Page 18 of The Woods

Cleo: The house where the murders happened?

Michelle: Yeah. That one. We used to talk over Zoom once a week when she was in Scotland. Then when she first moved back, we went for dinner a few times. After that, though, she just kinda checked out. She’d respond to my texts but only to say she was too busy to talk or see me. She kept saying that she had a lot going on.

Cleo: What did you think was going on with her? Were you worried?

Michelle: She told me what was going on. She’d learned about her husband’s affair. He said it was over but it killed the trust and made her feel really bad about herself. She also broke down to me at dinner one time saying she was really struggling with menopause. Brain fog, irritability, weight gain, that kind of thing. So, I knew she was having a rough time. Also that she was choosing to focus on rebuilding her marriage and spending more time with her family. I thought that after she got through it, one way or another, we’d see each other again and things would go back to normal. I never doubted that our friendship would survive that rough patch.

Cleo: When Justine talked to you about the affair, did she express anger or resentment for what her husband had done?

Michelle: She was more hurt than angry, and very sad. She said she thought they could work through it. I think she blamed herself when she should have been blaming him. Anyway, she talked about it as if it was a wake-up call or something like that. She saw an opportunity for a fresh start.

Cleo: Did Justine ever talk to you about the new house? Whether she was happy there or if anything was strange about it?

Michelle: The last time we had dinner together was only a couple of months after they’d moved. She seemed pretty happy about moving there. She said she loved the peace and quiet and was really pleased with their renovations. [short pause] There was one thing though. She said that the woods around the house were beautiful, but they gave her the creeps. She felt like something was always watching her. We laughed about it. I called her a scaredy-cat. That was the last time I saw her in person. The next time was on the news.

Cleo: Have you had any contact with Justine since the murders?

Michelle: No.

Cleo: Tell us, Michelle, was there ever anything about Justine that led you to believe that she could do something like this?

Michelle: Absolutely not. I still can’t believe it really happened. Justine wouldn’t even kill a spider back when we lived together in college. She’d literally pick up the spider and put it outside rather than kill it. She was never violent or aggressive. Smart, high-strung, a little anxious sometimes. None of it makes any sense. Not her confession or her delusions. When I heard that she confessed, I’ve never been so shocked in my life.

Polly stops the podcast. She knows exactly what Justine Gordon was talking about: that feeling that someone is watching from the woods. She has that feeling, too, every time she’s outside. She doesn’t like having so much in common with a murderer.

Too close to home? Her sister’s voice pops into her head.

“Way too close to home,” Polly whispers into the dark room. Then she taps on Instagram, hoping to get the woods, and the podcast, out of her head.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2023

Geoff

A thud against the door wakes him. Or at least he thinks it did. There’s only silence now, so maybe he dreamt it? A thick block of pain pulses behind his eyes and his stomach churns ever so slightly. Something stinks. Ah, the magical effects of drinking both wine and bourbon. He sees the gray light of dawn outside his writing-studio window; that means he spent the night on his couch and Alice is going to be pissed. He saw her watching his wine intake at dinner. He noticed the raised eyebrow when he said he wanted to do some more writing, so he’d promised he’d be back in the house before bed.

Instead he poured himself a double bourbon and scrolled through porn websites until he found something he liked. He’s discerning when it comes to his pornography; all female participants must clearly be older than his daughter and he wants to see pubic hair, minimal tattoos, real boobs, and a believable storyline. The requirements of an old man. He knows it. He just can’t get into it otherwise.

He doesn’t necessarily have a penchant for porn. He just needs to come now and again. He and Alice haven’t had sex since before Lucy died, over a year and a half now. Even when life was good, they’d gotten complacent about sex, letting weeks, sometimes months, go by. Then they’d go to a party, have a few drinks, and end up in bed, breaking the dry spell. Geoff would have liked some more frequency but he knew couples who’d stopped having sex altogether after kids arrived, so who was he to complain?

When Lucy died, they had been in a dry spell, one that persisted through the grief and the effort of trying to make it through each day. It’s been so long now that Geoff has no idea how to even broach the topic. Will Alice think he’s insensitive for wanting it? He has no idea. That’s why, like so many things in their lives, he’s leaving it up to her. In the meantime, he’ll sneak away and jerk off.

Hence, a double bourbon, a video that fit the bill, and a quick release. Then another bourbon to wash away his shame and boat-fail videos until he passed out on the couch.

Something smells bad, like skunk. He sits up slowly, feeling fragile all over, and picks up his phone. Before tapping on it he catches his reflection in its surface, hair a wild mess, eyes puffy and bloodshot, a sheen of sweat on his face. The epitome of a fifty-two-year-old drunk pervert.

It’s 5:05 a.m. Thinking he might sneak inside for a coffee and a shower in the kids’ bathroom so that he can at least try to appear fresh when Alice wakes up, he pushes himself off the couch. The skunk smell grows as he reaches the door. Pulling it open, the smell slaps him like an ungloved hand. His eyes water and sour bile rises up his throat.

Coughing, he stumbles back when he realizes the damn thing is right there on the bottom step. He sees mostly red, like it’s been skinned. Only a hint of black-and-white fur is visible. Gingerly, he steps over it and onto the lawn, a hand across his mouth and nose to stifle his gag reflex. Obviously he can’t leave it here; the dog might get at it and the kids will see it. He heads to the garden shed at the side of the house for the shovel. The heavy dew on the lawn coats his bare feet in his Birkenstocks and soaks the hem of his jeans, which makes the whole experience even worse. Shovel in hand, he goes back to his studio. The birds are up and chirping loudly now, a symphony of early-morning zest and cheerfulness that penetrates his eggshell-soft skull like a power drill.

He eases the shovel under the limp body of the skunk and lifts it off the step. That’s when he notices. The sides of the skunk’s gut are two flaps that have fallen open, revealing the internal cavity. The guts are gone.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

Geoff looks around the yard and into the trees. He gets the unsettling sense that something is looking right back at him. Still tightly gripping the handle of the shovel, he forces himself toward the woods. He wants this to be over. Flicking the disemboweled carcass off the shovel and into a bed of leaves, he doesn’t even make it out of the trees before he feels a sour belch rising and a torrent of vomit pours from him. Bending down, he paints the forest floor with last night’s dinner, his double bourbons, and his shame.

Quinn

He has a gaming hangover. His thumbs ache, his eyes burn, and he’s exhausted. He stayed up until 3:30 a.m. playing Fortnite with his friends from the city, and then some random people he met online. “A bunch of predators,” his mom calls them. It was the only way to keep his mind off his shitty first day of school and the fact that he has to go back today and every day for the rest of the school year. He doesn’t know who he hates more right now, his mom or Max Sheffield.