He raises the tablet. It’s hard to see the screen from here, but I catch a flash of color pulsing in a corner. Greer wavers, conflict clear in her eyes.Choose me, I want to say.Choose me, choose me. But evenas the words swell in my mind, she’s stepping toward the front porch, putting what feels like miles of distance between us.
“This’ll only take a few minutes,” she says. “Promise.”
Before I can argue, she’s bounding up the stairs, boots pounding heavily against the wood, and slipping through the open door. Connor gives me a stiff nod before following her inside.
Leaving me all alone.
I glance over at the windows, only to find all the club members watching the scene unfold. The moment they realize I’ve noticed, they go back to piling food on their plates, taking their seats at the table. Just like that, I’m back to being a reluctant television star, all my problems reduced to nothing more than other people’s entertainment. I need to get out of here. I turn and march into the woods. Greer made me wait months to talk to her, but she couldn’t make Connor wait the few minutes it would’ve taken to finish our conversation? Seriously? Pinecones lay scattered across the ground; I kick one as hard as I can. It cracks against the nearest tree trunk, bits exploding off like wooden shrapnel.
Slowly, I begin to calm down. I’ve only walked a few yards, but the lodge already feels far behind me. Do I really want to be out here, feeling sorry for myself, or back with the others? I can’t blame them for being curious; I would be, too, if the roles were reversed. At the end of this weekend, I’ll be forced to return to Oliante, where dinner with friends isn’t even an option. I should be enjoying myself while I have the chance.
It’s only then that I realize how dark it’s become. Driving up here took hours, and the pines have eradicated most of the remaining light. I reach into my pocket for my cell phone, then remember Connor confiscated it back at the airport. No flashlight. I’m about to hurry back when a noise—not a snap, but a rustle—passes on my left.I spin around and catch a flash of red, like the flames from the bonfire, before it disappears. I ease myself closer.
A fox’s pointy snout peeps out from behind the trees, and I immediately relax. It creeps out and stands in front of me, both of us refusing to so much as twitch a muscle. It’s like we’re held outside of time—the connection between us, as we look into each other’s eyes, trapping our feet to the ground. Then something else snaps behind me, the bonfire probably, and the fox unhinges its jaw and screams.
It’s the same sound a teenage girl might make as she’s being stabbed.
Memories surge through me—not mine, but my father’s. What I imagine my father’s memories look like. The rustling of garbage bags as they’re dragged through the mud. The rippling shimmer of headlights on the creek. The frigid water spilling into his boots as he steps deeper into the current.
I shake them out of my mind as the fox darts farther into the woods, out of sight. The connection’s broken; the moment’s lost. I take a step—
And notice the footprints on the ground.
At first, I think they must be mine, but then I realize there are two distinct sets. I follow the unfamiliar ones. They stop behind a thick trunk at the border of the backyard before fleeing back into the shadows.
“Nicola!”
My head shoots up. Imogen stands on the porch, scanning the woods. “Nicola, are you out there?”
I take one last look at the footprints. It must’ve been one of the club members—Imogen or Connor, maybe. Someone needed to gather all the kindling for the bonfire, right? Through the windowI see that the others are now focused on their meals, their conversations with one another. So why is the back of my neck prickling like someone’s still watching me?
“Nicola!”
I ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach and walk back to the lodge.
11NICOLA
IMOGEN USHERS MEinto the kitchen, where a farmhouse table, crafted from sturdy wood, stands in the center of the room, flanked by benches on either side. A black marble-top counter runs along the far end, copper pots and pans dangling from the ceiling rack. “All our dinner options are vegan and gluten-free,” she says, motioning to where serving platters of pesto pasta salad and hunks of sourdough bread have been spread out. Ros stands next to the food, prying the cork out of a bottle of wine.
Kemy and Hannah are seated at one end of the table—Kemy gesticulating with her butter knife, Hannah nodding along. At the other end sits Zach, somberly picking at his dish.
“Is he all right?” I ask.
“He probably needs some time alone.” Imogen reaches for the stack of plates. “Talking about his father must be difficult after what happened.”
“What happened?”
She fumbles, causing them all to clatter. “Sorry,” she says. “I assumed everyone knew. He was executed this year. Lethal injection.”
Executed. Is that why everyone was acting so strangely around him at the bonfire ceremony? I never would’ve guessed… But, ofcourse, it’s called the Death Row Club. Some of the members must have parents awaiting execution.
Ros sets the corkscrew on the counter and pours herself a glass. “It’s nothing to get upset about,” she reassures me. “Zach’s better off with him gone.”
“Ros,” Imogen chides, but Ros ignores her.
“His father made him look like a fool during the trial. Swore he wasn’t guilty and let Zach spend all their savings on the best lawyers money could buy. It wasn’t until after the sentencing hearing that he finally told the truth.” She picks up her dish with one hand, her wineglass with the other. “Maybe now he’ll finally be able to get his shit together, move on with his life.” And with that, she takes a seat next to Hannah.
“I wouldn’t recommend bringing it up,” Imogen says. “It’s a sensitive subject.”
