don’t give him what he wants.

Nathaniel pressed play on the recording and seemed to have forgotten all about the gun lodged in his back pocket. I wondered if he’d turned the safety on.

“I can’t hear anything with this wind,” he muttered, kneeling to dig around in his pack. He slid headphones on, giving me a warning look.

I hoped he’d shoot himself in the ass.

I watched him click play. If he was distracted enough, should I make a go for the gun? And then what? Shoot him? Here? I didn’t know if I could deal with the consequences of that choice. Another death in the same place.

I prayed Joyce was halfway through digging her way out of the basement by now. I felt guilty leaving her with those things lurking along the walls, but if she couldn’t see them, she’d probably be fine. If they didn’t make any noise that would draw the investigative reporter’s attention, that is.

A clear whistle cut through the wind.

Nathaniel, fingers pressing his headphones against his skull, didn’t notice.

A shudder ran through me. I shouldn’t be out here, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, in this rickety barn where nightmares were born and lives were ruined.

“Shit!” Nathaniel gasped.

My hand flew to my chest. “Jesus!”

His mouth dropped open. Slack, like his soul had left him.

“What?” I snapped, irritated and freaked out.

Without a word, Nathaniel plucked the headphone jack from the audio recorder. Sound cut across the wind. Music. A song.

I couldn’t speak.

“Young and sweet, only seventeen,” the singer crooned. It froze the blood in my veins.

Except it wasn’t the original singer. It was Kaylee’s voice, frozen fifteen years in the past.

Kaylee belted the lyrics, holding the wine bottle like a microphone. Tina and Nate, sharing a blanket, cheered her on.

“Are you paying attention?” Kaylee demanded with a wide grin. “Because I’m up here all by myself!” She giggled, wine-drunk.

Jeremy enthusiastically jumped in with terrible pitch, leading to an explosion of laughter in the barn. Kaylee dipped him in a clumsy twirl despite their height difference.

Wendy elbowed me and held out the bottle of Fireball. “You’re next.” Her eyes glittered in the dim lighting.

I couldn’t speak, rooted to the floor.

“It means something to you, doesn’t it?”

Tears pooled in my eyes.

“What does it mean?” Nathaniel’s hands found my shoulders. “Tell me!”

A sob burst from my mouth, startling us both. “It was playing that night,” I said, voice hoarse. “While we were hanging out. Before it all happened.” Shit, I was crying.

His eyes grew unfocused. His throat worked in the click of a swallow.

“Get your butt up here!” Kaylee, unmistakably Kaylee, three-time winner of the Rapture High Talent Show, giggled through the speaker.

A cold sweat dripped down my spine. I felt unmoored, losing my sense of past and present. This wasn’t possible.

The recording clicked off by itself.

I waited for Nathaniel’s croons of victory, his self-congratulatory speech, his pats on the back for a job well done.

It didn’t come.

I raised my head and eyed the self-proclaimed celebrity psychic.

Nathaniel, head tilted, was staring past me. His mouth formed silent words. Lips, tongue, jaw moving in some grotesque approximation of speech. His pupils darted from side to side.

Skin crawling, I looked behind me.

Only a dark, dark corner. Piles of hay. The ladder to the hayloft.

“Do you see them?”

My attention snapped back to Nathaniel. “Who?”

He trailed off. Jaw falling open. I half expected him to let out a dribble of drool down his chin.

I looked back at that corner again, nerves frayed. “What is it?” I didn’t want to get caught up in his theatrics but was unable to help myself. Sue me, it was past 1 AM, we were deep in the woods of my nightmares, and I could’ve sworn I’d just heard my dead friend Kaylee sing.

“Do you see them, Willa?”

His voice was a whisper.

See who? But my throat had seized at his words, and I couldn’t expel a sound.

“They’re looking at you,” Nathaniel murmured, eyes locked on nothing more than scattered hay and rotting wood. “All six of them. They’re looking at you … no, talking to you.”

I thought I was going to be sick. “This is too far. They were real people, and their memories don’t deserve this perversion for your ego—”

“They’re shouting at you! Screaming for your attention.”

“Stop it!” I snapped. “You’re out of your fucking—”

He clamped his hands over his ears, crumpled to his knees, and screamed.

I staggered back, finding a wall on the far side of the barn and pressing my back into it. Something prodded at my ear; I gasped before realizing it was a strand of hay lodged in my hair. I shook it off.

The lightbulb on the chain swung pendulum-like, faster and faster. Shadows flickered through the rotation, stretching monstrously as the light spun.

Against my will, the memories came flooding back.

“Come on, Willa, I thought you wanted to party!”

Wendy’s words cut through my thoughts. Tina, beside her, swiveled around to watch.

“I do,” I assured her. “It’s just … are you sure no one knows we’re out here? Don’t you think we should turn down the music a bit? What if someone hears us?”

Wendy laughed. “No one’s going to hear us! We’re in the middle of the woods. Kennedy said her uncle isn’t even home this weekend. Now come on, take this shot with me!”

I hesitated, looking back at the door. Hay poked my legs through the flimsy blanket.

“Don’t make me be a loser who has to take a shot alone!” The Fireball glittered in her hand as she held it up to the twinkling strands of light, old Christmas lights we’d repurposed for the occasion. Atmosphere, Kennedy had said, was of the utmost importance.

I opened my mouth to suggest Kennedy take my place, only to realize Kennedy and Jeremy were in the far corner, already preoccupied with each other.

I bit my lip.

“I’ll take a shot,” came a low voice from behind me.

Wendy let out a delighted peal of laughter and welcomed Nate in with open arms. She giggled into his chest. His other arm reached out and drew me into him too. Over Wendy’s head, his eyes met mine.

I touched my face. My hands came away wet.

They died that night because of me. I didn’t kill them myself, but I may as well have. In my haste to get ready for my first real high school party, I had forgotten to leave out the food.

When it had found the empty bowls, it had satisfied its hunger another way.

It hadn’t been me, but it had.

“My head!” Nathaniel shrieked, then his words devolved into inarticulate screams. He dry heaved into the hay.

I didn’t know what to think. More tears spilled from my eyes until—

On the floor, peeking through the spaces created by his fingers, were the beady eyes of Nathaniel Lennox. On his chest, the camera was pointed right at me.

“You piece of shit!” I screamed. “Get that fucking thing out of my face! Where the hell did you get that recording from? You’re the worst of the worst, acting like you’re seeing my dead friends who were murdered here. What is wrong with you? You’re worse than a fraud. You’re a parasite. You should be ashamed!”

He dropped his hands to stare at me, lips parted.

“These were teenagers! Children! They were real people with dreams and families who loved them. And you’re turning it into some kind of circus—for what? For views? You think this is going to endear you to the general public who think you’re a fucking fraud? Get a grip!”

A slew of emotions ran over Nathaniel’s face, and he dry heaved into the hay again. Gasping in air, he asked, “What really happened? Speak their truth! They’re all here, waiting!”

I shook with the rage and unfairness of it all.

“No one’s here,” I spat, advancing on him. “I’m not one of your little fans who’ll swoon over whatever nonsense you spout. We’ve done this dance already. I see right through you, Neil.”

“Listen to me—”

“Ghosts aren’t real! Whatever trick you’ve done, I’m not falling for—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The door had flung itself open and was smacking against the wall like a dying fish flopping against the dock.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I was across the room to relatch the door before the absurdity of the action caught up with me.

I shouldn’t have locked us in, I should’ve run—

Thud.

I spun around, searching for the source of the noise.

The camera was on the ground. Nathaniel was staring at a dark corner of the barn. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Until: “Why are they doing that? Willa, why—”

He covered his ears and screamed. It seemed to go on forever.

“Stop it! Stop it,” I cried. Why was he doing this to me?

Nathaniel quieted, but the ringing continued in my ears. He swallowed compulsively, wild-eyed. Was this man trying for an Emmy?

He squinted at me, chest heaving. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t kill them that night.”

Appalled, I drew back. “Of course I didn’t do it. They were my friends.”

“You’ve suffered for it all the same.” That pronouncement hung in the air, until he shot to his feet, slamming against the barn wall. The structure shuddered and groaned. “Six-foot-four. Heavyset.” His eyes were far away. “Red plaid flannel. Cowboy boots.”

What the hell was he talking about?

“This isn’t funny,” I growled. I took a step toward the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

His eyes met mine, chest heaving. “He killed them.”

I choked on my own saliva.

“They’re speaking to me! He started with Tina. Sweet little Tina.” Nathaniel swayed forward as if in a trance. “She was the closest to the door. He said he wouldn’t hurt them if she did what he said.” He sucked in air. “He lied.”

“Next was Jeremy. He leapt in front of Kennedy, tried to take the knife, but he got it in his own gut. And then … and then…” Nathaniel trailed off. “Tell me more!” he boomed. “I’m listening! I’m here!”

Rage boiled in my blood. How dare he. How dare he. I knew what killed them. And it sure as hell wasn’t some plaid-wearing man. He was making up a story. Trying to rewrite history and pencil himself in as the star witness.

I started to shake.

Nathaniel lurched violently against the barn wall and howled.

“I can see him clearly!” he gasped. He bent at the waist and shuddered. “Freckles on his cheeks. Brown eyes with no expression. I’m seeing through their eyes! He’s wearing a watch. Silver with a red face. Analog. Some kind of baseball hat? Black with red letters. Forest ranger, maybe? It’s so worn. I can barely make it out.” His voice cracked. “Wendy almost got away. She ran for the door during the scuffle, but she didn’t know he had another knife. He cut her throat quickly, and she watched what happened to the rest of them as she lay in the hay. It was right there.” He pointed out a patch of the floor.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Wendy. She would’ve been valedictorian. We all knew it. The school knew it too. They never named one at graduation. It would’ve felt like fraud.

“Kennedy tried bargaining with him when pleading didn’t work. But he wouldn’t say a word. Dark eyes, ruddy cheeks, no life behind them. I’m sorry, Kennedy.”

I felt that I was outside my body, looking down from the ceiling of the barn. Dangling from the hayloft. I was the light, spinning, tethered by a chain.

“Kaylee got him with the bottle of Fireball. But she didn’t hit hard enough. Didn’t get a chance to hit twice. She’s still proud of it, though.”

Nathaniel gathered speed, panting.

“He wasn’t from town. They didn’t recognize him. Didn’t know him. Kaylee didn’t think he knew them, either. He never said their names. Never said why he was doing it.” Nathaniel wheezed and clutched his chest. “The first cut hurt the worst. By the last one, she could hardly feel it anymore. She was so cold.”

Blood trickled from his nose, but he didn’t notice.

My unease grew. How did he do that, with the blood?

“You weren’t there.” He squinted at me. “Why weren’t you there?” He canted his head, letting his eyes go unfocused. “You went off with a boy. Nate. Just the two of you, off into the woods alone. And he came back without you.”

I froze. That was actually true. How did he know that? He couldn’t possibly know that.

“He did something you didn’t like, and you ran from him. Away from him and away from the party. He tried to follow you, but you knew the woods better, and he couldn’t catch up. So he came back here.” Nathaniel’s eyes fell closed. “He came in near the end. While the bodies were still being butchered. Cut after cut, just to see what was under them. Nate could’ve run, should’ve run, but the shock of seeing his friends like that made him too slow. The man was so mad at being interrupted. So, so mad. Poor Nate.”

Nathaniel grimaced and massaged his forehead. His eyes snapped to me.

“You cooled off and came back, didn’t you? Over an hour later. You left your bag here. But by the time you came back, they were all dead. Butchered nearly beyond recognition.”

Blood dripped from his chin onto the hay. His eyes grew sad. “He didn’t know there were seven of you that night. You were spared. It was chance.”

“It wasn’t chance!” I snarled, finally finding my voice. “It was a mistake.”

Slowly, he shook his head from side to side. It was eerie, though, because his eyes didn’t move from a fixed point behind me. “No. It was chance. Simple chance.” He frowned. “It wasn’t about you at all. Pure luck.”

“Nothing about what happened that night was luck!” I screamed. He was pulling it out of his ass. It was me, I’d done it, I’d forgotten to feed the forest that night, and due to my carelessness, it had feasted on my friends instead. Whether it had done it out of spite or pure animal starvation, I’d never know. In the end, it came down to the same fact: It was me. It wasn’t whatever drama Nathaniel was inventing to drum up views. This wasn’t authentic. It came from a selfish need to insert himself into the conflict and realign the universe to orbit around himself.

Kaylee, all twisted up on the hay. Kennedy, clasping Jeremy’s cold wrist. Parts of them surrounding them. Wendy just inside the door, like she’d fallen. She was the first one I’d found. I shouted for help until my lungs ached and my throat was raw, only to realize help was far, far away. I checked each of their pulses, even in the state they were in, but they were far beyond anywhere I could reach.

Fleeing the barn. Door slamming after me. Sobbing through the woods. Stumbling over roots and rocks in the dark. Slipping. Snot and mud running down my face. Getting turned around, then turned around again. Screaming myself hoarse when I finally found a house.

The bone-white look of terror on Mrs. Landon’s face when she answered the door.

So many red and blue flashing lights. Sirens that echoed in my head years later.

Officer Keyes, red-eyed and screaming at me in the interview room until I sobbed myself empty of tears. Another officer storming in, dragging him out, but the condemnation in his eyes was only for me. Chief Landon. Circles under his eyes. Pulled from his bed in the middle of the night and turning those angry, angry eyes on me.

He—

No. I shook my head. Don’t go back there. Stay here. Five things you can hear. The wind outside, the creaking of wood, the thumping of my own heart, the straw shifting under my feet, the timbre of Nathaniel’s voice as he asked questions to the walls.

Nathaniel was perverting a tragedy into a Hollywood spectacle. Polluting their memory. Putting on a performance of a lifetime for the cameras.

His gun was there. Right there.

These memories were incorporeal, could never be destroyed, but this man was flesh and blood.

Could be snuffed out.

I turned on him.

Almost too late, his attention refocused on me. He must have seen something dangerous in my eyes because he took a hasty step back.

“Steady now, Willa. Wipe that look off your face.” His voice was hoarse. He finally noticed the blood from his nose and wiped at it with a frown. “This is something special. Something new! The police never had another suspect—only you. Isn’t that something? There’s more to the story—”

It wasn’t a story. I tuned out the rest of the vile lies from his mouth.

His carotid fluttered beneath my fingers. Flesh to flesh. His heart pounded faster than mine. He was larger than me, but his muscles, unlike Graham’s, were more decorative than functional, and his shock made him weak.

The grip turned into a throat punch, and he went down with a satisfying thump. Knuckles bounced off the floor, and his gun skittered under the hay; on top of him, I kneed him where no man wanted to be kneed.

His other hand whipped my cheekbone, hard but not hard enough to dislodge me, and I yelped through gritted teeth and eyes that glittered with hatred.

Above us, the light swung as if it too were hit.

Nathaniel’s eyes went wide with terror.

But something was wrong.

He wasn’t looking at me.

He was looking past my ear.

Look at me.

This is my story. Mine.

I went for the gun, but his knee lodged in my rib cage.

I screamed without sound.

He flipped us, so I was on my stomach, arms twisted behind my back in a cop’s hold, wrists creaking, face hot.

Hay went up my nose with surprising violence. I twisted and sneezed in his face, and he jerked back, disgusted, and I followed with a devastating headbutt. Hot liquid sprayed my cheeks, and when the gray-white starbursts cleared to reveal the ceiling of the barn, I leveraged myself up on one elbow. Nathaniel groaned with his shirt pressed to his injured nose. Blood oozed through the fabric.

Hah. Mr. Picture-Perfect Hollywood. I hoped it would be crooked for life. I felt like I had a dent in my forehead, but that was a tomorrow problem.

I grinned, his blood on my face, and his eyes, watering over the fabric pressed to his nose, took me in, my teeth bared, eyes wild, and wearing an expression not fit for a human being.

BANG.

I was up, and then I was down. I couldn’t say how I got from one to the other. Only that my arm was hot, hot, hot, and my brain was cold, cold, cold.

For the first time, I couldn’t hear the wind. Only a deafening, high-pitched ringing.

Time passed in a spiral. Loopy and spinning and not in any arrangement that could pass for linear.

The lightbulb above me was my sun. I watched it, moth to a flame. Back and forth. Back and forth. Faster and faster with my heartbeat. How could it be going faster?

The ground was sliding out from under me. The barn became a treadmill, sliding beneath my coat. A pressure on my neck, near choking, until the force released and returned around my ribs. My limbs weren’t really mine anymore.

Sound filtered back in bits and pieces.

A voice washed over me, rough and halting. “You’re a difficult, difficult woman, but you’re also a star. Look what we’ve done together.”

It was so much colder than before. Wet and cold on my spine. Wind caressed my cheeks, then howled loudly, so much louder than before. It was screaming at me. No. It was screaming for me. Crying for me. Sobbing.

I was an angel sprawled in the snow. Ice was packed onto my arm, and then it was being wrapped, too tight. I shuddered.

“Stay still,” came the scratchy reprimand.

It was so cold.

Firm hands hauled me upright and a bit to the side, where a sturdier form took my weight.

“One foot in front of the other. Just like that. It’s a long way back.”

chapter
27

The creak of a step was my only warning to duck. The wall splintered with the force of Joyce’s strike; she readied the pipe to swing again but faltered at the sight of me at the top of the stairs. Nathaniel shoved me aside and kicked her squarely in the chest.

I gasped, wishing I could do more than slump numbly into the wall, sure I was about to witness Joyce’s horrific fall.

She fell into Graham, who was crouched a few steps down.

I tried to backtrack into the hall, but a hand descended on my shoulder, steadying me, as if Nathaniel thought I were off-balance. My shoulder throbbed.

“You’ve been busy,” he stated. Not as angry as he should be. Still running on the high of what he’d experienced in the barn, even as dried blood caked from his nose to his chin.

“Willa! You’re—you’re…” Joyce trailed off. The disbelief melted into something tighter, angrier when she caught sight of the blood seeping through my jacket. “What is that?”

With how dizzy I was, I couldn’t get the words out.

Graham pressed Joyce behind him and squared his shoulders as if to appear as large as possible, the kind of animal posturing I’d seen in nature documentaries. Fluffing himself up. Look bigger and half the battle is already won.

“Back it up,” Nathaniel snapped. “Any closer and I’m putting a bullet in Willa. Well, another one,” he amended. His tongue swiped a lick of blood from his upper lip, and he grimaced.

Horror overtook Graham’s expression, and he floundered, trying to get a better look at me. Joyce’s head popped out from behind his back, meerkat-like.

“Easy now. Step by step. Back down there.”

Graham’s eyes were on me, pained.

Do it, I tried to say with my eyes. Fight. Just do it.

He wavered. The bags under his eyes were deep.

Graham stepped back.

Joyce would’ve done it, something hissed in the back of my mind. If she were as big as you. She would’ve gone for it.

The fingers gripping the back of my neck loosened. Nathaniel hadn’t been sure either until that moment.

Graham walked backward down the stairs, never breaking eye contact.

“Now you,” was whispered in my ear.

The staircase seemed impossibly long and stretching longer as I stared down it. My clothes were soaked through with snow. My knees shook. I felt faint.

I didn’t want to go back down there.

“Let me help her.”

The request was from Joyce, who had pinned herself to the wall as Graham descended, stubbornly ignoring his nudge.

The tension ratcheted back up.

“She has working legs.”

“Look at her! She’s shaking. She’ll fall.”

Nathaniel’s eyes bore into the side of my face.

Teeth chattering, lips numb, it didn’t take much to look as pathetic as possible.

“Fine.”

They both started up the stairs. Nathaniel cocked the gun. “Not you.” He leveled it at Graham. “Joyce only.”

It was the first time I’d heard him speak her name.

Joyce quietly made her way up the stairs, hands up and fingers spread wide, until she stepped into the beam of light shining down the stairs.

Nathaniel released me and retreated. When Joyce reached the top of the stairs, her eyes flicked across the hall and kitchen. Her face searched mine, and I stared blankly back. I’d given all I had to give tonight. Let the rest be up to her.

She gripped around my shoulders—I gasped, and she readjusted her hands.

There was a moment in the air where anything could happen. I could feel her thinking, feel it in my very bones, as if her thoughts were pressing against my own.

“Let’s go, Willa. Slowly now.”

The moment passed.

We descended the stairs, and I sent a last glance back at the door. Nathaniel watched us. His expression was unreadable. His hands trembled, and when he noticed me looking, he hid them behind his back.

The door slammed. And then it was just us three in the basement, bulb swinging, in silence.

I stared at them. They stared at me.

The black-veiled silhouettes were exactly where I’d left them—facing the walls in their time-out poses. Disinterested. Or pretending to be.

I didn’t know what was under their veils, and I feared finding out.

“What happened?” Joyce whispered. She looked up at the door, as if Nathaniel might be pressing his ear to it. She tried lowering me into a seated position, but my knees shook so badly she couldn’t keep me steady.

“Graham, help!” she barked, and the statue-still man snapped to attention. His hands fluttered awkwardly at my sides, as if he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch.

“On her ribs. Watch the shoulder.”

I saw those big hands coming at me and twitched, but Joyce didn’t notice it as any different from my general shaking against the wall.

Graham did. A touch of alarm—why would he be afraid?—entered his eyes.

Joyce snapped, “Graham!”

I closed my eyes.

All five points of his fingers felt like a brand as they splayed across my ribs. They leveraged me down until I was on the floor, spine braced against the wall. The hands stayed a moment too long, and I snarled at him, something wordless and violent. The fingertips vanished.

Graham withdrew, looking haunted, while Joyce sent us both an irritated glance.

“He shot you? How bad is it?”

“I’m cold,” I whispered. My eyes went to the closest black figure lurking against the wall, and I snapped my gaze away. Hold it together, I urged myself. Pretend they’re not real. Joe came down here to check the water heater not that long ago, and he was perfectly fine. Be like Joe.

“You’re freezing.” Her hands flitted over me. I stared at her wrists. They weren’t tied anymore. “You’re soaked.” She plucked apart a gnarly, wet knot from my hair. She tapped my coat. “Sorry, we gotta get this off.”

I made the effort, but my shoulder burned.

“I’ve got you,” Joyce soothed. She unbuttoned the coat and slipped my arms out. “Let’s get you out of that shirt.”

Her fingers went to the buttons. The top of her hair tickled my chin.

I allowed her, aching and on fire and so angry at the situation.

She got my blouse open and peeled it down one shoulder—my bad shoulder. I gasped.

“Shit, sorry. How much does it hurt?”

“It hurts.”

She winced as the wound was exposed. She inspected my back. “Seems like it’s gone all the way through.”

Over the top of Joyce’s head, two dark eyes watched on. Graham’s gaze dipped down, then returned to my face. The light made his face look sallow, his eyes beady. His throat bobbed in a swallow. When I caught his eye, he turned his back.

My stomach twisted.

Was he getting some kind of enjoyment out of this? Seeing skin, bit by bit revealed, even half frozen and bloody?

My eyes bore into the back of his head. Joyce was hardly a thought as she worked. I ran my eyes over the slope of his broad shoulders, held like a bow that might snap.

Another sharp stab of pain.

“It’s a good thing,” Joyce announced. “We won’t have to dig anything out of you.” She pressed my shirt to the wound and instructed me to keep the pressure.

I shuddered against the concrete biting into my spine.

My eyes darted to Graham, who remained stubbornly facing the other way. He looked like one of the shadows with their faces averted.

“We don’t have any bandages down here. Or gauze. Or a clean shirt for you. We could really use materials to make a sling, but…” Joyce eyed the dusty tarps. Not the best for an open wound.

“We need antibiotics. If that gets infected…”

Her words trailed off, and the basement settled into an uneasy silence.

She leapt to her feet; I twitched, couldn’t help it, but she only stormed a few paces away. “We need some more blankets!” she shouted up the stairs. “And medical supplies!”

I touched her arm. “Joyce, don’t.”

She ignored me and got louder. “Nathaniel! Get down here! You can’t drag a woman through the woods, shoot her, and bring her back soaking wet and bleeding. She’ll freeze down here! She needs a doctor! She could be dead before morning!”

“Don’t make it worse,” I pleaded.

“It already is worse,” she whisper-shouted. “Look at you! It doesn’t get any worse than this.”

“Please. He might just kill me.”

Seconds ticked by. Joyce slipped out of her outer layer and gently wrapped it around me. We tracked Nathaniel’s steps across the creaking ceiling.

I’d almost gotten used to the silent, frozen people lurking around us.

“Could she really die by morning?” Graham asked. He’d finally turned to face us.

“No, don’t be dramatic,” Joyce muttered. “I just said that to scare him into getting us help. She’s probably fine … ish.” She peeked at my wound. “Right. Not bleeding out.”

“Why did he shoot you if he wasn’t trying to kill you?” Graham asked.

I took a steadying breath. “He took me deep into the forest. To the barn where everything happened that night fifteen years ago.” I refused to call it that awful name the media gave it, the Rapture Mystery Slayings. “Where my friends—” my voice broke, and Joyce’s eyes went wide.

I spoke in a rush. I had to get it out, had to say it now before I lost my nerve. “He had his camera. Recording devices. Forced me to go ghost hunting with him in the barn. He said—he said he was seeing the ghosts of my dead friends and that they were screaming at him.”

Horrifyingly, I dissolved into tears. “It went on and on. He wanted a reaction from me. He’s planning to air it as proof ghosts exist. It was too much. I tried to run, but he had the gun and—and—”

I gestured helplessly with my good arm at the wound. When I looked up, one of the black-veiled figures was closer along the wall than before. As if it had shuffled, lightning quick, while I dried my eyes.

I wanted to scream.

Joyce took this all in with an air of professionalism, the kind of neutral, nodding expression befitting a journalist accustomed to hearing horrors.

“Who does he think will watch it?”

She didn’t bother with platitudes or say how sorry she was. I liked that about her. “Everyone.”

Her mouth was a grim line.

“He was really excited about the footage he captured.” I closed my eyes, willing the person-shaped shadows away. It was hard to think through the pain. “But I think he needs me alive a little longer. Until he’s sucked every last drop of what I can give. Where’d you get the pipe?”

She pointed up. A section of piping was jagged and missing.

Ah. Looked expensive. I mentally added it to my list for Joe to fix, then realized what a silly thought it was.

“Sorry,” I said to Joyce. She raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Less chance of us getting out of here with one of us injured. I’m in no shape to rush him next time he lets his guard down. I should’ve held him off longer out there.”

To my surprise, she shrugged and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. We got the ropes off, but we weren’t getting anywhere with the door. That door’s sturdier than it looks.”

I guiltily recalled begging my dad to replace the hinges with stronger hardware back when the basement door had a habit of opening itself in the middle of the night.

The not-person shuffled closer. A quick one-two step sideways. I barely refrained from gaping in horror.

“Distract me. It hurts.” I inhaled shakily, struggling with the urge not to react. “Do you have kids, Joyce?”

She snorted at the change in subject. “God, no. You sound like my mother. She would love some grandkids, but it’s not happening.”

I leaned in.

“My parents didn’t like that I became a journalist.” Joyce kept her eyes trained on the wall during her quiet admission. “They wanted me to be a doctor like my brother.”

I almost cracked a smile. “My parents didn’t like me.”

Joyce looked me over as she tried to puzzle me out. “Yeah, okay. You win.”

“It’s not a competition. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The farthest person-shaped silhouette sat suddenly on a box. I bit my tongue to contain my gasp.

Graham’s head was angled toward us, even as he pretended not to listen in.

“Tell me about it.”

“I grew up weird. There wasn’t exactly a parenting manual for that.”

“I’ve seen weird,” Joyce murmured. “I have a feeling it’s a lot more normal than you think.”

Were the silhouettes testing me? Creeping around, trying to elicit a reaction and confirm that I could see them? If I flinched, what would happen?

Desperate for a distraction, I locked my eyes on Joyce. “When I was thirteen, my mother told me I was too old for imaginary friends. I overheard my dad ask her why I couldn’t have been normal like his friends’ kids. I think he grieved for the child I wasn’t.” I waved vaguely, like it didn’t matter. “They weren’t the worst. They tried, you know?” I smiled at her. “The first time a grown adult called me a slut, I was sixteen.”

Graham stiffened.

“That was much worse.”

“Does it bother you?” Joyce asked. “How everyone in this town hates you?”

“Does it bother you?” I shot back.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a journalist. I’m used to it. You didn’t ask for this.”

We lapsed into silence. I thought of that teenage girl I’d once been, the one who wanted to go to parties and make memories before graduation. Who wanted to capture that bubbling sense of freedom that all the high school movies showcased.

“Yes, it bothers me.”

The veiled figure sitting on the box stood abruptly. My breath hitched, and it froze. Shit. I ducked my head and made a show of grasping my shoulder, as if I’d been reacting to a twinge of pain.

“I once almost moved to Boston for a guy,” Joyce admitted.

My eyebrows rose. In that moment, I loved her for the distraction.

“I was twenty-three and thought I was in love. Had the email drafted to quit my job and everything.” She sighed. “I didn’t, in the end. He broke up with me two months later to ‘find himself’ in Europe.”

I rolled my eyes in commiseration, forcing myself not to look at the silhouette creeping closer. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d have someone much more useless trying to break us out of my basement.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about you? Any dramatic life moves? Must’ve felt good to leave this place.”

“I ran to New York City after high school. I wanted to be somewhere where I could be just a number. Anonymous, you know? Go to a big city and get lost in it. It looked so easy in the movies.” Flashes of days long gone simmered behind my eyes. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when I got there.”

Joyce prodded, “And then?”

I cleared my throat, chasing the memories away. “I found a painting program in Rhode Island and charted course. Once I had access to a real art studio, I took on a new name, started selling paintings a few months later, and never looked back.”

I cast a glance along the wall, careful to keep a constant drag of my eyes, as if I didn’t see the shadows at all. Two faced the wall, one faced us.

I didn’t like that at all.

“The first painting,” Joyce said delicately, “they say it’s about that night. The night of the Rapture Mystery Slayings.”

I let the question simmer in the air between us.

“You’ve never publicly confirmed it. But the dark colors, the despair, the feelings it evokes. I mean, it practically speaks for itself.”

I flashed back to Joyce asking me that same question in my Pennsylvania living room under much different circumstances. She was good at this, pulling stories out of people. Would have to be, as a journalist.

Except she was wrong. They were always wrong.

“The painting wasn’t about death.” I smiled faintly at her. “It’s about love.”

“Love?” Joyce repeated, doubtful. As if it were the last thing she expected.

“I painted it for a friend. About what the friendship meant to me long after I left it behind. The world’s a lot colder when you take it on alone.”

“For Rachel?” she guessed, obviously remembering the interview on TV.

“No.” I hesitated. “His name was Elliot, and he was the best friend I ever had.”

He lived under my bed, and he taught me how to read.

A fourth shape in the far corner shifted, as if reacting to my words, but I ignored it.

“So those articles claiming your work was inspired by death—”

“Sensationalized. Because of my past.”

“Why would you let them say those things?”

“I let you think what you wanted because the alternative was to put too much of myself out there and feed the news cycle. That’s not me.”

How could I tell the whole world that my very first friend lived under the bed?

The lightbulb buzzed loudly. My shoulder throbbed.

Graham snorted. We both craned our necks to look over. “It’s just—if we do get out of here, you’re going to have a hell of a story to write.”

Joyce chuckled and ran her hands over her face, then wrinkled her nose at the dust. “Yeah.”

“Willa.”

The whisper nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I peeled open one eye to find Graham resting on his stomach, chin atop his hands as he peered up at me. Joyce was fast asleep a few feet away, mouth dropped open. My shoulder throbbed.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” he asked. His eyes reflected the dim light, catlike.

The lightbulb flickered.

My eyes shifted involuntarily to the person-shapes against the walls. I swallowed nervously.

“Not the dark, exactly.”

Graham drummed his fingers silently on the floor. “The things they say about you on TV—”

“Don’t.”

“Willa,” he said in a softer voice. “I—”

“Be quiet.” I glanced over at Joyce. Face slack. Still asleep. “You take the next watch. I’m going to sleep.”

The light flickered again.

I pulled my hair over my eyes.

Thunk.

“Did you hear that?”

I practiced relaxing the tension from my toes to my ears.

“Willa!”

I refused to open my eyes. “All I hear is you yapping. Zip it.”

“In the corner,” Graham whispered. “It almost looks like something’s…” he trailed off.

Thunk.

I did hear it.

It sounded like a lot of things. A box being pushed. A shuffle. A foot stomping.

After a night of true terror, of pain, of whatever the fuck that was in the barn, I didn’t have it in me to be afraid of what-ifs. My head would explode from the stress. The people in the basement, while horrifying in concept, hadn’t actually done anything. They stood in their eerie poses against the walls, always looking away from us. Almost always.

I’d been terrified of coming down here since I was a child and first saw them, but I struggled to think of a time when they had actually hurt me. Frightened, sure. But actually caused harm? I had a vague memory of screaming and twisting my ankle, but hadn’t I just tripped in my panic?

Now I was bleeding and trapped and more vulnerable than I’d ever been, and still, they ignored us. That was something, at least.

“TELL ME!” came a strangled scream from above.

My eyes shot open. Joyce snapped awake, arms flying to cover her face.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“Is that … Nathaniel?” I whispered.

Graham watched the ceiling, mouth agape. Joyce slowly lowered her hands.

Twin, sharp thuds hit the floorboards, like bony knees landing on wood. “Tell me what you are! You’re more than those kids, I know it.”

Graham and I exchanged a wary glance. If we were down here, who was Nathaniel yelling at?

A strange, muffled noise seeped through the floorboards. A few minutes later, it cut off.

We held our breaths, trying to listen over the pounding of our hearts, but silence descended. Slowly, the adrenaline faded.

I could have sworn one of the shadows tilted its head to look too, but when I glanced over, it was back to staring at the wall.

After ages of waiting it out, I turned on my shoulder—the good one, you only make that mistake once a night—and submitted to the pull of exhausted sleep.

Beneath my eyelids, images of dead branches dancing to the screams of the wind overlapped with a quiet voice from under the bed asking me to play.

Sweet dreams.

The morning was agony. Daylight crept through the tiny windows, hesitant and shy, but the thick layer of dust over the glass obscured most of it.

My shoulder burned, and I was fairly certain a spider had found a new home in my hair. The skin under my eyes ached.

Graham snored gently, curled up like a cat.

A sneeze caught my attention. Joyce rubbed miserably at her face, looking as tired as I felt.

Joyce yawned. “Assuming the bullet didn’t nick anything important—which it probably didn’t, given that you’re still among the living—we still have to monitor for an infection. Do you feel hot?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I think it’s a flesh wound more than anything. But it hurts like a bitch.”

The silhouettes were gone. I scanned the room carefully to be sure. The vise around my ribs released, and I inhaled deeply.

“I’m getting a closer look now that it’s daylight. Can you—”

The basement door slammed open, bouncing against the wall.

Graham jerked awake with a gasp.

“There’s a man at your door, Willa,” Nathaniel croaked from the top of the stairs. His nose was swollen and discolored at the bridge, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes. “Construction company van. Clipboard.” He’d lost that Hollywood shine. He was even dressed in flannel, which would’ve been funny except I was pretty sure that it was my shirt.

I closed my eyes. Joe. “I didn’t know he was coming today,” I said. “I’m getting work done on the house.”

The doorbell rang, followed by faint knocking. Joyce turned in a slow circle, staring up at the ceiling. I knew that look. She was thinking my contractor would be our ticket out. If we shouted loud enough—

“If you make any sound,” Nathaniel hissed, “I’ll kill him.”

“Kill him?” Joyce exclaimed. “I thought you wanted answers, not murder.”

I felt the hope drain away. I couldn’t do that to this town. Not another death. Not again.

Nathaniel stared at her for a long moment. His stare looked oddly hollow. Finally, he said, “Be quiet or you’ll regret it. He’ll have to go away eventually.”

I couldn’t shake the sense that something had changed in him last night.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Graham went to the sliver of window on his tiptoes. It was too small and dirty to make anything out aside from the glow of daylight, but his excitement was palpable.

Joyce—oh, God. Her face was set in a mask of determination, hands fisted, and I knew what she was planning. I leapt at her and clasped my hands around her mouth. Shocked and furious, she fought me, but I clung and refused to be dislodged. I bit down a scream as my shoulder was wrenched around.

An engine started outside. Leave, Joe. Get out of here.

Joyce shoved me off. “What the hell was that? We could’ve gotten out of here.”

“You would’ve gotten him killed. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“And we do?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know you’ve got some kind of complex, but we’re not responsible for anything this guy does—”

“Of course I am! It’s my fault! He’s here for me.”

“But we’re here too! And something’s clearly wrong with him, which makes him unpredictable and dangerous.”

I dragged my hand through my hair. My fingernail snagged on a knot at the back of my head. I yanked at it viciously before taking a few breaths and picking it apart strand by strand.

“Why do I feel like I’m the only one who wants to do anything other than stew in my own misery?” Joyce asked, irritated.

“This isn’t about you,” I growled. “He’s doing this to get back at me. Excuse me for being affected by it.”

“Sorry for intruding on your little moment.” Joyce rolled her eyes. “I was actually a little busy here, trying to survive—”

Graham inched forward. “Maybe we should all calm down—”

I sent him a nasty glare. His mouth snapped shut.

Joyce steeled herself. “We’re going to have to fight him.”

“Fight a man with a gun?”

“Well, what else are we going to do?” Graham cut in. “Guy’s out of his mind and we don’t even know what he wants.”

“Everyone wants something,” Joyce added. “Like I said—”

“Men always want something.”

I stared Graham down as he absorbed my words. His gray eyes went wide, connected to mine for a few long heartbeats, before he swallowed and looked away.

I cast a compulsive glance along the walls, confirming our company hadn’t returned.

Joyce steamrolled over the awkward silence. “Like I said, everyone wants something. We don’t have any leverage until we figure it out. And a man like Nathaniel Lennox? A public figure with a career to lose? There’s something we’re missing here, something big. Your ghost hunt fits into it, obviously.”

Graham fidgeted under my unblinking stare.

“Guys!”

We both flinched. Joyce waved her hands. “Jesus, break it up! We need to be a team here. I know you guys have a difficult history, and I hate to say this, but our lives depend on you putting it aside. I’m not telling you how to feel”—she held up a hand as my mouth opened—“but I’m telling you what needs to be done. None of this is ideal, but we’re getting out of here. Agreed?”

I couldn’t picture myself united with this man in any variation of life, but I made a show of nodding. Graham followed, glancing at Joyce for approval.

“We need to take control of the situation,” Joyce said slowly, like she was talking to small children.

“The only way we can really take control,” I muttered, “is if we had the gun. That’s the only advantage he has. He’s a man hiding behind a gun. And—”

I cut off.

Oh my God. My face went hot.

Joyce must have seen something in my face because she prompted, “What is it?”

“There’s a gun upstairs.”

The basement went silent. I counted the seconds. Predictably, Joyce exploded. “Where?”

“Taped under the couch.”

I forced my wide eyes to hers. A vein pulsed in her forehead.

“Willa, are you kidding me?”

Judgement furrowed Graham’s brow. “You forgot you had a gun?”

“It’s not mine. R—Someone left it here. Gave it to me. It’s been there for days.”

Joyce’s expression turned dubious. “Someone gave you a gun? Or someone left their gun here?”

“Both.”

“You know that’s illegal, right?”

I stiffened. “Why do you care? It might be our ticket out of this.”

“Did he smack you upside the head so hard your brain fell out? How the hell could you have forgotten something like that? And as far as we know, Nathaniel found it and he now has two guns!”

Shame warmed my cheeks. I had forgotten. Perhaps I’d convinced myself that visit from Rachel had been nothing more than a dream. Or maybe Nathaniel really had scrambled my brain.

“We have to get upstairs,” Joyce whispered, words coming sharp and fast. “If there’s a chance that thing’s still there, we have a shot.”

Graham looked wide awake despite the creases under his eyes. “I don’t see how this helps. He won’t let us upstairs.”

“Because he thinks we’ll run for the door or attack him. He doesn’t know our goal’s in the living room. That means we have a chance.” She rolled her shoulders, a new light to her eyes. Back in her element after hours spent languishing. “All right, what’s going to get us up there?”

Graham leaned in. “It’s been over twelve hours. He should be nervous about keeping us for as long as he has. Someone already came knocking—”

Click.

I waved frantically for Joyce and Graham to stop talking. The basement door was cracked open.

A handful of granola bars hit the floor, followed by an avalanche of water bottles rolling down the stairs.

“Breakfast,” Nathaniel rasped, stepping into view.

“I need to pee,” Joyce said loudly. I nearly jumped at the volume. “We’ve been down here for hours. Please.”

I waited with bated breath for Nathaniel’s reply. My eyes felt sunken into my skull, the only part of me that could move without aches or pains.

“It’ll be fast,” Joyce insisted. “You know what holding it for too long does to a woman? Because—”

Nathaniel pointed. His hand trembled. “There’s a bucket right there.”

Fuck.

“I’ve started my period,” the journalist continued. Desperately pushing for him to take the bait. “There’s blood. It’ll be messy. I can’t do this in front of them. Please.”

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably. His eyes swept over us.

“I said no.”

Behind my back, my hands curled into fists.

Nathaniel slammed the door, and Graham grabbed for a water bottle.

I let my head thump back against the cold concrete wall. “Who’s going to be the first to shit in the bucket?”

Graham did a spit-take.

“What changed?” I asked.

Graham glanced over at me, eyes red and apprehensive in the barely-there daylight. We’d both been listening to the trail of Nathaniel’s feet across the floorboards above. He seemed to spend a lot of time in the living room.

“From back then,” I clarified. “Now that I know you had nothing to do with this. You seemed to be well. Daughter, business owner, homeowner, all of it.”

He shifted closer. His knee brushed mine.

My skin crawled, but I didn’t move away.

“It was my daughter. Life became a lot more serious when she came into it. I was so afraid when Christina got pregnant.”

I closed my eyes.

“She’s a happy girl. Loves swimming. Ballet. Soccer. Every day I want to be better for Jess. When Christina was taken from us, it really hit me that I was responsible for Jess’s future. She gives me a greater sense of purpose.”

Must be nice.

“She’s dreaming of having a mom again,” he added.

The words were ice in my veins. I thought of that little girl in his dark house asking me to braid her hair.

“Last month she wanted to be an astronaut.” He looked at me meaningfully. “Now she wants to be a painter.”

I looked at my hands, gritting my teeth as the movement pulled at my shoulder. “Tell her to go for the astronaut.”

Upstairs, a drill started to whir. I frowned at the ceiling. The last time I heard drilling was when Joe replaced the screen door. What was Nathaniel doing up there?

Graham shifted uneasily. “I keep thinking about how easy it was for you to believe I was the one tormenting you. I went to years of therapy. Found a new career I love. I rebuilt myself from scratch until I was someone I could be proud of. And then I moved back here and—I assumed you’d be gone forever. Then came Millie’s funeral.”

Graham cracked his neck, one side, then the other, and grimaced. “Seeing you again scared me, I’ll admit, but only because I was afraid of what you might say.”

I hung on his every word, pupils wide in the dim light. The drill stopped, and footsteps creaked on the stairs to the second floor.

“I have a lot of regrets about what happened.” Graham closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Willa. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I am sorry.”

“I—”

A thunderous crash from above sent us shooting to our feet. It thudded in a rolling, prolonged rumble until ending in a solid thunk.

“GODDAMMIT,” came from above. “Ouch.”

Across the room, Joyce’s jaw hung open. “What was that?” she whispered, nose crinkling.

“Hello?” Nathaniel’s voice, an octave higher than normal, made me jump. “Who was that?”

Graham’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s no way he’s talking to us.”

My brow furrowed. “Did he … fall down the stairs?”

“If the entity who pushed me is still here, please show yourself. My name is Nathaniel Lennox, and I…” His words became too quiet to understand.

“Now he’s blaming the spirits for tripping down the stairs?” Joyce looked like she couldn’t believe her ears.

Graham huffed out an almost laugh, but I didn’t join in. I frowned up at the ceiling, wondering.

The basement door slammed into the wall.

“This is gold!” Nathaniel cried. “Absolute gold! You’re a star, Willa. A star!”

I shivered against the wall. I could feel each line under my eye, weighing down my face.

Nathaniel had frenzied, shadowed eyes.

“The footage!” he exclaimed, when none of us spoke. “I’ve finished reviewing it. Incredible. Sensational. Skeptics will be quaking in their boots. Proof ghosts exist. And I’ll be the one to show it to the world.”

He held my gaze, grinning broadly. His eye twitched, and I looked away, skeeved out.

“Why aren’t any of you excited? The EVP was ridiculously clear,” he gushed. He rubbed his hip, wincing.

Joyce looked at him blankly.

“Electronic Voice Phenomenon. The spirits were talking to us, and I’ve never heard anything like it!”

She blinked absently.

He turned away, muttering to himself. “This is life-changing evidence. It’ll rewrite the culture around the paranormal. My beliefs won’t be fringe anymore—they’ll be fact.”

Nathaniel winced and grabbed his head. He shuddered violently.

I exchanged an uncertain glance with Joyce.

“I know!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, and we all flinched. “They suffered, I get it!” His nails dug into his shaking hands.

Graham stepped closer, as if preparing to pounce.

Nathaniel glared. “Stop looking at me like that. I keep getting these images. Blood. Gore. God, my head feels like it’s going to explode. Ever since we went to the barn, it just won’t stop. I can’t even sleep!”

Disgust turned my stomach.

None of us knew what to say to that.

Until Joyce ventured, “So you can let us go now? You’ve found the … um … power you were looking for?”

Nathaniel’s lip curled. “No. It’s time for the finale.”

My stomach dropped.

He leaned in. “You know, most children are afraid of the boogeyman.”

I scoffed. “I was never afraid of the boogeyman.” It came out before I could stop it.

He considered me. “Your boogeyman had a name.”

What? My eyes shot to his. My heart thundered.

“Graham Warren.”

Graham froze in his approach.

Oh. For one absurd moment, I’d thought he was about to say Elliot. But he couldn’t know about Elliot.

“And I thought I knew, but I only knew half of it. From that fun little conversation I overheard in your kitchen, I have all the extra juicy bits. Her soccer coach? Her gym teacher?” He gave a dramatic shudder, sending a disgusted look at Graham. “Really?”

Graham blanched, face twisting.

“What a pervert,” Nathaniel tutted, relishing the sting of his words. “Are there no limits to your depravity?”

Graham gritted his teeth but said nothing.

“Which is why you’re going to kill Willa.”

Joyce’s sharp intake of breath beside me was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. Graham’s head swung back to Nathaniel in stunned horror.

“You, Graham Warren, are going to take Willa’s life. If you ever want to see the light of day again, that is.” He gestured to his gun. “With this, if you prefer. Personally, I’d rather you did it with your hands.”

He hummed to himself. “Her teenage tormentor, creeping out of the woodwork once her identity was exposed on TV, out for revenge for the life she cost him. Stalking her every move. And at the height of her public profile, murdering her.”

It was a shock to the system, my own murder planned so matter-of-factly. I swallowed hard.

Graham said nothing as Nathaniel loomed over him, but his fingernails dug into his palms. Joyce was frozen at my side.

“Truly despicable. The public will love it.” Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair. “A perfect cinematic ending.”

“I’d—I’d never do that.” Graham’s eyes darted to me.

“You will.”

“No one would ever believe I’d do something like that.”

“She would.” Nathaniel pointed at me. The line of his finger went straight to my heart. “She believed it until last night. Evidence speaks louder than words, and there’s a whole trail of breadcrumbs starting with those letters upstairs for them to find.”

I struggled to get enough air. The walls were closing in.

“True crime fanatics will feast on every gory detail. Rehashed for generations, each new detail feeding the cycle. It’s the circle of life!” He splayed his arms out. “Good old American murder!”

Joyce’s eyes darted from me to Nathaniel like some rapid-fire calculation was flying through her head.

“Aww,” Nathaniel said, interrupting his own moment. His face twisted with sympathy. “That’s kind of sad. You won’t be around to hear any of the podcasts about your own murder. I’ll break all the most shocking details on my show, of course, but you know how true crime is picked up like wildfire. I’d give it three days max before all the big podcasts have an episode out on you. Imagine getting a call, ‘Willa Renfri Greene has been murdered’—You’d hop in the car and get right into the office, wouldn’t you?” He fluttered a hand at my uncomprehending stare. “Well, maybe not you, specifically. But you get what I mean, right? This is their Super Bowl. Their Oscars! Their Christmas! A new chapter unlocked in a story we all thought we knew. Girl who survived a terrible massacre, returned to the town where it all happened, only to be murdered by a stalker!” Nathaniel shuddered. “It’s giving me chills already!” His pupils were huge as he leaned in. “And this footage I captured last night? Willa Greene’s last recorded moments, speaking to the spirits of her deceased friends at the site of the Rapture Mystery Slayings? It’ll be worth millions. You’d tune in, wouldn’t you?”

I barely breathed as he waited for his answer.

The others were frozen solid.

His nostrils flared.

“Sure,” I said finally, and the tension collapsed.

“Good, good.” Nathaniel chuckled. “Good girl. Just as I thought.” He pointed at Graham. “Get ready.”

He left us.

For the longest time, we were silent. When I looked over, Graham was watching me with glittering eyes just as I was watching him.

chapter
28

“Are you all right?”

The quiet words came from Graham. I gritted my teeth as I clutched at my shoulder. I didn’t dare look at the wound.

“I’m fine.”

Not for the first time, I wished that Graham was ugly. Horrendously ugly. I wished that everyone else would look at him and see what I saw. I wanted them to be repulsed by the thought of his touch. Instead, they saw a pretty man with a winning smile and athletic build.

“That handsome young man,” Mrs. Landon had called him when he first came to town. We’d giggled until it had stopped being funny.

When the accusations came to light, there was a collective disbelief. And later, once the law was enacted, “It’s a shame what that girl’s doing to him.”

What that girl’s doing.

To him.

They were on his side before they knew there was a side to pick. When they looked at him, they saw the man they hoped he’d be, not the man he was.

Flawed. Insecure. Obsessed with appearances. Controlling to a fault.

That was Coach Warren, the flawed one, who gazed at me across the basement.

“Do you think he’s really going to make me kill you?”

My lungs jumped in my chest.

“He’s not going to make you kill me,” I muttered, adjusting my back. “He’s going to kill me himself and frame you for it. Then he’ll kill you too. A murder-suicide. Much easier that way.”

Graham gaped, aghast.

“Stop staring at me,” I hissed.

His expression of outrage was almost comical. Almost.

“There’s nowhere else to look,” he muttered, even as he averted his eyes. “I guess I’ll just ignore how disturbing what you just said was.”

I closed my eyes. If I were kinder, I would have felt for him. If Graham truly was “rehabilitated,” he was being forced into the role of the worst version of himself. Nathaniel’s plan, if it reached its climax, would undo all the work Graham had done.

But I wasn’t kinder.

“If he uses that footage, wouldn’t it be clear evidence he had something to do with your death?” Joyce mused. “What’s the point in framing Graham?”

I sighed. “I’m sure he’s editing the hell out of it as we speak. He’ll spin a story like he always does. He’ll say we reconciled after our public spat and went ghost hunting well before my untimely death.”

Joyce leaned in. “This evidence he’s blabbing about—what is it? What’d he get out there?”

I looked away.

“It’ll help us to understand him,” Joyce offered. “He wants what’s on there, so we need to know what it is.”

I thought of the barn, the wind, the singing—

I sniffed. “It’s disrespectful to their memories. I don’t know how he did it.”

Graham looked up. “Did what?”

“When he was ghost hunting.” I rubbed my eyes. “Asking questions to the empty air. Pretending to see things. Pretending to hear things. Just like he did down here with the whole head-clutching performance.”

“Like he does on his show?”

“Right. Except…” My face felt hot. I looked away from Joyce and focused on Graham, who started to unwrap a granola bar. “Except when he played the recording back, I heard it too.”

The wrapper stopped crinkling.

After a long pause, Joyce asked, “What did you hear?”

“Singing.” I spat the word out. “Kaylee singing the song she’d been singing at the party that night. ‘Dancing Queen.’ It was her voice.”

It was immediately clear Joyce did not believe me.

“Willa,” she began. Broke off. “Do you think … maybe…”

“I heard what I heard,” I snapped. “I don’t know how he did it. But it was her.”

Graham’s expression was inscrutable.

“Kaylee was always a singer. Won all the talent shows. I’d know her voice anywhere.”

Joyce cut in. “If she performed publicly, there must be recordings floating around somewhere. He found one and played it back to trick you into thinking he’d just recorded it. There. A perfectly logical explanation.”

My stomach remained unsettled. “The problem is, how could he know what song she sang that night?”

“Maybe he got lucky. That’s a popular song. Wouldn’t it make sense that she liked to sing the songs she knew by heart from her performances?”

Joyce and I stared at each other.

“It’s settled then,” she said. “No ghosts. A trick. A logical explanation.”

“Right,” I said.

“Right,” she echoed.

My stomach still wouldn’t untwist.

“It wasn’t just that,” I hesitated. Joyce cocked an eyebrow. “He was making up stories about what happened that night to my friends. Pretended their ghosts were giving him a play-by-play. Actually, he asked some of the same questions you asked me.”

Joyce scoffed. “I didn’t know he was violent.”

“But you thought I was. And you came to my house to ask me about it.” I leaned forward, adjusting my shoulder. “Then you asked me about him and recorded me without my consent. Now we’re living with the consequences.” I glared. “Some might say you were responsible for this.”

The journalist’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious. Those were your words, not mine.”

“You recorded them! You forced me to say them!”

“I didn’t force—”

Graham waved his hands, eyes wide, but we ignored him.

“This isn’t anyone’s fault but your own—”

“Mine?” I snarled. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you—”

“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you!” she countered. “He’s obsessed with you. Graham and I, we’re just collateral. Do you understand how insulting it is to die as collateral? To not matter at all in the grand scheme of things except for how we roll out the red carpet for you?”

“I’m not responsible for him being a freak stalker!” I snapped. “If it wasn’t for him—”

“If it wasn’t for you, those kids would still be alive.”

The air was sucked from my lungs.

Seconds passed. The accusation hung heavy in the air.

Tears stung the corners of my eyes. I turned my face away and dug my nails into my thighs. “I didn’t kill them.” My voice cracked. “I didn’t. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

In the far corner, something shifted. I didn’t lift my head, but my heart dropped. I knew what I would see if I looked; the creepy people were back.

“Willa…”

I refused to look up. Joyce sounded quieter. Regretful, maybe. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

My fists clenched.

The doorbell rang.

“Willa? Are you in there?”

I sat up quickly and blinked away dark splotches from my vision.

Callum.

A pounding started on the door. Even down here, it resonated through the bones of the house.

“It’s Officer Callum Forbes,” I whispered. We were supposed to have our date tonight, I realized, and my stomach twisted.

Would he hear us if we screamed loudly enough?

The doorbell rang again.

“We found your car dumped in the woods. Willa? WILLA!”

Joyce gasped.

Nathaniel had dumped our cars. Of course. Our keys had all been upstairs. If the police found my car, they knew I hadn’t left town on a whim.

There was a second voice, quieter. Who was he talking to? Maybe David Sun was out there with him.

A new light entered Joyce’s eyes. “They have to know Graham’s missing already. And now you? Two people missing? In a town this size? Here we go! The police are mobilizing!”

“If I hear,” a voice from the stairs said—we jumped, stunned—“so much as another peep from any of you, I’ll shoot.”

Joyce smiled, cat got the canary. “If you shoot us, he’ll hear.”

For a full five seconds, I thought she had him. I really did.

And then he said, “If I shoot you, you’ll be dead.”

The battering at the front door continued. The doorbell rang incessantly. Would he break it down? Could he? I scoured my head for laws and came up empty.

Joyce was practically vibrating in place, strung tightly with coiled indecision.

Behind her, a veiled figure stood against the wall. I was sure it hadn’t been there a moment ago.

I grabbed my hands to stop them from shaking.

Nathaniel didn’t notice. “You really think he can break in here before I finish killing all of you? Really? With the reinforced locks I installed on all the doors and windows?”

My heart sank further. The drilling we’d heard earlier. Damn it.

We stared at Nathaniel. He stared back. “He’s very loyal,” Nathaniel whispered. “Drives by your house a lot.”

I felt cold all over.

It was torture to keep my mouth shut. And it was torture to hear the knocks die off and then moments later, his car drive away.

Nathaniel hissed, “I’m going to make sure he’s gone. Not a peep.” He kept his eyes on us as he ascended the stairs.

Graham cursed in the corner.

Joyce shook with frustration. She inhaled deeply and said, “Finish what you were saying. What story did he invent about the barn? Maybe we can use it against him.”

I eyed her distrustfully, trying to decide if she was mocking me.

It was hard not to look at the person-shaped shadow behind her, and my eyes watered with the effort.

“Spit it out before he comes back. He feels like he’s solved something, and I want to know what.”

I muttered, “It’s nonsense. Just Nathaniel trying to come up with a good story. It’s probably not even worth sharing.”

Joyce inched forward. “No, it could be important.”

I sighed. “He said some guy wearing plaid with cowboy boots came in and murdered them all. Can you believe that?”

Across the room, Graham lifted his head.

“He’s claiming these ‘ghosts’ gave him firsthand accounts of what happened. God, you should’ve heard him. Ranting and raving about this killer.” I discreetly wiped my nose. “Absolutely absurd.”

Graham was silent.

Sure, there was a shadowy figure right behind Joyce, but that was different. They were always here in the basement. They weren’t really people. And they didn’t speak.

A far cry from believing that Nathaniel was communing with the ghosts of my dead friends.

“Didn’t you see what happened?” Joyce asked quietly. “Why would he bother inventing a story that’s so far-fetched?”

“I wasn’t there.”

Joyce gave me a look. “Yes, you were. Everyone knows you were there.”

I glared over my knees and swiped a granola bar. “No, I wasn’t. I was with them before it happened, but I left, and when I came back, I found the bodies. I wasn’t a witness. Or a survivor.”

She frowned. “But that’s what all those shows have been about—all the speculation. Seven teenagers went into the woods; one came out.”

This was it. This is what she’d asked me all those weeks ago, sitting in my living room, smug and eager for a scoop. The woman in front of me was unrecognizable in comparison.

Maybe that’s why I kept talking. “Seven teenagers did go into the woods, but I went off by myself after getting into an argument with Nate. I was upset, so I wandered the woods alone, then went back to the barn where the party was. And everything was already … done, by then. They were dead, I mean. All of them. No one believes me since it’s apparently a convenient excuse with no one to corroborate.”

We lapsed into silence as Joyce considered this.

“So, you don’t know what really happened out there. You’re just as in the dark as the rest of us.”

I sighed.

“You suspect but you don’t know for sure?” she guessed.

“What I know is Nathaniel Lennox is full of shit.”

“But there’s more, isn’t there?”

I hesitated.

“It looked like an animal attack,” Joyce pressed. “But they never reported teeth marks in the bodies.” I flinched. “Right, sorry. Then the police chief named you a suspect. No one else’s name ever came up.”

I swallowed.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re holding something back. What is it?”

As sharp as ever, even in this slice of hell. Which part was worse, being trapped in the basement with a journalist with a million questions on the tip of her tongue—or Graham Warren?

I closed my eyes. “There’s a reason no one goes into the woods around here.” The forbidden words spilled into the world.

The set of shoulders behind Joyce tensed in my periphery. I twitched.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turned my head away.

“No, stop being obtuse. I want an answer.”

I looked to the door, as if leaving were an option. How could I explain something that was always left unsaid?

When no answer appeared forthcoming, Joyce snapped, “Graham, you’re from here. You must know what she means. Tell me.”

“He’s not from here,” I said at the same time the man in question let out a grumbled, “I’m not really from here.”

Joyce stared at us blankly. “What?”

“I moved here for my first, uh, teaching job.” Graham glanced at me. “In my early twenties. Grew up in Indiana. I moved to Rapture, then moved away for a lot longer. I’ve only been back in Rapture with my daughter for a few years.”

Joyce digested this. “And you were born here?” she clarified, nodding at me.

“Yes.”

It sounded almost xenophobic the way she said it. As if being born here were better than not. It wasn’t my place to explain to her that it wasn’t being from here that mattered, but growing up in proximity to it, sharing its air, bathing in its rain, weathering its storms that mattered.

“They were always funny about the woods,” Graham admitted.

I had once been cavalier about speaking about it. Treating it as my friend. As a companion like any other. Introducing it to Rachel all those summers ago. And look where that led us.

There was something in the woods, and it was far worse than Elliot or the people in the basement.

“We’re all probably going to die down here,” Joyce spat, shaking her mane of hair as if it weren’t greasy against her forehead. “And you won’t even tell me what the hell is up with the woods? Some kind of local superstition? You said you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t,” I said. “Why would anyone believe in ghosts?”

I thought of Elliot, two stories up, where the bed used to be, almost exactly vertical from my current position. Another friend lost to time.

Believing in ghosts required faith. Of imagining something beyond your eyes and ears and wanting it to be there. Elliot didn’t require that. The woods didn’t require that. The silhouette behind Joyce didn’t either. They were simple facts of my life in Rapture. Ghost hunting was a sport of ego. Waving expensive cameras and brandishing so-called evidence and shouting for all the world to hear, I’ve done it, I’m the first! Look at me! And psychics, thinking they could strut around, yell out any old name, and claim a personalized answer from the deceased? It was fantasy.

But Elliot was always there. Living in this house with me. Just like the shadows who watched from the corner of the basement that I was actively ignoring.

Joyce looked dubious. “So you don’t believe in the supernatural, but you don’t go into the spooky forest because…?”

Graham cut in. “She said she doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I’m sorry, is everyone in this town obnoxiously obtuse?”

“Joyce, she never said anything about the whole of the supernatural. She just said ghosts.”

She groaned loudly. “Why is talking to you people like pulling teeth?”

I glared.

“Besides, you do go into the woods. I saw you, last week, outside Graham’s house.”

The words were poison.

Graham swiveled to pin me with a stare. “You did what?”

I sneered, “Back off, Graham.”

His mouth flapped wordlessly, appalled. After a moment, he said, “Excuse me? She just told me you’re creeping in the woods around my house—and you’re telling me to back off?” He was visibly bristling.

My skin was blazing with agitation, fingers curling into fists. I couldn’t run from an angry man down here. I prepared to jump to my feet in case he came at me. I couldn’t stand to have him towering over me.

I addressed Joyce without disconnecting my eyes from his. “That was the edge of the forest. It was a calculated risk. It’s not the same.”

“Risk of what?”

I glared at her, nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms.

She snarled, a noise that sounded more animal than human. “You’re not going to say anything? Nothing at all?” A long, tense pause. “You’ve been in the woods—the deep woods—if Nathaniel took you all the way out to this barn. It must’ve been quite the walk. It took forever for you to get back. You made it back in one piece—mostly—so it couldn’t have been that bad. Explain it to me.”

My hand went to the bullet wound in my shoulder.

“Speak!”

“Joyce—” Graham cautioned.

She turned on him. “Two seconds ago you were fighting with her, and now, you’re defending her? She’s right. You really are messed up.”

“Are you serious—?”

“There’s something in the woods!” I whispered.

They silenced.

Joyce’s skeptical thoughts played across her face. “Something or someone?”

“Something.” I swallowed. “It’s something, but it’s not a person.”

“You have to give me more than that.”

“I’m not trying to convince you. I’m just telling you. The forest here isn’t like anywhere else. It’s alive.”

Joyce waited a beat. “Aren’t all forests … alive?”

I sighed. “Look, how is this going to help us against Nathaniel? I don’t, but he certainly believes in ghosts.”

They waited for me to say more, breaths held, and when I didn’t add anything more, Joyce rolled her eyes. “He’s a psychic. Of course he does.”

“Fake psychic,” Graham corrected instantly.

“Same thing.”

He got that one right. Graham’s eyes went wide as he watched my face, and I ducked my head.

Joyce curled her hands under her chin, eyes wary. “So?”

“In the barn Nathaniel described their deaths in graphic detail. I mean, he looked like he believed it. And he knew things about that night that he shouldn’t know. Like the fact that I went off with Nate. I can’t figure out how he knows.” I blinked, desperate eyes turning on them. “It’s impossible, right? Tell me it’s impossible.”

There was a long silence.

“He got details of that night right beyond Kaylee singing ‘Dancing Queen’?” Joyce frowned.

I smiled tightly. “Yes.”

“Has to be a lucky guess. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t accuse you of doing it.”

Graham stared at the floor.

“He did,” I interjected. “At first. But then they told him who really did it.” I added in air quotes. “Recounting their own murders from the great beyond. That’s when he brought in the description of his so-called killer.”

“He’s an attention whore,” Joyce muttered. “This is how he makes his money—by spinning stories that suck people in. He probably rehearsed the stories enough that he does believe it. I’m sorry you had to experience that, but he’s a fake, and we all know it.”

I sent her a wobbly smile. “I know. I have to give him some credit—He’s convincing as hell. It’s easy to see how people fall for it.”

In the corner that had become his, Graham let out a shuddering breath. “He isn’t—wrong. He might not. Be wrong.”

I leaned forward—my shoulder burned, and I flinched back. “About what?” I was angry, immediately angry. Hissing. Throbbing.

Joyce’s head swiveled.

Don’t tell me. No. Don’t tell me.

Please.

A creaking noise emerged from Graham’s throat, like a door long closed being forced open. As if the words were pressing on his throat to get themselves out. “Someone else was in the woods that night.”

I lunged for Graham, pain giving way to adrenaline. “Is he paying you?” I shook him by the shoulders, and he let me. “Is this some kind of a joke to you?”

Graham’s gray eyes were agonized. He was limp and pliable in my grip.

“How would you know?” I shouted. “How could you know? You weren’t there!”

“I was,” he choked out. “I was there.”

I jerked back as if stung.

He seemed to shrivel into himself. A tear bled from the corner of his eye. Once he’d started to crack, more followed, until his cheeks were covered in them. “I was in the woods that night,” he breathed.

I went cold all over. “You’re lying.”

“I saw a man I didn’t recognize. He didn’t see me.”

I slammed my hands on the ground. “Why are you lying?”

He shook his head frantically, eyes watering.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the shoulders of two more black silhouettes. I quickly recounted: four in total. My heart rate ratcheted up.

“Why?” I screamed. My glare re-formed into something monstrous. “Tell me!” I roared, high pitched and awful. “Why were you there?”

“Because you were there!”

I reared back.

“I was watching you! Is that what you wanted to hear? I was out in the woods, trailing after Goddamned teenage Willa Greene like a dime-store creep. It had been ages since I’d seen you, since the court order said I couldn’t, and I just wanted to—wanted to … to…” He swallowed loudly. In a whisper, he said, “There was a man in the woods. I saw him. And I never said anything.”

I saw it in the crimson flush that crawled from his neck to his cheeks. In the salt in his tears. In the way he trembled, so taut he might snap. His shame.

Graham was telling the truth.

Delicate hands curled around my waist, pulling me away. When I turned to look, Joyce’s eyes were wide, disturbed at the admission. She looked about to speak but stopped herself.

I was shaking all over. I could hardly feel my own body.

“I saw the party,” Graham whispered. “Heard the music. Saw you go off with that—That boy. Saw you run off into the woods alone after. You were upset. I was concerned, so I followed you. But it was so dark, and I lost you.” He looked down at his nail-bitten palms. “I searched the woods for a long time. I was worried about you, all alone out there. But I didn’t find you. I found someone else.” He closed his eyes. “Big guy. Well over six feet. Wasn’t dressed for the weather. Only wore a—a red flannel. No winter coat. A shiny watch. Cowboy-looking boots.”

No.

No.

“Limping a bit. He was so quiet.” Graham squinted into the distance. “How could such a big guy be so quiet?”

His eyes were glazed as he stared at nothing.

It didn’t feel real. I didn’t feel real. Maybe Nathaniel had killed me back in the woods and this was all the torture of the afterlife. Or maybe I’d died at seventeen in the barn with the rest of them and this was my eternity. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Graham just looked at me. “And say what? That I was a grown man, a disgraced former high school teacher following a teenage girl through the woods?” His voice caught. He had difficulty swallowing. “That I was violating the restraining order? If I ever told anyone I was there, I would have gone to jail.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“You never said anything.” My voice shook. I wasn’t sure if I was here, or if I was on the ceiling looking down on myself. “All these years—”

“The last thing you would have wanted back then was help from me.”

My throat closed up.

Graham looked away, stormy eyes breaking their vigil against mine. “No one would have believed me anyway. With our—my history with you, they wouldn’t have trusted anything I said.” He breathed in deeply. “But I saw that man in the woods, Willa. I did.”

My heart banged against my ribs.

All. These. Years.

I’d blamed myself. Blamed the forest. My old friend who had betrayed me. Who was hungry because I’d forgotten to feed it that night. I’d forgotten to leave the food out, I’d taken my friends into the woods, and the forest exacted its own offering instead.

They died because of my carelessness.

But if they hadn’t—

If they hadn’t been killed by the forest … I hardly dared to form the thought. If it hadn’t been the forest, it had been a man.

If it was a man, it wasn’t my fault.

Not a monster. A man.

I scoffed. Of course it was.

It was always a man.

My face was wet.

Could I really have gotten it wrong? Fifteen years of guilt squeezing my heart, and Graham was telling me it wasn’t my guilt to bear?

I didn’t know if it was rage or relief.

I repeated the words to myself to see how they felt: It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.

None of it was my fault.

Almost half my life spent under this burden, and I was growing dizzy trying to unravel myself from it. My shoulders were afraid to stretch into the void left behind, unused to the feel of open air above them, lest they be forced back under that crushing pressure if this new truth was revealed as a falsehood. I was already a misshapen approximation of a person, and I’d never be the right shape again, but if this hope was a lie, it might break me.

Wait. I paused mid-snot. “Graham … did you give Nathaniel that description?”

He looked up from his pool of self-pity. “Of course not. I told you I didn’t tell anyone. Not until this moment.”

A cold tingling spread through my numb limbs. How was this possible? It was the same description Nathaniel had divined in the woods. If Graham hadn’t told him, how had Nathaniel known?

Another trick? It had to be. The alternative was far too terrifying.

Nathaniel was a fraud, and we all knew it. There wasn’t room for anything else.

But what other explanation was there? Unless Nathaniel was the man in flannel? But he couldn’t have been. The man had been huge, and Nathaniel wasn’t even six feet tall. No, Graham putting himself there was improbable enough—but for there to be another person with an identical story who had confided in Nathaniel alone?

Extraordinarily unlikely.

But that left only two options. Either Graham had given that description to Nathaniel despite his assurances to the contrary or Nathaniel had gotten that information himself.

How?

The only answer was something I desperately did not want to believe. But once my resolution had cracked, the thought was unavoidable: The ghosts had told him. They were real, and they told him. But no—ghosts like that didn’t exist. And if they somehow did, which was a big if, Nathaniel was still the fraudiest fraud to ever walk the earth, and he wouldn’t be the one to see them.

Right. Right?

All the screaming and posturing and gasping out in the barn—that couldn’t have been … real?

I couldn’t get enough air, and a wave of black swept over my vision.

Joyce steadied me, a firm weight against my back.

“Willa, I’m sorry,” Graham whispered, a miserable lump in the corner.

I jerked away. “I don’t know what to say,” was all that came out when my tongue started working. “I … I mean—”

The door burst open.

Joyce twitched against me.

“I’ve solved it—the Rapture Mystery Slayings,” Nathaniel said gleefully, hair sticking in all directions. He practically flew to the bottom of the stairs and held out his phone. “Rupert Quail.”

Joyce scurried back—Nathaniel ignored her and approached me. I squinted. A man’s face stood out to me from an archived newspaper clipping. Pale skin. Bulbous cheeks. Freckles. Highly arched eyebrows. Vacant brown eyes.

Over my shoulder, Graham let out a shaky exhale.

I turned and met his eyes. His thoughts were clear as day in his expression.

This was him.

chapter
29

“Doesn’t look like much, does he?” Nathaniel stretched to his tiptoes, vibrating with frenzied excitement. “But that’s the face of a cold-blooded killer.”

He flicked the screen to a second picture where the man was grayer, more wrinkled. Same dead eyes.

I studied every line in his face. Every freckle. The slight upturn of his nose. His full cheeks and red flush. He looked like the type to play Santa at the mall.

He also looked familiar.

Nathaniel clucked his tongue, pulling back his phone. “What did you think happened? You knew you didn’t do it. What did you tell yourself all these years?”

I thought I knew what had done it. I squinted at the picture. Why did he look familiar?

“Rupert Quail of Bradford. Tracked him down from the hat—He’s a former forest ranger discharged two decades before you even set foot in the woods that night.”

Bile rose in my throat.

“Not good with people by all accounts, although the rangers never said why they fired him.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “And he’s alive and well.”

“I know him,” burst from my mouth.

Nathaniel froze. “You do?”

“I never knew his name. You know that road that leads into Main Street? He had a flower stand there on the side of the road in the summer. We drove by him a lot, but I think we only stopped once.” I racked my memory for more details, but it was so long ago.

“Did you ever buy anything from him?”

I frowned. “No.”

Had I spoken to him? Or had I been an invisible presence, half hidden behind my mother while she politely browsed his wares?

“Fascinating!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “I’ll add this to my notes.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around any of it.

“Imagine if you got a confession out of him.” Joyce picked at her nails with a bored look. “I know I’d watch.”

Nathaniel’s eyes lit up. “Excellent point!” His eyes narrowed at Graham. “Are you ready yet?”

Graham glared silently.

The celebrity psychic tutted. “Your daughter might have something to say about that.”

Fury pulsed over Graham’s face. “What the hell did you do to my daughter? You filthy piece of shit. If you touch one hair—”

Joyce buried her face in her hands.

“Ah, he speaks!” Nathaniel clapped, delighted.

Graham cut off. A flush diffused across his cheeks.

“You think I don’t know about your daughter? She misses you very much. Remember that.” Nathaniel winked and trudged up the stairs, leaving a brewing disaster in his wake.

“Get me the hell out of here!” Graham snarled as soon as the door shut. “I’ve had enough of this clown. Piece of shit really has no limits, threatening a little girl. What the fuck kind of a world do we live in?” Graham was gone, and a raging, snarling beast was left in his place. “And what the hell was that?” he snapped at Joyce.

I only half listened, trying to remember anything I could about the Flower Guy. Because there were other places to buy flowers in Rapture, but everyone knew who you were talking about when you said the Flower Guy.

“It buys us time,” Joyce hissed defensively. “Or maybe this Rupert guy will kill him. Why do you think he did it? Assuming it’s all true. Bradford’s not too far, right? Close, but not close enough for him to be walking through the woods here by chance. No one has a flower stand at night. So why was Rupert here that night? What was the point of it all?”

Flower Guy, the murderer? It was … unfathomable.

When I didn’t respond, Joyce looked to Graham for an answer.

Five. I counted five veiled figures with their backs to us, scattered along the perimeter of the room.

“I don’t know,” Graham said, defensive. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. My daughter—”

“Hit me.”

Graham blinked past his fury. “Excuse me?”

“Yell at me!” I whisper-shouted. “Hit me! Make a scene! Be angry about it!”

“I am angry! What are you talking about?”

But his voice was too quiet. It wasn’t at all what I wanted.

“Why?” I asked loudly, getting to my feet. My voice projected farther, vocal cords straining after so long spent in whispers. “Because you’re a shitty father?”

Across from me, Joyce backed up against the wall.

The veins in Graham’s neck throbbed. He visibly strained to rein himself in.

“Be angry!” I whispered harshly. “Let it out! Can’t you see?”

He trembled with the weight of it, eyes flashing like an animal.

It wasn’t enough.

“Your daughter’s out there and you don’t know where. But he does. Doesn’t that piss you off? Don’t you care?” I crossed my arms. “I don’t think you care.”

Graham was silent, eyes fever bright, stretched taut to his full height.

“Willa.” Joyce’s voice was a ghost behind me. “What are you doing?”

My eyes were on the predator in our midst. “We’ll stage a fight,” I whispered. “You heard his whole speech. He can’t bear to be ignored. He wants Graham to kill me, but he needs to be in control. If we make him feel like he’s lost control of the situation, he’ll have to separate us. That’s our ticket to getting upstairs—and the gun.”

Joyce’s eyes glinted with a frightening intensity when I glanced at her.

I refocused on my prey. “Put on a show, Graham. Can’t you do anything you’re told?”

He gritted his teeth. “Willa—”

“What, Graham?” I screamed. He jumped, despite all his posturing. “I ruined your fucking life! Be angry about it! Do you know what it does to me,” I snarled, “to be stuck down here with you? Do you think I want to be here? Do you think I want you here?”

A long shiver ran through his frame. I was sure one more would make him snap.

“Does your daughter know what you did? Because sooner or later, she’ll go online and—”

Graham grabbed a box off the shelf and threw it. I gasped; it narrowly missed Joyce with a clatter against the wall. Shards of old Christmas ornaments went everywhere, and Joyce skittered for cover.

“Say that again!” he roared. “I dare you! You have no idea what I went through—”

Six of them now. Six person-shapes along the wall.

“What you went through?” I shrieked. “Boo-hoo, the consequences of your own actions! Shed a tear for Graham fucking Warren, the real victim in all of this.”

His stunned look narrowed into something focused and frightening. My stomach clenched.

“Everything’s always about you, Willa. Everything! This is your world and the rest of us are just living in it, is that it? Because it sounds awfully selfish from where I’m standing!”

Footsteps pattered across the floorboards above.

“I’m selfish?” I raised myself on my tiptoes, trying to recapture that distant feeling of power when I’d laid everything condemning him out on the dining room table. When I’d felt like I’d floated above it all. “What’s more selfish than a grown man fucking a sixteen-year-old girl?”

The air squeezed out of the room like a dying balloon. I waited for the comeback, but Graham’s eyes went wide and unfocused.

What was the matter with him? I gestured at Joyce, a frantic flurry of fingers.

Help me, I mouthed. We had a job to do. Couldn’t she see that?

Joyce crossed the room and slapped me across the face.

I screamed. It was a siren scream. A blood-curdling, noxious release of emotion and sound and spit, gasped into the air between us. Once I’d gotten it all out, I felt twenty pounds lighter.

I panted for breath.

In a blink, Graham was occupying my space. I craned my head to meet his gaze. Furious gray eyes bore into mine. His breath caressed my forehead. “Do it again,” he murmured.

One of his big hands came up around the front of my neck and squeezed. I swallowed, and his thumb traced the motion. My shoulder throbbed; I gritted my teeth at the pain.

Someone else’s eyes were set in his face. “Scream, Willa,” Graham whispered.

I could only stare up at him.

“Scream!” His hand spasmed, lip curling. “What did I say?”

Ever so slowly, one of the veiled figures turned to look.

Before I could react, Graham shoved me against the wall, swinging my body weight effortlessly, and a flash of fear ran through me. Then it was concrete at my back and his body against my front.

“Scream.”

I screamed.

The basement door flew open.

“What the fuck is going on down here?” Nathaniel thundered down the stairs. “I told you what happens if—”

He cut off at the sight of Graham pinning me to the wall.

The safety clicked off his gun.

“Put her down. This isn’t how you’re supposed to kill her.”

Graham didn’t move. We remained locked in this facsimile of an embrace, breathing each other’s breaths. I wished I could bite the snarl from his face.

The silhouette behind Graham tilted its head. I felt faint.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

Nathaniel stalked closer, and Graham’s hand dropped. I pushed away from him, and bizarrely, Nathaniel swept me behind him.

He stepped out of reach before I could go for the gun.

“Please,” I bit out. “I can’t be down here with him anymore.”

“Get on your knees,” Nathaniel sneered, advancing on Graham. He passed by one of the figures that was still facing away from us and shuddered. He glanced right at it, but his eyes didn’t catch on it.

Part of me had hoped he could see them too.

“I told you to be ready for when I said so. But I didn’t say so. On your knees!”

Graham sank to his knees.

“Wait—” I started.

He pulled Graham’s arm out and twisted it behind his back. Graham swayed with his weight, glaring.

“I think,” I tried, but my voice was faint. “Just a bit of time apart would—”

Nathaniel brought his knee down on the twisted arm, there was an audible snap, and Graham howled in pain.

Joyce pressed herself against the wall, eyes slamming shut. On either side of her, two not-people swiveled around to stare.

One lifted its foot and stomped. Thunk.

No one else heard over Graham’s screaming.

I felt dizzy with terror.

“I run things down here, not you! Got your grubby little fingers in everything, huh? Even Willa Renfri Greene.” My name was punctuated with a kick to the ribs. Graham gasped, but I swore I felt it too.

Thunk, this time from beneath the stairs. Thunk, thunk, THUNK.

Nathaniel didn’t hear it, but I did. Joyce too, because her head swiveled to peer at the dark half of the basement.

Graham’s wheezes punctuated another two kicks.

“You don’t need to do that…” I tried weakly. Whatever ghost of a plan we’d had, it had slipped out of reach. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Graham moaned, a horrible, animal noise, and hacked up blood.

I staggered forward, reaching for them—to do what, I don’t know, but this was too much, too far, too out of control—

Nathaniel jumped at my approach—he backhanded me with his opposite hand.

THUNK, went the corner.

Joyce gasped. My ears rang as I slammed into the concrete wall. I spat, and blood hit the floor. When I looked up, all the person-shaped shadows were staring at me. Worse, they were no longer against the walls.

Nathaniel’s breaths came in gasps, and the gun shook in his grip. “What’s with the air down here? It’s hard to—breathe.”

As one, the shadows took a step closer, forming a wide perimeter around us.

Trembling, I planted myself in front of Graham. “Stop,” I ordered, although I wasn’t sure who I was talking to—him or the shadows.

Nathaniel stepped backward, trembling wildly. Right next to one of the silhouettes. It turned to look at him.

Not that it had eyes.

Nathaniel exhaled sharply and brought his hand to his forehead. “Not now,” he begged through gritted teeth. A line of blood trickled from his nose.

He still couldn’t see them, I decided.

What were my chances if I grabbed Nathaniel and didn’t let go? He wasn’t skilled with a firearm, that much was obvious. But he had a hair-trigger reflex and an animal fear and—

BANG!

A thunderous clatter exploded, and dust went everywhere. I ducked, hands over my head. For a moment, I thought the foundation of the house had come down. That the earth had opened and gulped us whole.

The basement went silent.

When the dust cleared, Graham was still on the ground, but Nathaniel wasn’t anywhere near him. He was pressed against the wall, mouth agape.

His eyes were so, so wide.

A shelving unit had come down. One of the massive metal standing shelves on the opposite wall had toppled over, years of junk upended onto the floor.

Had Joyce—

But Joyce was standing near the stairs, face aghast. Nowhere near the shelf.

My heart started to beat dizzyingly.

“What the—” Nathaniel stammered. His eyes went to us. “Who did that?” He’d had all of us in his line of sight—he knew it, and we knew it.

Beside the fallen shelf, one of the person-shaped shadows stood with its head cocked.

A chill ran through me. Had it … pushed the shelf over?

No one said a word.

From the ground, Graham’s dark eyes glittered malevolently.

“Someone, answer me!” Nathaniel exploded. “What the hell was that? Were you pulling some sort of string? A string strong enough to—to pull over a…” He lost his momentum as his own words soured his logic.

The shadow stomped. THUNK.

We all jumped.

Graham started to crawl.

“What was that?” Nathaniel cried, head on a swivel. “Hello?” Three of the silhouettes loomed behind him. I hadn’t seen them move. The others leaned toward him like plants tilting toward the sun.

Nathaniel’s nosebleed intensified, and he mopped at it with his shirtsleeve.

“I don’t need you!” His gun shook as he leveled it at Graham. His pulse throbbed in his throat, a fluttering butterfly trying to escape its skin prison. “I just need them to believe it’s you.” The gun pivoted to me. “I’ll kill her right now. Then I’ll kill you. Say I had to do it. That you were targeting poor little Willa who’s already been through so much. They’ll find the evidence that you were obsessed with her.” He bared his teeth. “I know how to spin a pretty story.”

My fury was black. I wanted to pluck his teeth from his mouth, one by one. Tear his lips from his face. Wrench his tongue from his jaw to stop the flow of poisonous words.

“What about Rupert Quail?” Joyce cut in. Nathaniel’s head jerked toward her. “I thought you wanted to finish the story.”

“I already have the star of the show!” Nathaniel scoffed. The whites of his eyes were too wide.

Behind him, the person-shape peeled itself from the wall.

Graham leveraged himself up. His eyes were locked on Nathaniel, a lion with a gazelle within eyesight.

“You—stop! Not one step closer.”

Behind him, Joyce brushed a tarp that crackled loudly; Nathaniel spun around, a wild look in his eyes. “All of you! Back up!”

Graham and Joyce locked eyes, unspoken communication passing between them.

The black figure drew closer, taking slow steps forward.

Nathaniel trembled wildly. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t—Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I’m trying to create something here, and you’re ruining it! Well, fine. I can improvise.”

He leveled the gun back at me. I raised my hands, just a bit, not enough to fully commit to it.

“Last words, Willa? Spit them out. Now’s the time.”

I drew a blank. Everything with this guy was so much work. “Um—”

“Never mind. I’ll pick some good ones for you. They’ll be better than anything you could’ve come up with.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll write you a good end, don’t worry.”

His chest rose and fell.

“Goodbye.”

I cringed.

The shadow drew back and punched Nathaniel.

Nathaniel shrieked, and I shrieked with him. He doubled over, cradling his head. The gun fell, and he quickly scrambled for it.

Joyce gaped, uncomprehending.

One of the shadows looked at me; I bit my tongue and averted my eyes.

Breathe, I told myself. Don’t let it know you see it.

A soft thud to my left had me looking up—one of them was close enough to touch. I was torn between protecting my head and feigning ignorance. I cringed, anticipating a strike.

“What the hell is touching me?” Nathaniel yelled, jerking away. “I can feel it in my head!”

I backed away, nauseated from terror.

Creeeeak.

We all looked to the ceiling.

Graham opened his mouth and closed it, eyes darting to Joyce, who was equally wide-eyed.

“Who is that?” Nathaniel demanded, voice going scratchy. He looked at me as if I weren’t the one trapped in the basement with no outside contact.

I shrugged, but adrenaline made the move twitchy, and he flinched. His finger was still on the trigger.

I shuddered out a breath. “Stop pointing that at me.”

“Answer the question,” he hissed back.

By the fervent gleam in his eyes, this was a man at the end of his line. He needed me to say something. Anything.

I breathed out through my nose. A strand of hair flopped over my forehead. “House-settling noises.”

Joyce hid her incredulous look behind her hair.

Thump, thump, thump from above. Quiet, then repeating. Thump, thump, thump.

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

Nathaniel was at the foot of the stairs in an instant. “Those were footsteps. Upstairs.” His eyes were on me, accusing. “Who’s here?”

“No one.” It sounded like a bad lie the moment it left my mouth.

“Don’t move,” Nathaniel ordered, and crept up the stairs, cradling his head. The door closed behind him.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

“House-settling noises?” Joyce echoed back, aghast.

I shrugged, gesturing wildly. “What was I supposed to say?”

“So you don’t know?” Joyce helped Graham to his feet.

“Of course I don’t know!”

He clutched his broken arm into his chest like a bent chicken wing.

The shadows followed their movements. They’ve never actually hurt you, I told myself. They totally just punched Nathaniel, but pretend that didn’t happen. Just don’t look.

Joyce leaned Graham against the wall and retrieved the pipe from behind a tarp.

Sweat gleamed off Graham’s neck despite the chill. “Willa.” His eyes darted to the door.

“I know,” I cringed, crouching beside him. “I’m so sorry.”

“If I don’t make it out of this,” he croaked, “I need you to promise me something. Take care of Jessica. Please.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “You’re not going to die here, Graham.”

“Willa, I’m serious.” Graham held my gaze. “Take care of her. I know I’ve been—I’ve been awful to you, and I don’t deserve it, but Jess shouldn’t have to bear that. She’s done nothing wrong, and all I wanted for her was—” He coughed. His breaths were wheezy and jagged.

I gently touched a hand to his shoulder. “I’ll take care of everything. She’ll be safe with me.” I didn’t know if I meant it, but I must have, because relief streaked across Graham’s face.

My smile slipped when I realized the veiled figures were surrounding us. Staring.

I bit down on a wave of terror, forcing myself to focus on Graham and the task at hand.

“The sun already went down,” Joyce growled. “I’m not spending another night down here! We have to—”

And then the lightbulb went out.

chapter
30

“There was no one up there,” Nathaniel grumbled. “You know, I could’ve sworn—” His voice cut off. He was a towering silhouette in the doorway. “What’ve you done?”

No one answered him. For a moment, I pretended we weren’t here either. That we didn’t exist at all in this reality of dust and darkness. Except for my heart, which thundered in my rib cage. I couldn’t see the not-people lurking around us, but I knew they were close. I didn’t want to move my arm for fear of brushing against one.

“The light burnt out,” came Joyce’s voice. It was hard to tell from which direction. “It’s cold down here.”

“I need to use the toilet,” I whispered. “Please.”

I couldn’t see Graham, but I could hear him wheezing. He was a stalking cat as he circled for a better angle to get to Nathaniel in the dark.

Nathaniel’s silhouette leaned in, as if he were squinting, but the darkness was absolute.

I kept my eyes trained on him, not into the dark abyss that pressed in on all sides. Not toward the shelf that had fallen. Not toward the corner that had been steadily tap-tap-tapping. Nor the shuffling of feet behind me. A bid for attention I refused to give. Terror was electric in my veins, holding me upright.

“Fine,” he said, and my soul soared. “Come over where I can see you.”

My feet carried me to the beam of light at the bottom of the stairs.

“Slowly,” he muttered. “Up the stairs.”

The floorboards creaked under my feet. Except—it sounded like more than one set of footsteps. Against my better judgement, I glanced back.

And jumped.

A veiled figure had followed me onto the stairs.

Head-to-head, I stared at it. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t make out any features under the black veil that covered it from head to toe.

“What are you doing?” Nathaniel asked.

When nothing happened, I turned my back with a pounding heart and continued up the stairs.

I emerged into the hall, squinting as light scalded my pupils. Illuminated in yellow, the house looked like a memory. My skin felt stretched too tight over my skull. My shoulder burned.

Nathaniel locked the door. I stared at it for a moment, but no shadows followed us through. I peered into the kitchen. The cabinets looked the same. The tile too. I felt like a ghost wandering my ancestral home. Dazed. Unwell. Ghastly.

My missing grayscale sketch of Mrs. Sloane’s painting—I knew one had been missing from the cabin—was plastered to the fridge with little pink magnets. What a freak.

Nathaniel prodded me. I crossed into the bathroom and mentally thanked Joe for getting the plumbing in order.

“Turn around,” I said, and thankfully, Nathaniel did.

Once I was finished washing my hands, I said, “Let me grab a spare lightbulb.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“Under the bed.”

“Under the bed?”

I shrugged.

“All right, fine.” He sounded tired.

The living room carpet felt impossibly soft under my feet. He’d set up a video editing station on my coffee table: laptop, headphones, and multiple external hard drives. Scattered across the couch were hasty pencil sketches of trees and bodies. My fingers brushed the back of the couch. If I could crouch down and grab the gun from the underside—but he was right there. A hair’s breadth behind me. Gun in hand and ready.

I pressed my eyes shut, just for a moment, and rounded the staircase.

“Keep going.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dining room table. With—incredibly—my painting for Mrs. Sloane still displayed as I’d left it. I let out a breath. Perfectly untouched. He really was a fan. The windows were covered with sheets.

I padded up the stairs, nerves buzzing. I walked down the hall, Nathaniel flicking on lights behind me.

“This one,” I told him.

My air mattress, sheets wildly askew, was perched atop the bed frame. It was partially deflated and looked to almost be melting into the slats. My pajamas were hanging from the metal edge, exactly as I’d left them, above the somewhat embarrassing pile of dirty laundry.

“You keep lightbulbs under there?” he asked dubiously.

“Sure do.”

Eyes darting between me and the bed, he crouched and peeked under the bed. His nose wrinkled as his face came too close to some dirty socks.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, I thought.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Really? It’s right there.”

Elliot, where are you?

He crouched lower. Gun drooped a bit. “Right where? And why are your clothes everywhere? Don’t you do laundry?”

Nathaniel’s arm was fully submerged under the bed, feeling around.

Please. Now. Please.

He ducked his head under, just for a moment.

Now!

Nathaniel reemerged, grimacing. “There isn’t a lightbulb under the bed, is there?”

“I could’ve sworn they were around here somewhere.”

“Then you look for it.”

I got on my knees and crawled under the bed. Head, torso, and thighs. Awkward and lopsided, like I was swimming with only one good arm, I inched forward.

Under my breath, I whispered, “Elliot?”

“What was that?”

I hummed as if in thought, patting around the carpet for a lightbulb that did not exist.

A hand clasped around my ankle. “Out. Now.”

Reluctantly, I shimmied back out from under the bed.

“It’s late, Willa. Let’s unscrew one from another room and go. Enough.”

I looked back at the space under the bed. Now would be a great time for anything to happen. “Elliot?” I mouthed, the words barely more than a breath on my tongue.

Nathaniel motioned for me to follow. He made the mistake of turning his back.

I lunged at him. The force of the impact knocked his head against the wall, but he was bigger and well fed, and he struck out and clipped my ear. The ringing was immediate and shrill.

We struggled, slamming into each other, grappling like wildcats. I ducked the angle of the gun as it pivoted in his grip. My weak shoulder screamed, but I channeled the pain into fury.

“Get out of my house!” I snarled, low and vicious as I went for his eyes with my thumbs. “You don’t belong here!”

He yelped and twisted, and the crooked nail on my thumb snagged his nose. I threw my weight against him, pounding him against the wall, but he shoved me off just as violently. I hit the carpet and rolled, gagging at the pain.

The safety clicked off the gun. I froze.

“That was your last chance.”

I wanted to crawl back under the bed and bury myself there. Sleep forever under the weight of the carpet.

“Put your hands behind your head. Get to your feet. Slowly.”

I sneered. “Are you going to read me my rights?”

“I need you back in the basement. Now.”

And what if I didn’t? What then? Maybe I’d rather die in my bedroom than that cursed basement.

I didn’t move. “What do you think that was, down there? With the shelf?”

His nose wrinkled. “Poor construction, I assume. The shelves must’ve been over their weight limit.”

“And … the part after that?”

He rubbed his head, wincing. “I think that power I accessed in the woods is lashing out at me. We’re at the edge of the woods, after all. Could’ve sworn something was touching me, but I think it’s a tactile memory from the spirits. I’m feeling their pain from the night they died.”

Some psychic if he couldn’t see a single thing wrong with this house. If he couldn’t feel the weight of eyes and ears unseen. Ghosts in the barn? A joke. A trick. Had to be. Right? Something unexplainable living in the bones of this house? Very real.

But as I examined the new lines in Nathaniel’s face, and the bruised-looking hollows under his eyes, I wondered if he did feel something. He seemed to be falling apart before my eyes.

Nathaniel walked me out into the hallway and down the stairs. Each step felt like a death sentence.

I miss you, Elliot. I’m sorry you’re not here anymore. I’m sorry we probably won’t see each other again. It’s not looking good.

“You can’t keep us down there forever,” I murmured.

“Just get down there. You’ve lost light privileges, you hear me? Darkness for you.”

I glanced back; he blotted at his bleeding nose. I rounded the bottom of the stairs, and the couch came into view. “Was that someone at the door? Just now, did you hear it?”

Nathaniel’s footsteps paused. On reflex, he craned to look.

I threw myself under the couch. My knees hit hard, and a staggering bolt of pain shot through me. I scrabbled underneath with my hands, gritting my teeth. Where the hell had I taped it?

My fingertips brushed duct tape.

A hand closed around my ankle and dragged me out. I kicked, shrieking as the gun was swept out of reach.

“What the hell are you—”

The breath whooshed out of him as I landed a kick to his sternum, one foot planted on the floor, hands spread wide for balance, the other foot slamming into his organs.

I twisted and plunged under the couch, hands like claws as I scratched. Why had I done such a good job of duct-taping this thing?

Pain exploded in my calf as his boot came down. I screamed, pounding on the floor, and he dragged me out again. Rug burn sheared my stomach as my shirt rode up, and I nearly vomited from the pain.

“What the hell is under there?”

Nathaniel backhanded me; I saw stars. I tried to gather my focus, but it slipped through my fingers. I blinked, and Nathaniel’s entire torso was under the couch, hands pressed against the carpet, trying to see what I’d gone for.

No—

If he got Rachel’s gun—

No!

I got to my knees, but a wave of nausea had me gagging back bile.

“What the fuck is under here? Where is—What is this? Something—”

I got my feet under me. The room blurred.

Nathaniel screamed.

His legs scrabbled against the carpet, arms flailing, but it was as if something were holding him under the couch. He screamed and screamed, pounding at the floor for mercy.

Blood trickled onto the carpet.

I stared at it, frozen in place.

“Get it off me!” He shrieked from under the couch. “Get it off!”

He bucked wildly, and the couch bucked with him. He twisted and grabbed and shoved the couch away. Nathaniel panted, eyes wild, as he struggled to his feet. His shirt was torn, and an ugly gash in his shoulder was oozing and red.

He heaved as if he’d run a marathon.

“It bit me! Something bit me!”

Clear as day, an angry red outline of teeth marred his flesh.

I looked at the couch. The space underneath it. Considered what I’d just witnessed. Considered that the gun was still there.

I dove under the couch and yanked the tape up. Hands closed around the firearm. Peeled it from the underside of the furniture. Skittered upright, shaking, but with a gun in my grasp and all my skin intact.

I spun around, only to find Nathaniel pointing his gun at me, trembling violently.

“What was that? Willa, what the hell?”

I swallowed and eyed the bite. I looked him head-on and asked, “What was what?”

It was Elliot, of course, but I took great satisfaction in playing dumb. He was still here after all these years. I wanted to drop to my knees and cry.

His mouth opened and closed. His throat worked but nothing came out. His eyes went to the gun in my grip. I hadn’t gotten it up fast enough. His finger twitched on the trigger.

I ducked, but no gunshot rang out. Instead, there was a thud as the celebrity psychic hit the ground hard.

One leg up, he was propelled across the carpet, toward the kitchen. Moving in a way that physics should have made impossible. Foot first. Just one in the air. Sliding as if being dragged.

Like something invisible had him by the ankle.

Nathaniel screamed like he was being eaten alive.

I ran to the basement door, twisted the lock, and swung it open. “Now!” I screamed into the black abyss.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

Nathaniel had attached himself to the kitchen table, and both man and Amish-made furniture screeched across the floor.

I pointed the gun at him. I could do it. End it now. My hands were shaking so badly. I could hardly see straight, black spots dancing in my vision.

A hand from behind snatched the gun. I spun around, but it was only Joyce, with a wild look in her eyes but a steadiness to her face. Her other hand clutched the jagged pipe.

She rose to her full height, greasy black hair hanging over her eyes. There was a bend to her neck, so she peered at him from under her hair, and her whole frame trembled with all the rage contained within a small woman.

She looked like the kind of thing that rose up from the swamp in horror movies.

The journalist dropped the pipe and aimed the gun at Nathaniel. Then she lowered it, lips parting in shock. “What the hell is he doing?”

In the gaping mouth of the open basement door, a cluster of veiled heads peeked from the stairs.

“Get it off me!” Nathaniel screamed, foot in the air, dragging the table. “Help me!”

Graham’s wet, rasping breaths behind me let me know he was there, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene. Nathaniel clung to the table, both he and it screeching across the tile as an invisible force yanked him by the foot. He unpeeled one arm from the table leg to aim the gun, but his aim shook wildly.

Joyce pulled the trigger, but he ducked, the cabinet behind his head splintering, and a second gunshot rang out as he twisted and fired back. Joyce yelped; the gun fell to the tile. She clutched her hand, face contorted in pain. Blood dripped onto the tile.

Beneath the floorboards, a knocking started.

A massive shape from behind lunged for the gun. It was Graham, sickly sweat painting his forehead, getting his free hand around the gun, pointing it at Nathaniel’s twisting and undulating form.

A click but nothing happened. He shook the gun, frowned at it, pulled the trigger again.

A jam.

Burdened by his injuries, Graham struggled with the firearm.

Thud, thud, THUD, the basement protested. THUD, THUD, THUD, up the steps.

Nathaniel took aim. His gun didn’t jam.

Blood sprayed across my face. My eyes closed on instinct, and with the ringing in my ears, it was a moment of complete isolation.

I opened my eyes and stared down at the growing pool of blood from Graham’s skull. His eyes were wide. Mouth open. Face tense yet somehow slack. I was too stunned for tears to form.

On the other side of the kitchen, Nathaniel’s mouth opened in a silent scream. A new bite mark dug into the flesh of his neck—and the gun dropped.

Joyce went for him and kicked him in the ribs. He gasped for air, and she swung the pipe and smashed it on his skull. Nathaniel groaned, eyes rolling back as he spasmed like a fish. Down, but not dead.

I took a last look at Graham. At his open eyes staring at the ceiling. At the pool of blood under his head. At the bits missing from his skull.

I ran for the back door.

chapter
31

We exploded out the back door.

I was running, but it felt like flying. Night had fallen, and the barely there light of the moon cast an eerie glow across the snow.

“How much farther to the road?” Joyce panted, clutching her bleeding hand to her chest.

The road?

I sent her a sidelong glance. Her face was red, mouth open as she sucked in air. She had the forethought to take the pipe at least. Why was Joyce better at being kidnapped than me in every way?

“Keep running.”

I wanted that pipe beside me when Nathaniel found us, so I didn’t dare tell Joyce that while she ran for freedom, I ran deeper into the forest. It was impossible to tell the direction in the dark. Impossible for her, at least.

If we left Nathaniel out here, anyone he stumbled upon next would be at his mercy. The neighbors, completely unaware, sleeping peacefully in their beds—if they hadn’t heard those gunshots—were in danger. I wanted to run, to get us both to safety, but as long as he was alive, no one was safe. I’d already taken too much from this town.

This had to end here.

I sucked in oxygen, lungs burning. My stomach gnawed on itself, hunger warring with adrenaline.

Sometimes, you had to take care of your own problems.

I veered left, deeper into the forest.

Other times, it was best to find a friend.

A door slammed behind us; Nathaniel had made it out of the house. I’d known Elliot couldn’t hold him forever.

“Faster,” I urged.

The woods grew thicker, trees more tightly packed. I weaved between them with single-minded focus, Joyce more hesitant, louder as her feet crushed snow and dead foliage, but not far behind.

“Our footsteps,” she gasped, “in the snow. He’ll see them. Find us.”

Good.

Distantly, the wind whistled.

My knees burned and my shoulder ached and running in the snow felt like trudging through quicksand. But my body was getting its first breath of fresh air after being left to rot in that dusty basement so long, and that was enough of a shock to the system to speed my feet along.

I pushed past branches and bramble. A little frozen pond reflected starlight to our right.

Not deep enough yet.

“This isn’t the way to the road,” Joyce accused, far too late. She planted her feet; I almost didn’t stop, but after pausing to listen, I relented and took the opportunity to catch my breath.

“It’s not.”

“What’s wrong with you?” A touch of fear entered her eyes. “Where are you taking us?”

“I’m doing what I have to do.” Head on a swivel, I eyed the dark forest in every direction, looking for movement. This far out, we were close to the gorge, the snaking cut in the earth with half-frozen water below. We shouldn’t be close enough yet to risk a fall, but on a night this dark, I couldn’t afford to be careless.

“We need to get help. We need the police!”

I grabbed Joyce’s shoulder and pulled her along. “The police here—They’re not good with that kind of thing. Trust me. They’ll manage to blame it all on us.” I inhaled deeply, feeling the chill in my lungs. “I’m going to end this.”

“End it how?” Joyce whisper-shouted, trudging along in the snow.

I peered at every tree, every rock, every landmark I could make out through the blanket of snow. “He’s going to get what’s coming to him for messing with something he doesn’t understand. We’re close.”

Joyce panted, “Close to what? Willa, where’s the road?”

I ducked a branch and glanced back at her. Her eyelashes were dotted with ice. “This is the way to something much worse,” I confessed.

A pulse went through her chest, all her ribs jumping at once. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m sorry. It’s the only way.”

“Willa.” Terror colored her tone.

A whistle pierced through the trees.

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

“We’re nearly there,” I breathed with the beginning of a smile.

A hard yank on my arm dragged me back. I hissed in pain.

“Stop it!” Joyce snapped. “Quit playing games and just take us to the Goddamned road so we can flag down help.”

I leaned in. She leaned back. “I told you, there’s a reason we don’t go into the woods around here.” I started to walk, and her feet carried her with me despite her protests. “He’s teased it. Taunted it. Played hard and fast with the lives of the townspeople.” I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, enjoying the burn of icy air. “It heard us. It’s coming.”

Joyce looked shaken. “What is?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted into the trees.

A hand slapped over my mouth, and I struggled to shove Joyce off.

She clung to me like a cat, hissing and spitting. “Willa, shut up! What in the hell is the matter with you? He’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care!”

She gave me a wide-eyed look.

I laughed. It was raw and croaking. She jolted at the sound, a spooked horse. Realization spread across her face. “You’re crazy. You’re going to get us killed.”

“Joyce, both you and I know I’ve been called much, much worse. Call me whatever you’d like—I don’t care. You can’t stop me.”

“Graham’s dead,” she hissed, wiping ice from her eyelashes. “He gave his life so we could escape, and this is your grand plan? Talk nonsense in the woods until we freeze out here? We could’ve flagged down help by now!” The lines of her face sharpened with anger. “We could’ve knocked on doors. Anything! For some fucking—” she cut off, breath expelling from her nose. Her eyes held a challenge. “I’m going for the road.”

I stopped. Smiled a bit. “Do you even know which way that is?”

The journalist cursed, glancing around rapidly. Everywhere she looked, there were dark, unyielding trees. She eyed our footsteps, but if she backtracked without knowing where to pivot, they would only lead her back to Nathaniel.

I listened for him, but I couldn’t hear his approach. Not yet. I knew he was in the forest with us, but with his injuries, he was much slower.

“Go on. Pick whichever way you’d like. I won’t stop you.”

Her teeth chattered. A perfect snowflake landed on her cheek and melted instantly.

“What do you think is coming, Willa? What’s in the woods?”

The trees shivered, impatient.

I shook my head and pointed without looking. “The road is that way.”

Joyce mapped the direction with her eyes. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She didn’t look like she believed me.

“It’s that way,” I repeated. “Believe me or not, I don’t care.”

Footsteps crunched in the distance.

“I hear him,” I said. Branches rustled louder, rubbing against each other, eager to spill the news. “He’s coming right for us. If we split up, he’ll see two sets of footprints in the snow. It’s a fifty-fifty shot.” I grinned. The sight must’ve been alarming judging by her expression. “You better hope he picks mine to follow.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Don’t you get it yet? The people of this town don’t need another monster,” I explained. A dizzying sort of calm had fallen over me. “They need an ending.”

How many bullets did Nathaniel have, and where would they land if he wasn’t stopped? Would he pound on neighbors’ doors, waking his next victims in his search for his real target? Rapture blood was already on his hands, and I couldn’t risk him spilling any more.

Joyce looked at me for a long while. Sadness and pity crossed her face.

A whistle sounded in the distance. I looked for it, and when I looked back, Joyce was hastening through the snow in a different direction. She didn’t look back.

Disappointment settled on my shoulders. It was all right. I’d do it alone.

I cleared my throat and pressed deeper into the forest, knees screaming.

What do you want to become? Mrs. Sloane had once asked me. I wasn’t sure what, but in these black woods, I was becoming something. Maybe I would shed my skin and come out entirely anew. Or peel a few strips back to reveal the monster we’d all suspected was underneath. The outcast becomes the villain. A tale as old as time.

If a girl dies in the forest and comes out as something else, was she ever really a girl?

If a man dies in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it even really matter?

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I abandoned you!” I shouted at the forest until my lungs burned. “I misunderstood! I didn’t know the truth! I thought you killed my friends, but I know better now!”

I couldn’t hear a response over the pounding of my own heart.

“I made a mistake!”

In the distance, Nathaniel thundered through the snow.

“I thought you’d betrayed me too, just like everyone else. All these years I blamed you, but I was wrong.” I ducked a branch. “I know who did it! It was a man!

“And the past few weeks since I’ve been back, you weren’t trying to scare me—you were trying to warn me! The bush tapping on the cabin window in the dead of night—That was you warning me Nathaniel was outside! And you screamed at me, not because I went into the forest, but because he was following me. Isn’t that right?” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I once said I understood you, and then I went and believed the worst of you. How many times does it take for me to learn that lesson? You were just trying to communicate the only way you know how.”

I paused to catch my breath, grasping the bark of the nearest tree. The wood pulsed.

“Are you there?”

I closed my eyes to listen harder.

A force slammed me into the tree trunk. I gasped as the bark tore at my cheek, my eyes flying open.

“There the fuck you are!” snarled Nathaniel in my ear.

“Get off me!” I tried to slam the back of my head into his face, but he got a knee on my back and a grip around my neck.

“What the hell was that back in the house?” he growled, dark and angry. Something dripped onto the skin of my neck.

I shuddered, trying to get a look at it—slimy, slimy disgusting—only to catch sight of blood dripping from Nathaniel’s eyebrow.

I finally kicked at his crotch, but his fingers tangled into my bird’s nest of hair and dragged me with him.

“Dammit, Willa!”

God, would my whole scalp rip off if he yanked any harder? Is that what would happen?

“Help,” I whispered. The cry was lost in the wind, yanked right from my lips and ushered away.

“Stop struggling!”

“Help!” I said louder, scrabbling for leverage on my knees. With his hand in my hair, I couldn’t lift my neck.

A particularly harsh jerk had me seeing black spots.

“Who are you calling for? No one’s out here but us.”

He pulled me to my full height, and I went, gritting my teeth. Everything hurt.

God, he looked terrible. Deep circles under his eyes, flaky skin on his cheeks. Blood beaded on his upper lip.

“What is that in your house?” A bit of spit launched from his mouth and pelted my chin. “A poltergeist? A demonic presence?”

I shuddered in revulsion.

He shook me. “Answer me!”

I looked him in the eye. Wrinkled my nose. Widened my eyes in faux innocence. “What was what?”

He made a wordless noise of rage.

“You call yourself a psychic and you can’t see what’s right in front of your fucking face?” I hissed, world narrowing into the invisible string connecting our eyes.

“So you admit it?” Nathaniel spat. “You know I’m the real deal. Hasn’t all this proven it to you?”

“The only thing you’ve proven is you’re even more insufferable in person than you look on TV.”

He slapped me.

I saw stars.

“How can you say that?” he roared. “After what we both just saw! What that thing just did to me?” He yanked on the collar of his shirt, exposing inflamed bite marks in the flesh. “Tell me what it is or so help me.”

I bristled at him calling Elliot a thing. “I’m glad he got a chunk of you.”

“He?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Blood spilled from my lips. I must’ve bitten my tongue. “It doesn’t matter what you do now.”

Nathaniel watched the blood drip down my chin.

I laughed, loudly and without a care. I was free. Free from guilt, of thinking I’d caused those deaths in the barn by forgetting to feed the forest. Of thinking my old friend had betrayed me and torn into them. Of the self-hatred.

How many sleepless nights had I spent replaying that day in my head? Agonizing over every detail, wondering how I could have possibly forgotten to feed the forest, leaving it hungry while my friends partied within easy reach? Cursing my teenage self for being so lonely, so eager for a high school party that I’d doomed us all?

All the blame was owned by one person and one person only: the man who chose to take their lives. No choice of mine could have saved them. I could have done a million things differently, and none of it would have mattered.

And that truth was horrible but liberating.

It wasn’t my fault.

The burden had been lifted. My body was still here, freezing and shivering, but my soul had been released.

I was reborn, even if to die.

“Why wouldn’t it…” he trailed off.

The moon winked behind a cloud, leaving us standing in the dark.

All I could see of him was a sketched silhouette.

Nothing Nathaniel could do could take this moment from me. We were deep in the forest that had screamed for me, warned me, and protected me. I was home.

I threw my head back and howled.

A sharp whistle answered me.

The moon emerged and Nathaniel’s apprehension was illuminated in full view.

Wait until he finds out it could do more than whistle.

Another whistle came through the trees. I whistled back the same three notes.

“You do hear it!” Nathaniel gasped. He steered me by the shoulders, boots crunching behind me.

I laughed, wheezing in frigid air. “What do you think is the worst way to die?”

The whites of his eyes were huge. I smiled, full of teeth.

“We’re going to the barn,” he told me. I was fairly confident the barn was nowhere near our current trajectory, but I nodded and kept on walking. “There must be something special about tonight with all that activity at your house. No wonder I’ve been bombarded with images. Your house, the woods—they’re supercharged with something. We’ll get something powerful at the barn tonight. I just know it.” He prodded my back. “Explain to me about that thing in your house. And tell me about the whistling!”

I didn’t look over my shoulder. “Why don’t you whistle back and find out?”

We were deep in the forest. Far, far away from any neighbors. From any witnesses.

Tap-tap-tap went the branch above us.

Creeeeak went the door that wasn’t there.

“Can’t you feel it?” I asked him, ducking a tree branch. The forest was so dense in these parts it took most of my concentration to avoid stabbing an eye out.

“Stop messing with me. Just tell me the truth. It feels like something is squeezing me, and it hasn’t let go since we first went to the barn.”

That was news to me. “Stop? I thought you wanted more. I thought I was your star. Isn’t that what you said?” My fingertips were so cold. “You know, Graham wasn’t my favorite guy, but he didn’t deserve what you did to him.”

A spasm flickered over his face when I peeked back. His plan had fallen to pieces. How did he plan to frame Graham for killing me now? A body in the kitchen and another in the woods, still alive while the other entered rigor? His cover story had turned to dust and was blowing away in the wind.

“I don’t want to talk about Graham,” he said tightly. “Your poltergeist. How long have you had it?”

I elbowed him in the face. With a grunt, he kicked my knees out, and I crashed into the snow. I dry heaved from the agony radiating from my shoulder and threw a leg out to trip him.

Nathaniel expelled a rush of air, flopping into the powder. I spun and kicked him in the head, hands leaving bloody smears in the snow.

Fuck, that had hurt. I crawled, scrabbling for traction.

An iron grip wrapped around my ankle. I shrieked as Nathaniel dragged me bodily backward across the forest floor. Sticks, snow, and wood chips scraped at my stomach. I thrashed against his grip, but he reeled me in.

“Get the hell off me!” I jerked my foot, but he held on tight.

A pipe slammed against his face. Joyce shouted as she emerged from the thicket and pummeled Nathaniel’s curled-up form.

“You piece of shit!” she shrieked, shaking like an angry leaf. “I hope you fucking die!”

She hadn’t—she hadn’t left? I tried to smile at her, even as blood crusted my chin. Elbows giving out, I sagged into the snow.

“Willa, get up!”

Fingers yanked at me, but all I wanted to do was sink.

Joyce dragged me behind a tree as Nathaniel struggled to his knees.

BANG!

He cracked off a shot, and we scattered into the trees.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” Joyce panted.

“You came back!” I gasped.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to leave you out here alone after all the work I did to keep you alive, was I?”

“Hey!” I screamed—Nathaniel flinched, eyes jumping to our hiding place while Joyce cursed—and beat my chest with a fist. “I’m here! I’m not afraid anymore!” My voice carried over the wind as it picked up. “I’m not afraid! I’m here. I’m calling for you! I’ve missed you so much!”

“What?” Nathaniel muttered, baffled.

“Willa—!” Joyce shushed. “Shut up!”

I ignored them both and waited.

A groan rumbled through the forest.

Nathaniel froze. Only his eyes moved, pinned on me, accusing. “What’s whistling in the woods?” he choked out.

“It’s hungry!” I shouted from behind the tree, ignoring Joyce’s increasingly desperate jabbing. I cackled wildly. “It’s starving!”

My eyes landed back on him, speculative. “And look who’s sitting pretty like a meal.”

“Willa, what the fuck—” I slapped a hand over Joyce’s mouth, ignoring her outraged expression.

“Now is the time to listen, not talk,” I hissed. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you!” I shouted into the night, still holding Joyce’s face as she tried to twist out of my grip. “You were—you were my friend. And I treated you horribly. I was so scared—” My voice cracked, and I swallowed it down. “We never kill innocents in Rapture! Never! But this one, that guy right there? He’s no innocent. He’s a murderer. You’d be doing all of Rapture a favor!”

Riiiiiip. The tree behind me uprooted itself. It toppled to the ground with a stretching, tearing clatter.

I jumped, and Joyce twisted out of my grip. Her stuttering breaths hissed past my ear. “What the fuck?”

I cupped my hands around my mouth and projected my voice as loud as it could go. “You know what I think, Nathaniel? I think you’re scared.”

He scoffed, even as his eyes were too wide. “Scared? I’m the one with the gun.”

The back of my head prickled.

“And you know what?” I asked, lips twitching. “You should be scared.”

Ahhhhh, the forest groaned.

The ground beneath our feet rose and sagged, expelling a rush of air.

Joyce yelped. “What the—”

Nathaniel was knocked from his feet, and I wasn’t far behind. His gun bounced away, vanishing under the mass of writhing, wriggling roots breaking through the snow. The earth shifted in great waves; I lost sight of Joyce and clung to a tree despite the pain in my muscles. Its branches seemed to cradle me against its trunk. Another shielded my head.

“You’re a murderer, Nathaniel!” I shouted over the wind. Distantly, Joyce’s nonsensical screeching registered. “You ruined yourself when you decided to come here. You think you can come to Rapture and kill people? And that no one will care because we’re a little town in the middle of nowhere?”

Nathaniel clutched at a nest of branches as he rose and fell with the roiling earth, but they slithered from his grip. His eyes were wide and terrified. “Stop this. Stop this, now. I don’t know what—what the hell this is but—”

“You think this is me?” I threw my head back and laughed. A chorus of moans, filtering through the clattering branches, echoed the sentiment.

Nathaniel’s eyes grew impossibly wider.

I thought of Elliot, back at the house. Of the shadow people in the basement. Of the voice of the forest closing in on us.

“You brought this on yourself. Poke, poke, poke until it pokes back, isn’t that right? Isn’t that your specialty? You prey on the grieving and the innocent, and that’s how you’ve made your fortune. You know what, Nathaniel? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, in that big brain of yours, that something might come along and prey on you?”

Bits of snow and rock launched into the air. He shielded his head. “I don’t—”

“Those kids who died? They were good people. I was so mad when I thought the forest killed them. But you?” My fingers tightened on the trunk. “The forest and I have no love for you.”

“You’re not—”

“I’m not what? A monster? A killer? They’ve been calling me that for half my life. It’s about time it’s true!”

The moon dipped behind a cloud. Nathaniel tripped over a root and sprawled on his back on the forest floor, jerking and bucking with the movement of the earth. As he groaned, I dragged over a branch. I snapped it over my knee to a sharp point.

As he tried to scramble to his feet, I stepped firmly on his wrist. While he writhed, I aimed the pointed end and heaved with all my might.

Nathaniel screamed.

I’d have screamed too if it were me.

The branch was driven through his palm, into the earth, pinning him in place. I lifted my boot and slammed it down, again and again, while he wailed.

I am the thing that goes bump in the night.

I am the creaking closet door.

I am the monster under the bed.

I am what you should be afraid of.

“Once upon a time,” I whispered, leaning in, “there was a lonely little girl. And the lonely little girl wandered into the lonely, lonely wood. And the lonely, lonely wood made a friend.”

I slammed his head into the ground. “Do you know what happens to lonely little girls? Do you?” I grabbed his collar. He gasped and flailed but couldn’t get free. Blood soaked into the snow. “We grow up. We all grow up and we live right there, among you, until one day you can’t tell us apart anymore.”

My fingers flexed, brittle in the cold. A sneer pulled at my lip. “Until someone like you comes bumbling into our lives and makes us remember all the things we tried so hard to forget.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the whites of his eyes too bright on his face.

“But that’s the thing, Neil Chopra. We can try to be whoever we want, but we never really forget.”

I planted my feet on either side of his torso. He desperately tried to look around me, at the cresting noises that approached, but I unashamedly occupied his line of sight.

The moon emerged. I grabbed his hair and tugged him close. “You saw a woman whose life was ruined and thought, ‘I can make this worse!’” My chest heaved. “That was all you!”

“Willa, what are you doing?” came a whisper from my right.

I jerked—it was Joyce, wide-eyed from behind a rock. She grabbed my elbow, as if to steer me away.

I shook her off. “My mother once said the best way of apologizing was offering someone a hot meal.” I glanced at Nathaniel. “This is the best I’ve got.”

I inhaled deeply. “You may want to cover your eyes now.”

The trees parted, and the wind sang.

Ahhhhh, the ground below us groaned, an obscene, jarring approximation of human vocalization. Branches of nearby trees bent and crackled like spines, long-dormant limbs shaking feeling back into themselves.

Through a gap in the trees, two protruding horns were silhouetted turning, turning, until holes where eyes should’ve been locked on us. The horns, once facing us fully with only the moon behind them, were revealed as antlers crowned in extensive webs perfectly mimicking tree branches. It had been camouflaged in the dark trees, watching from afar. Easily mistaken for branches rocking in the wind or a fleeting glimpse of deer in low light. Every time we set foot in the woods, it watched us. I knew it.

The horns and head were connected to a torso-like mass that was rooted to the ground far below by a thick, treelike stem, which swayed and flexed with movement.

I pursed my lips, but I was trembling so hard I had to try again. Finally, lungs burning, I got the noise out: a long, shrill whistle.

It had no mouth, but the humanoid portion cocked its head, and a blast of air from behind me whistled back. It was an answering whistle, mimicking the tune. Joyce gasped, but I ignored her, staring straight ahead.

“Willa!” Nathaniel shouted, head lashing from side to side. “What is that?”

Mmmmmmm, the ground creaked. Ropes of ancient roots thrashed beneath the snow like parasites boring under skin.

The head, the horned head, the one which Nathaniel and Joyce stared at like a nightmare come to life, started to shake. Side to side, like a metronome. It vibrated as it shook, until it spasmed faster than the eye could track. The antlers whipped violently in the wind, creating a hissing noise, until the wind picked up, blasted through the furiously shaking antlers, and a scream of a whistle pierced from the horns. A snake’s rattling tail, a death lure. A warning of being too close.

That’s what was whistling at you, Nathaniel. Aren’t you glad you didn’t whistle back?

Severed branches rained down around us. Joyce fell to a knee, but I yanked her up by the hair. “Stay on your feet.”

The rattle slowed, and the whistle died off.

“This is my friend, Joyce,” I announced, raising my arms high. Putting an extra emphasis on friend. I shoved her. “Say hi.”

She sent me a bone-deep look of terror. She only managed a squeak.

“Say hi,” I hissed, widening my eyes at her. “Now.”

Still nothing. Her eyes pleaded with me. Her throat worked uselessly.

I slapped her shoulder.

“Hi,” she choked out, turning wildly in all directions. “Hello! Hi.”

I ran a hand along her head. “She’s my friend,” I repeated. “She can be your friend too.”

The torso shook again, in three pulses, three whistles cutting through the air. A rumbling started, and the trees thrashed wildly against their earthly tethers.

I frowned. I’d been out of practice, translating its communications. Divining meaning from the swaying of branches and pitch of whistles meant it was hard to tell exactly what it was saying.

Unease built in my stomach.

Maybe I’d gotten it wrong.

Lowering her voice, Joyce whispered, “Willa, what—”

“Run!” I shoved her when she didn’t immediately move. “Run!”

We ran, ducking tree branches, throwing ourselves over the snow.

A scream followed us out. Nathaniel’s.

There was a noise like a clap of thunder—an almighty roar—I tugged Joyce behind a tree, clutching her to me, and she clutched back just as tightly, shivers racking her frame, and then there was nothing at all.

The wind died down. A bird started to chirp. Hesitant at first, then louder.

I struggled to catch my breath, wheezing in and out like a weak kitten. Beside me, Joyce collapsed onto a fallen tree, gripping it for support.

When my vision settled, I peered cautiously around the tree.

There was nothing left of him.

I dropped to my knees. My ears pounded, blood still in fight-or-flight mode. Was it … over?

A soft exhalation from behind had me spinning around. It was only Joyce, chest heaving, her face a sickly sort of color as she stared at the spot where Nathaniel had been.

“Did it—? Is it?”

I nodded and said, “He belongs to the forest now.” I took a shaky step forward.

Joyce yanked me back. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go look.”

“No, you don’t! Don’t go anywhere near there. You saw what happened to him. It’s not safe.”

“I do. I have to go.”

Her eyes took on a desperate gleam. “You can’t leave me here. If it gets you, then…”

I brushed her off. “It’ll be fine.”

It already has me.

I scanned the woods. The trees were standing as if they’d never bent on knee. Tall. Dark. Silent. Their branches again reached toward the sky. Roots shuffled and hidden beneath skirts of snow. “Go wait for me there. I’ll be just a minute.”

“I really don’t think—”

“I need to do this. I have to know for sure. I can’t assume again. Last time…” I trailed off.

Her lips thinned, but she clutched a branch to her chest and backed away. She kept looking back, like she expected me to be gone.

I turned back to the spot where Nathaniel had vanished. I approached it as one would walk to the gallows. It wasn’t over until it was over, wasn’t that what they said?

I spotted a white pebble in the snow—no, not a pebble. An unnaturally white Hollywood tooth. I hesitated, then popped it in my pocket.

All that was left of him was a small pool of blood slowly draining into the earth, like a hungry mouth sucking on a straw from below.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

We picked our way back through the woods in silence.

No one was on the road this early, not even the plows. But Joyce’s shoulders still gave a sigh of relief when the asphalt came into view. We stood at the side of the road, waiting. Staring but not seeing.

In the distance, a dog barked. Every abused muscle throbbed beneath my skin.

Joyce broke the silence first. “Did you happen to find his phone?”

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

She still clutched the pipe, hands trembling with the force of it, birdlike bones looking like they were going to burst through the skin of her knuckles.

“You know, the shortest way to town is back through the woods—”

“No!” She swallowed. “I mean, I don’t mind waiting here. A car might come at any moment.”

The back of my neck tingled, like I was being watched.

I glanced back at the woods. Joyce did the same.

“I suppose waiting won’t hurt.”

Joyce finally dropped the bloody pipe and sat heavily right there in the snow. “When you said—about the feeding. When we first went into the basement. That it was hungry.” She gestured vaguely with her hand. “That’s what you meant.”

“Yep.”

We stared at each other, covered in mud and blood and snow, both catching our breaths.

“Jesus,” she finally said.

“I know.”

“You feed it?”

“I used to leave food out for it every night.” As her eyes grew wide, I clarified, “Regular food. Beef. Meat. Leftovers.”

Elliot had suggested it, so many years ago. It became a habit over the years, or a superstition. The same way some people knocked on wood or didn’t open umbrellas inside. To ward off bad luck, I fed the woods. And I wasn’t going to stop now.

She scrubbed a hand over her cheeks and sighed. The sole of the boot she was tapping flaked off into the snow.

“Make sure to take that with you.” I pointed at the bit of shoe. “It doesn’t like litter.”

She moved faster than I’d ever seen her move to scoop it up.

As I admired the winking stars splashed across the sky, a faint blur of motion caught my attention at the edge of the woods. I squinted. A lone branch waved back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Slowly, but unmistakably.

It might have been the wind.

It might not.

I shifted my weight and waved back.

Joyce hissed in alarm, but I prodded her with my knee and jerked my head in its direction.

She fell silent. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted a hand and waved too.

chapter
32

“Millie Sloane loved this school. Anyone who knew her knew that. More than the school, she loved people. Didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or where you were going; Millie Sloane loved you.”

I adjusted the microphone and looked out at the crowd. The Rapture High School auditorium was standing room only on a Friday night. Faces of neighbors, former classmates, current and past staff, were all turned toward me.

Lisa Landon, clutching her husband in the front row, wiped at her eyes. Her stern expression wavered before she gave up altogether and sobbed into a tissue. He settled an arm around her and pulled her in close.

“She was also a big believer in better late than never, although I’m pretty sure that’s because Mr. Sloane took a little longer than she’d have liked to propose.”

Wet laughter echoed in the auditorium where so many school plays had lived and died, where the sweat of pep rallies, career fairs, and graduations were written into the lines of the floor.

“Due to unfortunate recent events, the date of this memorial was rescheduled.” I bowed my head. “However, I am very, very thankful that I could be here to celebrate the life of Millie Sloane with you today. I’d like to invite Arthur Sloane to the stage.”

Arthur mopped at his eyes and scurried up the stairs. I took his hand, and he surprised me by pulling me into a hug. I relaxed into it, then drew back and guided him to the podium. Beside it sat a painting beneath a white sheet.

“Beside me is a painting I’d like to dedicate to Mrs. Sloane. I painted it here in Rapture with her in mind. Many of you know I’m a painter. What you might not know is that right here in Rapture High is where it started for me. Art classes with Mrs. Sloane, painting in room 112. I still remember the first time she caught me sneaking into the art room during lunch. I was so scared she was going to write me up, but she only gave me a key.” The crowd chuckled, punctuated by a few sniffles. “Her generosity of spirit is her legacy.”

Near the back, with her hair curled and a child on her knee, Rachel watched on. Her eyes met mine, and she nodded.

“She once told me some dreams are too big for our parents to understand, and it changed my life. I never would have gone to art school without her mentorship and her belief in me. Some kids had Superman. Some had Wonder Woman. I had Millie Sloane.” I cleared my throat. “My very first professional painting has hung in her kitchen for the past fifteen years. It’s the only one I ever signed with my real name. It’s only fitting that this one is gifted in her memory. Arthur, will you do the honors?”

He nodded and pulled the sheet aside.

Gasps echoed throughout the auditorium.

“It’s pretty, Mommy,” the little girl on Rachel’s knee said loudly, and she shushed her, running a hand through her daughter’s brown curls.

Across a vast, gray field, shadows stretched into every dip of the grass. Grotesque black shapes curled and clawed in the dark. The sky, beginning as a deep black, grew lighter in a gradient across the canvas until the farthest corner was a sky blue, leading to a gleaming, yellow sun. The sun cast a spotlight onto the dark field, a single sunbeam stretching down to the earth. Encircled by light was a single sunflower sprouting from the gray field. Stem slightly crooked, but otherwise standing tall.

“I’ve named it Hello, Sunshine for the hope and joy Mrs. Sloane selflessly gave me in my time of need.”

My eyes traced to the back of the auditorium, where Callum stood near the exit, stern faced. Beyond him, visible through the narrow windows, news vans packed the parking lot. Callum’s eyes softened when they met mine, and he nodded at me.

I’ll see you later, he mouthed.

I looked down, willing away the hot blood rushing to my cheeks.

We’d been lucky Nathaniel hadn’t touched it. That whole time at my house, my life and my painting at his mercy, and he hadn’t messed with it.

Brightly plumed reporters stood beside the row of cameras. After news broke about mysterious disappearances in Rapture, our little story went national. When it finally got out that celebrity psychic Nathaniel Lennox had allegedly held both Willa Renfri Greene and award-winning investigative journalist Joyce Kimura in captivity, and murdered a local man while doing it, the media firestorm had gone global. Once word spread that I would be speaking at a public venue—for the first time ever—reporters, looky-loos, and anyone with a few days to kill streamed into town. For the first time in years, the local inn was fully booked. Hotels were full three towns over, restaurants packed to the gills. Business was booming in the bitter cold of January in Rapture.

I looked into the camera. “Some of you may know I didn’t have the easiest time growing up in Rapture. I want better for the next generation. In the spring, we’ll launch the pilot season of Community Glue, a program which aims to help children process grief through art. Paintings, collages, papier-mâché, and drawings of those who wish to put their work on display will be displayed at the Daily Grind.”

Lisa Landon nodded sharply at me. That would take some getting used to.

A blond man with slicked-back hair was taking notes. I narrowed my eyes at him. “We have one of you to thank for the idea. Something about a miscommunication over the phone, my friend, Rachel, said.” At that, he did look up, faintly astonished.

Rachel shook with silent, smug laughter. They’d tricked her all those weeks ago, and we were making the fake charity real.

In the front row, a different man in a well-tailored suit and close-cropped hair shook his head in disbelief at what he was witnessing. Like he couldn’t decide whether to be proud of his own creation or appalled.

I smiled just for him.

In return, Josh gave me a double thumbs-up. Summoned all the way from his office in Manhattan by the lure of a good show. And probably to confirm that I hadn’t been replaced by a doppelgänger.

Rachel had a proud set to her mouth. I inhaled shakily. Public speaking had never been my strong suit.

“Thank you.”

Thunderous applause shook the auditorium. I jumped a little, fingers tightening on the podium. They were all clapping. They were all looking at me. Lisa Landon among them. Her curly gray hair wobbled as she stood, applauding, eyes brimming with tears.

The applause went on and on. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

Thankfully, Arthur stepped forward to say a few words. “I don’t know about you, but that’s a tough act to follow.” The crowd chuckled. I watched as he skillfully delivered a beautiful portrait of his wife. I wondered what it was like to be that loved and know it.

I fiddled with my earrings. Repaired resin. Sunflowers. New bits of wire. They didn’t look the same, but the repairs had been expert. I felt like a part of Mrs. Sloane was with me.

Once the next round of applause died down, Arthur beckoned me over, and I smoothed my shaking hands over my blazer. “We will now welcome any questions or comments from the community, and then we will open up the podium to anyone who wants to share their memories of Millie.”

A reporter stepped up to the microphone. She ran her hands over her purple pantsuit. “About Nathaniel Lennox—”

“Millie first,” I said sharply, speaking over her. “I will take questions first on the topic of this memorial.”

After a brief pause, she opened her mouth again. “You sign your paintings W. Sloane. Is there any connection to Millie Sloane?”

The front rows leaned in, eager to see if I would answer. Cleverly following the rules but skirting the spirit of them.

“Yes.” Excited titters from the out-of-town crowd. “I chose the name W. Sloane because Mrs. Sloane inspired me to pursue painting professionally.”

“Did Mrs. Sloane know you were W. Sloane?”

Arthur stepped forward. “She did. And she was so proud.”

The reporter blinked. “She kept your secret for you?”

Arthur leaned over the podium. “Millie was a lot of things to a lot of people. She was a very giving and generous person.”

A flash of red caught my attention. Molly had slipped in through the back of the auditorium, hair wild from the wind.

Arthur professionally volleyed a few more questions, cool and confident.

Lily Sun, Wendy’s mother, was in the audience, stone-faced. I nearly swallowed my tongue. There were no tears in her eyes. No humor in her eyes. Her hands remained in her lap while people clapped around her.

One notable face was missing. Award-winning investigative reporter Joyce Kimura was making waves in the documentary filmmaking industry. The announcement had gone out last week: Vision Without Execution: The Downfall of Nathaniel Lennox, a widely anticipated documentary Joyce was spearheading. Heavily redacted, of course. She’d developed a fascination with the psychology of stalkers during our captivity. Rumor had it Nathaniel was only the first on her list.

I’d told her I didn’t want to hear about it. She’d laughed and promised to send me a copy. Joyce in her element was a fascinating thing. She hadn’t admitted to stealing Nathaniel’s external hard drives, but the police had never found them. I hoped she’d destroyed them.

When the on-topic questions slowed, the pushy reporter in the violet pantsuit skidded to the microphone. “If I may, I’d like to ask your thoughts on Nathaniel Lennox.”

Arthur and I exchanged a look. I nodded, and he backed off.

“I hate to speculate,” I said into the mic. “But he wasn’t right in the head.”

The reporter, blond hair twisted into a loose Dutch braid, didn’t blink. “Where is he? What do you think happened to him?”

“As you know, the police dogs followed his scent into the woods and lost the trail by the gorge. Like I told the police, it’s my guess he must have fallen and been swept under the ice. It was so dark out. Couldn’t see a thing. He was there, and then he wasn’t. That’s all I know.”

“Do you think there’s a chance he could still be out there?”

“I think if he’s alive, he’s long gone.”

Chief Barrow, a barrel-chested man with red hair, watched me with a frown. He crossed his arms under my stare.

“And the man who died? The one who was kidnapped with you? What can you tell us about him?”

I swirled the words around in my mouth until they became palatable.

“Graham Warren died a hero. He gave us the opening to escape.”

Pouty, painted lips quirked as if in some small victory. Her teeth flashed.

My heart started to pound.

She feigned looking down at her notes. “This Mr. Warren was a teacher here too, once, wasn’t he? The records say about seventeen years ago. That’s when you were a student here, wasn’t it?” There was an innocent pitch to her tone that didn’t fool me.

Graham was still a complicated topic. I didn’t think anything could ever uncomplicate him. All the good a person does can never undo their wrongs. But he had done something. For me. For Joyce. Was this his absolution? Who could decide such a thing? Time? God? Surely not me.

“I don’t see the relevance of the question,” I deflected.

“Well, I heard some interesting rumors—”

“Have some respect!” Lisa Landon stood. I stared, open-mouthed. “We’re honoring the dead. It’s not the time for your rumors. We don’t do it like that here in Rapture. Mind your manners or show yourself out.”

Satisfied, Lisa settled back into her seat. Adjusted her floral scarf. Gave me a nod.

Face a bit tingly, I nodded back.

Looking baffled and flushed, the reporter sank into her seat.

“Would anyone like to share a personal anecdote of Millie?”

The volunteers were plentiful. Once the stories had died down, a reporter in a pink peacoat stepped forward. “Ms. Greene, what’s next for you? What are you going to do now?”

I readjusted my suit jacket and made unwavering eye contact with the crowd. “Move on with my life. Keep moving forward with my career. Paint.” Josh chuckled into his hand. “After all that’s happened, I’m just happy to be here. I’m not one to dwell on the past.”

Near the back, I caught Joe’s eye. He glanced away, perhaps feeling guilty for not trying harder after learning I’d been captive in my basement the whole time. But he was still the best contractor in town, and he’d already apologized profusely when I had called him to restart work on the house.

“What would you say to Nathaniel Lennox if he were here right now? If he’s somewhere out there, listening in, what would you tell him?”

I cleared my throat and avoided Barrow’s impermeable stare. “Given the circumstances, I don’t think that’s appropriate—”

“His viewers want to know. Don’t you care, Willa? Don’t we all deserve closure?”

My smile grew brittle. “That’s an interesting question. To Nathaniel, I would say this: I know you’re a troubled man, and I don’t understand why you did what you did, but I hope you’ve found peace.”

Camera shutters clicked. Flashes dazzled my eyes.

“A troubled man is right,” Deborah whispered too loudly in the front row. She looked to have forgotten her hearing aids.

“Thank you for the questions, but our time is up. I’ve got quite a bit to catch up on. Thank you all for coming.”

I waved to the cameras and slipped behind the curtain. Questions were shouted in my wake, but I ignored them.

Josh emerged beside me and clapped my shoulder. I winced. While the skin had healed, the muscle below still pulled uncomfortably at sudden movements.

A little blur ran into my side. Bright eyes looked up at me. Jessica.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I told the young girl, even as I returned her hug.

“Mrs. Gracie doesn’t know. Besides, everyone else is here. I wanted to be here too.”

I sighed. I’d have to flag down one of the officers to return her. Callum wouldn’t mind. But I couldn’t bring myself to chastise her.

“Your painting’s pretty,” she whispered into my blazer. “I saw it. Can I tell you a secret?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I glanced around, as if to find a responsible adult, but Josh had slipped away to schmooze in front of the cameras, and I found myself to be the only option. Her eyes peered imploringly up at me.

“Sure? Let me see if I can, um—”

“I miss my dad.”

“Oh—” My throat went dry. All she knew was that her father died a hero. None of the rest of it was her burden to bear. Even so, I struggled with what to say.

“And I don’t want to live with Mrs. Gracie.”

I reeled at the abrupt change in subject. “Why not?”

Jess squinted up at me, a serious face on a little child.

Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be something bad. I told Graham I’d watch out for you.

“She doesn’t know how to braid hair.”

The relief was staggering.

“Jessica!” an older woman chided, coming through the stage door. “You can’t just run off. You know better than this.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Gracie,” Jess said quietly. Her eyes went to the floor. “I just wanted to say hi to Willa.”

“Ms. Greene,” Abigail Gracie instantly corrected.

“Ms. Greene,” Jess mumbled, drooping.

Her temporary guardian took her by the arm and whispered to me, “She’s doing as well as can be expected. Come along now.” She tugged Jessica’s hand in her own and pulled her toward the exit. The seven-year-old waved messily before she was hauled through the door.

I watched them go, something tugging at my heart.

Josh reappeared beside me. “Ready to go?”

I had an hour and a half until my dinner reservation with Callum. Two towns over at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a handwritten sign where no one would think to bother us.

I let out a long exhale to calm my nerves.

Josh led the way through the side exit to his car. He opened the passenger’s side door for me, like a gentleman, and slid into the driver’s seat. I rested my head against the cool glass and watched the world go by.

They say the best revenge is living well.

It’s a lovely adage. Maybe in another life.

I preferred an alternate proverb: Revenge is a dish best served cold.

chapter
33

The clock above the window read 2:43 AM. The stillness of the night was broken only by the thud of the knife against the cutting board.

I hummed to myself, alone in this dark kitchen with the lights off. They never did find Nathaniel. In the spring thaw, Callum and his partner had found one of his teeth at the bottom of the gorge riverbed, and that had settled it.

Thwack.

I cleaved the next piece of meat in two.

There was a whirring as the central heating kicked on. The restoration had gone beautifully. I’d decided to keep the house, after all. Rapture really wasn’t so bad anymore.

Thwack.

I scraped the chunks into the dog bowl.

The sliding door off the patio opened with a scream. I’d have to oil that tomorrow. Snow crunched under my boots.

A lot had changed since last winter. Things were going well. My house in Pennsylvania was on the market. I was even thinking about finally getting a dog.

I made my way down the steps, across the back lawn, and deposited the bowl just past the edge of the woods. Behind an embankment of rock and bush, tonight covered by glittering snow.

I took a moment to stare out at the trees. There was something special about the forest this late. It felt like coming home.

I cast a last glance at the bowl, nestled into its hiding place. It almost looked like beef from this angle.

I stepped gingerly along the frozen ground back to the house, stepping back into my boot prints just for the fun of it.

I tidied up the kitchen and tossed yesterday’s newspaper in the recycling, barely glancing at the headline, UP-AND-COMING ACTRESS ASHLEY REDWOOD DISCOVERS SECRET HALF SISTER THROUGH ONLINE DNA TESTING: “I HAD NO IDEA SHE EXISTED!”

I picked my way through the labeled, foil-wrapped parts in the freezer until my fingers wrapped around the winner. I carefully peeled back the layers of foil and checked the meat.

I frowned.

I’d forgotten to take his watch off. Silver with a red face. I plucked apart the clasp, eyeing the deep indentations left in the skin.

I wrapped the meat back up, washed my hands thoroughly, and tucked the package away to thaw for tomorrow night.

Waste not, want not. The forest would eat well for weeks. I wondered if anyone had picked up the pair of cowboy boots I’d left at the Goodwill a few counties over.

I leaned into the fridge, shuffling the vegetables around to make room for tomorrow’s grocery run. The door thudded dully against the wall.

“Willa?”

I whirled around, hand to my chest.

A small figure stood in the blue light of the open door, blinking up at me.

“Jessica,” I breathed, closing the fridge, “you almost gave me a heart attack. You should be in bed, little lady.”

“I was in bed.” Jessica clutched her teddy bear tighter. “But…” She looked around, dark hair sticking up at all angles, and motioned me in closer.

I crouched down to her level to smooth her curls. “What is it, sweetie?”

She leaned in to whisper in my ear. Her small puffs of breath were warm against my neck. “There’s a man under my bed.”

I wobbled backward, grabbing at her shoulder for balance. “What did you say?”

“There’s a man under my bed. He talks too much.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to clear them. “What does he look like?”

Jessica’s little nose wrinkled. “He doesn’t look like anything.”

I swallowed thickly, reeling. “What does he say?”

“He talks about you. He says he’s glad you stayed. He missed you while you were away.”

I blew through too many emotions to name before beaming at her, pride swelling in my chest. “Sweetie, there’s nothing to be afraid of. That’s just Elliot.”

Jessica frowned. “Who’s Elliot?”

“A friend.”

I Am the Monster Under the Bed

Verse II

I lived and died for those dreams,

none of my own.

Am I the monster, or are you—

Leaving me alone?

Empty room, forgotten tomb,

it is so quiet.

Dreaming only of your soft voice,

I feel myself fade.

Am I hearing things again,

or is that you?

Next time you sleep, curl up with me;

we’ll dream together.

acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my agent, Anne Tibbets, for plucking me out of the slush pile and changing my life on a random Monday. Your partnership and guidance are irreplaceable. I also needed someone to tell me that this is, in fact, a horror novel. Thanks!

Thank you to Pete Wolverton for sharing the vision. Your support means the world. Thank you to the entire St. Martin’s Press team. Claire Cheek, Jonathan Bush, Kat White, Katie Bassel, Layla Yuro, and Lindsay Frigon—I appreciate you!

Thank you to Mary Pender for envisioning a life for this book beyond the page.

I also want to extend a huge thank-you to Dwiju and Stephanie, my very first readers. I know it came out of nowhere when I said I wrote a book and asked you to read it. You helped me realize I didn’t need to keep the whole writing thing a secret anymore.

Thank you to Maria, Taylor, Tina, and Angela for being my biggest cheerleaders.

Thank you to Eric and Molly for your support.

Thank you to my parents, who were extremely confused but very supportive when I told them this was happening. Mom—for braiding my hair and teaching me I could do anything. Dad—for sharing my love of the spooky and the weird.

Thank you to the many excellent teachers I’ve had throughout my life. You are never forgotten.

Lastly, I’d like to thank anyone reading this book for being part of the dream.

About the Author

Emily Zinnikas studied chemical engineering at Cornell University and lives in New York. When she’s not writing about monsters under beds, she enjoys true crime documentaries and ghost tours. I Am the Monster Under the Bed is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

I AM THE MONSTER UNDER THE BED. Copyright © 2026 by Emily Zinnikas. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

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Cover art: floorboards © vectorfusionart/Shutterstock; shadow © metamorworks/Shutterstock; bed © Ljupco Smokovski/Shutterstock; child © mrs/Getty Images; hair © Petr Bonek/Shutterstock; bedsheets texture © AmVirusi/Shutterstock; grunge texture © DavisZane/Shutterstock

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