I exchange a look with Beck. She has her arms crossed, her body language stiff. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Moments ago, we thought we had our killer. Her sister’s killer. And now we’re standing in front of a sobbing girl a year older than us beggingusfor mercy.
Beck suddenly doesn’t look very willing to give it.
“We’re taking the phone,” Beck says, her voice grave. “If you don’t have anything else to say about what happened, leave us the fuck alone. Go deal with your missing friend.” Beck steps closer to Ivy, standing tall, looming over her. “And stop creeping around our campsite at night. We can’t help you.”
Ivy’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about? I didn’t stop by your campsite last night.”
Those brief moments when it felt like Beck and I had the upper hand fly away like a stray gust of wind hitting a piece of paper. My head begins to pound. No, of course not. Of course this case couldn’t be coming together finally.
Beck produces the button, shoving it in Ivy’s face before throwing it onto the ground. “You’re really gonna deny it when we have this right here?”
Beck clenches her fist. Ivy tenses as if waiting for a blow.
“They sell that jacket at the visitors’ center gift shop. Please, I’m just like you two. I’m just looking for someone I care about.”
I believe her. I have no idea why—maybe her tone, maybe her body language?—but I do.
Beck doesn’t move her fist, but some of the molten anger leaves her eyes as she feels what I must be feeling watching Ivy.
Finally, she loosens her grip.
“You’re looking for a stranger because you’re lonely,” Beck spits. “I’m looking for my fucking sister. We’re not the same.”
Beck looks to the van, her nostrils flaring.
She yanks the driver’s side door open, the sudden movement nearly shooting my heart out through my throat.
But all she does is grab a notepad on Ivy’s dash, write her name, a cash app handle, and phone number in it, and hand it to Ivy. “I’ll pay for your window,” Beck mutters before grabbing my arm and walking off.
Ivy stares at us, dumbfounded. I can only hope we’ll both find some closure in this horrible little town.
Twenty-One
Beck and I settle into our seats around the fire ring again. The sun beats down, bleary and strong. The shadows of the trees create pockets that feel twenty, thirty degrees colder. My face stings from sun exposure and my legs are numb under the shade. I doubt there’s any real way to be comfortable.
I keep thinking about Ivy, about the way Beck spoke to her.
So that’s what Beck looks like angry.
I’d only ever heard about Beck’s fights over the last eight months. But now, I can see it clear as day. I know what her face looks like contorted in rage, I know how her voice lowers, I know how her muscles tense before delivering a blow to someone. I was so close to seeing what her bare skin looks like with blood on it.
What would Beck do to me if she knew I came here that night and didn’t tell her? Sure, someone else attacked them, but I’m the one who kept them from being able to escape.
“So what’s on the phone?” Beck asks.
I sigh. “Let’s find out.”
I pull my portable charger out of my backpack and wait the agonizing handful of seconds until the phone comes back to life after its eight-month sleep.
My stomach twists, knotting harder and harder as I make the slow walk through Harlow’s passcode (I figured it out years ago; it’s her dog’s birthday) into her photo app. She’s got all kinds of pictures from that night, the three of them making faces in the car driving up, images captured of their lopsided blue-and-yellow tent and their tiny fire and partying with the college kids. Harlow takes a bunch of pictures of some guy, including one where they’re kissing. A bunch of Opal grinning wide as she dances around the fire.
But around one a.m., the photos stop.
I try one more place.
Harlow’s group chats.
To the group chat titledFOREST THINGS.
