“That’s our guy,” Corinthia said to Stevie.
Stevie looked at Corinthia.“You don’t think he’s still… in there?”
“In the Refuge?Surely not.”She paused.“Maybe.”
“Should we call the police?”
“Why?The Refuge is open until the sun sets; he’s an experienced hiker; and there’s no reason he would be in danger.”Corinthia felt momentarily guilty for wishing he’d get lost, and reconsidered.“Maybe we should look for him.”
“If he’s in there, he could be anywhere,” Stevie said.
There were dozens of paths, some no more than rabbit trails, all of which criss-crossed and doubled back.Corinthia imagined that if only Beaufort were there, she would give him one of Mr.Thriller’s books to sniff, and off the dog would go, in hot pursuit, his characteristic bay echoing over through the trees, setting the scrub jays to flight.Of course Beaufort had never done any such thing, but it was certainly an amusing thought.
“We could at least walk the main trails and call his name,” Corinthia said.She imagined shoutingMr.Thriller, and had to stifle a laugh that seemed to come from nerves rather than humor.
“Okay,” Stevie agreed.“Let’s leave a note on his car and his author table, in case he comes back, though.With my phone number.”
They did so, and returned to the entrance to the Refuge.It was the only way out—all paths branched from this one, eventually; and even someone whowasn’tan expert hiker could have used the location of the sun to head in the direction of the library generally.
They hiked the main trail.They called Mr.Thriller’s real name.They looped onto the secondary trail and did the same.
The sun slowly sank toward the western horizon.
“He could have gone around us and gone back to his car,” Stevie said.
Corinthia nodded.All the way back to the library, the scrub jays were talking, as if something exciting was happening.
The writer-with-an-attitude car?Still parked.
The author table?Still decorated.
Missed calls?None.
“Now we call the police?”Stevie said, as they thumbed through copies ofDark Mountain Danger.
Mr.Thriller could actually write, Corinthia mused as she skimmed the pages.It was always irritating when someone who personally annoyed her turned out to be good at something.“Let’s look one more time,” she said.“If he were in trouble, wouldn’t he have used his phone to call for help?”
“Maybe it ran out of battery.”
Corinthia had nothing to say to that, but her stomach sank like the sun, and she didn’t know why.
When they returned to the Refuge, the sky had turned a most aggressive shade of pink, as if it were determined to be noticed despite Corinthia’s distress.
In fact, everything around her practically glowed with beauty and a show-off sense of self-satisfaction:See how soft the sand?How sweet the evening breeze?How delightful the distant wingbeats keeping time?
All of it, all of it, all was for her, and Corinthia not only did not understand but felt actively frightened.
Mr.Thriller was lost in the Refuge.This, she believed.
And she suspected it was all her fault.
11
Theywerebackinthe Refuge before Corinthia plucked up her courage to say something.“It’s my fault, Stevie.”
“What’s your fault?”
“The author getting lost.I did it.”
