“Yeah, by accident. The police found thirty-four other women buried on our property. Didn’t do fuck all for them, did I?”
“You didn’t know—”
“No, and I’m never going to make that mistake again. I’ve heard you’re the local expert on these murders. I’ve tried consulting with the police, but between you and me, they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. I think you do, though. And I think that if we worked together, pooled our information, we could get further than they ever did.”
She shifted on the bench so we were staring at each other dead-on. Her eyes were the same color as the silt my dad and I burrowed through in the summers to find crayfish. We’d dab nail polish on their backs before setting them free, so that if we ever found them again, we’d know that they were ours.
“Don’t you want to know the truth, Nic?”
Now, in the backyard, we all gawk at the classic car parked in the driveway. The driver’s worn-out boots settle on the dirt. I know those boots, those frayed laces. Greer Woods steps out into the clearing. Her black curls are tied back into a ponytail that’s too short; half the strands have fallen loose and are spiraling around her face. She’s effortlessly cool—like a cigarette ad from the nineties. Effortlessly cool and looking for all the world like something that’s bound to be bad for you.
Her gaze sweeps the backyard until it finds mine, and the rest of the clearing melts away, washed into a mist of greens and blues and whites. My mind starts sprinting in circles:Say something. Keep quiet. Walk over to her. Stay where you are. The longer we stare at each other, the faster my heart wallops against my ribs.
A crunch redirects our attention to the car that’s started rolling backward down the road. “Shit!” Greer dashes to the car, wrenches the door open, and catapults herself across the seat to shift gears. “Sorry,” she says, clambering out again. “The hand brake just pops off on its own sometimes. Need to shift it into first.” She rests her forearm against the roof. “So, what’s happening?”
“We’re wrapping up the bonfire ceremony.”
Imogen’s words sound pinched.
“That new?” Greer nods at the stick.
“It’s a talking stick.”
Greer leans toward her and whispers, “And what does it tell you?”
“What?”
“The talking stick. What does it tell you? Because if it’s telling you to kill people, you might want to chuck it back into the woods. We’re genetically predisposed to shit like that.”
Imogen summons her better nature and offers Greer the talking stick. “We were just about to hear from Nicola, but if you want to contribute…”
Greer’s eyes find mine again; my pulse jumps in my throat, like a bowling ball skidding into the gutter. She seems on the brink of saying something, but instead, she reaches into her car and opens the glove box. She removes a slip of paper and tosses it into the bonfire.
What was on that paper?I want to ask her.What is the famous Greer Woods so eager to leave behind—other than me?
“Nicola?”
Imogen holds out the talking stick, which seems ridiculous now, thanks to Greer. I take it anyway.
“Well,” I start, trying to think of something they don’t already know. “I never helped my dad murder anyone, despite what you may have seen on TV.”
Greer’s gaze drops to her combat boots. Her shoulders draw up, the collar of her jacket brushing her ears. She looks ashamed. Good.
“I always assumed that, if things went bad, there were certain people I could count on. When my dad had a stroke a few years ago, they dropped off tinfoil-wrapped casseroles, so we wouldn’t have to cook. They drove him to physical therapy when we had parent-teacher conferences, and stopped by to help with chores. I thought that meant they were with me for the long haul, but afterTo Catch a Killerpremiered, no one would take my calls. No, wait—that’s not entirely true. There were people who’d take my calls, but only because they wanted to record them and sell them to the press. I don’t know who to trust anymore, so I don’t trust anyone. I can’t even begin to tell you how lonely it gets. There’s no one I can call, no one I can visit. And I just…”
My words falter because even surrounded by this group, the next part’s still unspeakable:I just want my daddy.
My gaze tips toward the treetops, the milky white sky, as I try to blink back my tears. “I’m really glad to be here right now. With all of you.”
Something warm encircles my hand. I look down to find Zach’s palm pressed against mine, our fingers linked together. So much for blinking back those tears.
“Is there anything else you want to put into the space?” Imogen asks.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Then throw in your paper.”
Heat needles my skin as I draw closer. Greer fiddles with the zipper on her jacket, clicking it up and down the track. Is she wondering what’s written on my paper? My outstretched fist falters above the bonfire. Ishould’vewritten down her name; more than anything, I wish I could burn away all the feelings she dredges up in me.
