Jude toes the scorched leaves on the ground—a perfect circle of them— his brow still furrowed, like he’s deep in thought.
“I saw Rafe at the hospital,” I blurt.
“You sawRafe?”
“I was in the bathroom. The lights went out. When they came back on, he was there, in the mirror.”
Did I really see him?
Or was it my imagination on overdrive?
Do I need to add hallucinations to the growinglist of confounding events that have transpired today?
“It was just for a second. When I turned around, he wasn’t there.” I twist my hands, trying to make sense of it. “Do you think it was really him? Is Rafe alive?”
Jude looks troubled.
Deeply troubled.
Like he’d rather believe anything but that.
4
EVERYONE’S LYING
Istep inside the pizza parlor, the cold November air blowing at my back, ruffling papers tacked to the community board. Two of them, missing person flyers for Ivy and Lainey. The restaurant smells like heaven—oregano, garlic, the slightly sweet scent of baking dough. Twinkling lights wind up wooden beams and around foggy windows. Several televisions play the football game—West Virginia University—while chairs scrape and conversations unfold.
Twig sits in our favorite corner booth looking at his phone, a pitcher of water on the table along with a basket of pepperoni rolls.
I take Jude’s hand and pull him with me, suddenly ravenous.
I scoot into the booth, sliding over to make room. “Did the news on Lainey break?”
“Not yet,” Twig says, reading his screen. “Two hikers went missing in Dolly Sods, though. I just got the 411 alert.”
“That’s close,” I say.
Jude pours me a glass of water. “What’s a 411 alert?”
I pluck a pepperoni roll from the basket and dunk it into the ramekin of marinara. “Missing people. It’s a book-turned-online-conspiracy theory about unexplained disappearances in the wilderness. Twig and I have been planning an episode about it, so he gets alerts whenever a hiker goes missing.”
“Do you get a lot of alerts?” Jude asks, looking faintly alarmed.
“It happens more often that you would think,” Twig says, continuing to scroll. “You’d be surprised how often hikers wander off a path and get disoriented. Most of the time, they’re found. These two have been gone for awhile. A ranger tagged their car. It’s been sitting on a trailhead since mid October.”
Twig sets his phone down, face up. He’s pulled up the local news station’s website. When Lainey’s return finally breaks, WMTM News 12 will certainly be covering it.
The waiter arrives with a root beer for Twig. I get one for myself. Jude sticks with water. We order the Founder’s Feast—a massive meat-lovers pie that could feed a small village. The waiter takes our menus and leaves to get my root beer.
Jude casually slides his hand over my knee beneath the table, momentarily distracting me from my quest for answers. Namely, did Twig learn anything new at the hospital? There’s a gap of silence that wouldn’t otherwise be there, an opening for Twig to go first.
“So,” he says, looking excited. “Is it still there?”
I reach for words, but Jude’s thumb is now gently stroking the very sensitive spot above my kneecap.
“It was when we got there,” Jude answers. “But it’s not anymore.”
“What happened?” Twig asks.
