Then I take a chance. “Gretchen?” I say softly. “It’s me. We met the other day.”
Silence.
“I know something happened to Blake. I know you must be scared. I want to help you.”
Of course I’m at least fifty percent sure that what happened to Blake was at Gretchen’s hands. And I’m also only fifty percent sure that this is actually Gretchen. But if she killed Blake, I want her to think that I’m the sort of person who could never imagine such a thing. A man murdered in the forest? His wife on the run? Clearly she’s fleeing from whoever killed him, and so I’m coming to her rescue.
“Gretchen,” I say again.
Silence.
I start forward. The only place she could hide is behind that tree. As I walk, I keep softly talking to her, as if she’s a timid woodland creature.
Everything is okay. It’s safe to come out. I won’t hurt you. If you saw me with a gun, that’s just because I didn’t know it was you.
I reach that big tree and stop on my side. When I listen, I don’t hear anything.
“Gretchen?” I say. “I’m right here. If you would like me to go away, I can do that. Just tell me what you want.”
Lies. I’m sure as hell not walking away. But I’ll say whatever it takes to convince her.
“We can talk from here if that helps,” I say. “I won’t come any closer.”
Silence.
I try for a laugh. “Or maybe I’m talking to myself and you’re not right there. Okay, I’m going to come around the tree. I need to know you’re okay. Then I’ll do whatever you want.”
I lift my right hand to tuck the gun under my coat as I circle the tree from the left, that empty hand raised. “If you don’t want me coming closer, say something.”
I get around the tree to find… Yep. I’m talking to myself.
I exhale and raise my voice. “Okay, Gretchen. If you can hear me, I really want to be sure you’re okay. Just—”
The softest crunch behind me. I wheel just in time to see Gretchen swinging a tree limb at my head. I dodge, but it catches my shoulder and spins me off balance. My hand is still under my jacket with the gun, and the moment it takes me to debate pulling it out is a moment too long.
She swings the branch at my legs, and it hits hard. If she’d struck my good one, I’d have been fine. But she hits my bad leg right where old muscle damage has weakened it. I start to fall, and I could still stop myself, but I decide against it, instead dropping onto my butt, gun raised.
“Don’t move,” I say, my voice going hard, every trace of helpful Casey evaporating.
She tenses her muscles, ready to run, and I shift my finger onto the trigger. Outrage floods her face, and then undiluted rage.
“Going to help me, huh?” she says. “Did you really think I’d fall for that?”
“I meant it,” I say. “Right up to the point where you attacked me.”
“I attacked you because you murdered my husband.”
“What?”
She rocks forward, as if she wants to stomp me. “Don’t play dumb. You said you know he’s dead. You killed him. You and that guy you were with.”
“If you mean my husband—”
“I don’t give a shit who he is. Hemurderedmy husband.” Tears glisten in her eyes. “Blake wanted to leave that day. He didn’t trust you. A couple with a baby out here? A seeminglynormalcouple? That doesn’t happen. He said if you were really living out here, there was something wrong with your so-called husband. That he’s one of those crazy mountain men, and you’re his mail-order bride.”
I could comment on the racism of that remark, but I only say, “A mail-order bride with a Canadian accent? You met my husband. Did he seem like a crazy mountain man to you?”
She ignores that. “Blake wanted to go. I insisted he rest, but he was up before dawn, and I agreed to leave early as long as he soaked his ankle first.” The tears well, her voice rising. “That’s where you killed him. While he was soaking his foot.”
