“Yeah,” I say as I stretch my back. “It’s pretty easy after you practice it enough.”
With my dad and brother, our tent was sturdy and kept us warm and had mesh that allowed me to look up at the stars at night.
With Beck, I rub my thumb and index finger over the fabric, my stomach hard as I think how easy it’d be to cut through it. I look around the campsite and spot every break in the trees that stretches on into oblivion. I wouldn’t be able to see if someone were lurking in the shadows sharpening an ax. The couple hundred yards to the car feel too long.
And it’s still light out. I can’t imagine how wigged out I’ll be come nightfall.
“We need to pick a part of town to start asking around,” I say as I take a seat on one of the logs we bought.
“Where ya thinking?” Beck replies as she secures our food up to a bear-safe level in the trees.
“So the texter said to talk about the witch.” I seek out her eye contact. “Does this town have any witchy or goth stores? Someone who might be more receptive to it even in a tourism way?”
Beck fishes her phone out of her short pocket and scowls. “I wouldgoogle it if I could.”
I look at my own phone. No service either.
I rub my hands together. “But yeah, that feels like a good direction. If that doesn’t exist, we could always go to places around the national park. Proximity to the crime and all.”
Beck gives an extra tug, making the tree rattle. Birds fly out of the green, cawing as they flap away. A pang hits me, and suddenly I’m wishing I could do the same.
“Works for me. The sun’s too direct here anyway,” Beck says, looking around our area. It seems like the other campsites aren’t occupied yet. “Wouldn’t mind walking those shaded streets in town.”
Paisley would’ve wanted to go into town too. My throat itches at the realization. She did go into town, and I need to keep an eye out for her phone as we investigate, just in case the texter doesn’t actually have it or ditched it at the very least.
We reapply sunscreen, lock our valuables in the car, and head off to town in our sneakers. Beyond the campsite, the two nearest buildings are a general store and the motel. In the sunlight, the motel isn’t as scary, but the best place to find the people running in and out of the woods would probably be the general store. Still, we start with a walk through the rest of Main Street. There are more people out today walking into shops, trailing big dogs behind them, and reading the newspaper at outdoor tables at mom-and-pop coffee shops and bakeries. It’s a lot of middle-aged couples, mostly white people with some Latinx folks. Every other person wears a baseball cap or cargo shorts, gives stiff smiles if we accidentally make eye contact, and greets other community members good morning. It all feels so quintessentially small-town.
But among all that whiteness and small business politeness, there’s nothing even resembling a witch store. In fact, based on the number ofhand-stitched crosses and LIFE’SGOOD!signs in random storefronts, I think a store like that might make someone have a conniption here.
So, nursing exceptionally delicious iced coffees, we settle for the general store to start asking around.
“We should have a signal for if things get creepy,” I say as we approach the store.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Beck says and taps her forehead twice. She fishes out her pocketknife. “I know I’m the one who pushed you to come out here, but it’s kind of blowing my mind that we might find a murderer somewhere in this town.”
I exhale. Now that we’re really here, I’m not so sure whether I want to find them. “Well, we’re doing it for Opal, Harlow, and Paisley.”
I know my script. Do some small talk, ask about the witch, and field their reactions.
I take a strong pull off my coffee and push the door open. Fan air hits us, a little stale and not quite cold enough for the temperature outside.
One step inside and we’re greeted by the smell of dust and a country song. American and California flags crowd in display cases by the register, turnstiles full of postcards and key chains with names. Footsteps sound from beyond the buzzing fridge and souvenir aisles. One old brown man with his black hair tied up in a ponytail reaching down his back stands behind the register as a heavyset white man in an American flag shirt pays for a pack of cigarettes. A gaggle of teenage girls convene around the baked goods display, giggling and grabbing and putting items back in at random.
“Don’t worry, Em,” Beck says. “Watch me and repeat.”
I hang back as Beck strides into the fray at the dessert case. And she doesn’t even have to say anything. The girls all turn around as soonas she’s within a few feet of them, as if she has some strong smell. Two of the three girls move aside, opening a gap to get to the baked goods.
I don’t think Beck even notices. She just says, “Hey,” in that tone that usually has my stomach swooping. She lingers on one girl in a flowy black floral dress. “I like your dress. Did you make it?”
There’s something about the way Beck flirts that makes it not even matter these girls may not be queer. You could be anyone and be mesmerized by receiving her attention.
“No,” she says. The girl in the dress looks away as her friends size up Beck. “It’s from Etsy.”
“It’s witchy.”
The girl runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”
Her friends giggle around her. A middle-aged white woman towing an eight- or nine-year-old child sifts through dried goods beside me. The child watches Beck and the girls with yearning in her eyes, but it’s probably for the donuts.
