I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a sound I barely recognize, something between a gasp and a sob. I just sent a tip over to the FBI of national forests. I just told them this case might be a murder case and there’s a voice note on Paisley’s phone where Iact like I’m going to hurt them. And I wrecked her fucking tire on top of that! Owen saw me leave that night, destroying any alibi I could have. Even if the message and crowbar are circumstantial evidence, courts can weave together convictions with far less.
I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts with my dad to know that “stranger danger” isn’t the typical solve on murder cases. It’s people who know the victims. People with concrete motivations and means. As soon as that can of worms is opened up, they have to start working in categories. The number of people who know all three girls well enough to kill them is pretty limited to begin with: classmates, teachers, maybe, and that’s about it. Motivation will be hard to find.
And then there’s me. The person who wasn’t invited to a social event for the first time in our friendship history.
The friend who works at a horror museum and has an easy-to-find online legacy of loving dark media.
The friend who doesn’t have a concrete alibi for that night.
The friend who drove out that night and punctured a tire with a crowbar, a blunt object that could also mimic injuries one sustains by falling down a ravine.
And just like that, my phone lights up once more.
UNKNOWN: You were there that night, weren’t you, Emma? I can help you too.
A bolt of pain hits me straight in the lungs, so intense I taste bile in the back of my throat.
Someone saw me that night.
Beck just told me they never recovered Paisley’s phone, and that it was last pinged in Kingston. The texter must have her phone, or else how would they have gotten that video? How would they know I was there that night?
I try to breathe, but I can’t.
The texter isn’t requesting anything from me—they’re blackmailing me.
All thoselucky Emmapeople will turn toEmma was always a freak. Emma was always going to kill someone. Loser Emma kills her friends like a modern Carrie.
I punctured their tire, but I didn’t kill them.
I didn’t die, either, though.
I put my fingertips to my throat and chest. My pulse is raging,panic coursing through me, clouding my senses. I force a slow breath to try to break out of it and think.
This is no longer just about justice for my friends. That voice note is a live grenade waiting to destroy my whole life. I can’t waste another second knowing it’s out there.
Plus, it’d be so simple. Beck and I drive out there, I meet with the texter, get the phone, delete the voice note, and then we can leave the investigation to the cops. I could get it done in a few minutes.
I grab my phone again, search for Beck’s profile, and DM her.
ME: the texter sent me a place to meet them in kingston. let’s go as soon as we can. theres no time to wait for the cops
I regret reaching out via social media the second I click send. She’s going to think I’m so weird for DMing her when I have her phone number.
But she replies immediately.
BECK: let’s leave friday
Eleven
As it turns out, the difficult part isn’t getting past our parents; it’s getting out of Los Angeles on a Friday. Beck’s excuse to our parents was actually pretty simple: We’re officially going to the Hornes’ vacation home in coastal California to unwind. It’s a house known for having terrible service, so us not communicating and not having our location shared is already accounted for and explained. So long as we’re back by Monday afternoon, no one will be any the wiser.
So, the week rushed by in a flurry of messages between Beck and me about our plans, from consolidating camping supplies to Beck finding the best portable chargers and sharing links for proper wilderness etiquette specific to Kingston National Park. Nothing about the ghosts or legends, which I wondered about but didn’t question aloud.
My phone was going off almost as much as when Paisley, Harlow, and Opal were alive.
But as quickly as the week had passed, time has slowed now that Beck and I sit in the same car together, knowing we won’t be leaving each other’s presence for a whole weekend.
Or, well,I’maware of it. Beck in the driver’s seat is singularly focused on escaping LA. Her eyes dart to every sign advertising Big Bear Lake while an oldies rock playlist, which feels more at home in my dad’s collection than hers, plays over her car’s very nice speakers. The mystery texter confirmed plans when I said we were arriving late Friday and wanted to meet the next morning but has otherwise been silent.
