But I can’t stop myself from spiraling. Would it have made a difference if Ihadbeen there that night? If it was a hiking accident, would I have been able to keep them from that edge they fell off? I do tend to be the cautious one of the group.
If it…was something else, would four people have made the difference? Could I have slipped away and called for help? I don’t really think watching horror movies makes anyone smarter in the face of real-life danger, but what if it does?
Would they still be alive if I hadn’t popped Paisley’s tire that night?
“Emma Marie Tedesco, get out herenow!” Mom exclaims.
I can’t get my thoughts to stop spiraling alone; I need the distraction.
I drop my stylus and finally surrender to the noise.
* * *
After a painfully awkward family dinner where we all attempted to extend the funeral and talk about memories with Paisley, I’m back in my safe place. Mom and Dad have long since gone to bed by the time the clock turns from 12:59 a.m. to 1:00 a.m. My fingers and wrist ache, I have a new poster done, and my brain is fried from how much I’ve ruminated on what happened to my friends.
Now I can’t stop looking at that burner number. We’ve heard nothing from the national forest cops. I know it hasn’t been long enough to dismiss the cops, but Beck’s deal is seeming increasingly more likely.
If I’m really going to consider it, we’re going to need a foolproof plan. We’ll need to fully research the town, learn every inch of the forest, stock defensive weapons, and write out scripts to best get information out of what will likely be hostile townsfolk. And more than anything, I need to understand what this anonymous source’s deal is.
I select the keyboard in my conversation with the stranger.
Heart slamming in my throat, I type out a message.
ME: Why should I believe you want to help me?
A typing bubble pops up right away.
UNKNOWN: The rangers already ruled it an accident.
ME:I just sent them the video you sent me.
UNKNOWN:It won’t matter. That video doesn’t prove anything out of the ordinary unless you want to understand the correct narrative. If you come here, I’ll talk to you in person. There’s a motel by the campgrounds. Wecan meet in daylight, in public. I really, really just want to help. The cops would listen to you if you did their job for them and found evidence.
I find myself staring at the message, my fingers drumming violently against my sheets. These are the kinds of messages that get teenage girls killed. My friends truly might’ve just died in a hiking accident, yet following this person could get me actually murdered.
But everything they’re saying makes sense.
ME:Why haven’t you found the evidence yourself then?
UNKNOWN:They know me too well here.
My fingers remain restless, my brain stuck on my friends. I’m starting to forget what everyone was wearing the last night I saw them. I grab my phone and head to my photos. Wealwaystake pictures, even during the most mundane outings. Paisley made sure of it.
I find our usual selfie outside of Bob’s, before Paisley ran to the bathroom and started acting so strange. One group shot, then one with all of our wrists together, showing off our matching bracelets. I toggle over to social media, where Paisley’s photo of us in the restaurant shows off the gleam of the charms too, our smiles all together for what we’d never know was the last time. My heart aches for those bracelets, for another moment to wear them all together again. The backs of my throat and eyes burn as the tears gather.
I move to Paisley’s and my text conversation. Her eerie message remains unsent. God, what I wouldn’t give for some hidden communication from her that I missed. But as I stare at our conversation, I suddenly see a message I didn’t notice all this time gazing at this thread.My head swims. Was it always there and I missed it? It feels impossible, but I brush away my tears, and it’s still there.
Right below Paisley’s unsent message are the words:Paisley kept an audio message from you.
From that night eight months ago.
From the time I was in the parking lot. It’s expired on my end, but I know how to get it back.
I search through my iCloud archive and click the only message from October of last year. Heart slamming in my chest, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey Paisley, why don’t you come out here and face me?”
The voice note recorded everything I said that night. Including everything about them not surviving without me. My phone must’ve recorded that on its own when I was saying her name.
