Page 56 of Buried in the Woods Below

Goldenrod slaps at my legs. Brambles claw at my shins. I mark my route with mental snapshots—gnarled root here, split oak there—in case I need to find my way back. Then I hear it.

Eek.

Eek.

Eek.

The siren squeal draws me forward until I see it: The rusted carousel. The horses frozen mid-gallop, eyes rotted, jaws forever snarled. They stare at me, judging. As if they know every bad thing I’ve ever done and every worse thing I’ll do.

And just beyond it—the Ferris wheel.

I keep going, the noise pulling me like a tether. I push into the undergrowth, snapping branches like wishbones. Twigs whip at my face and cut my arms, but I don’t stop. I’m chasing a memory now.

I shove aside a curtain of birch, and there it is: the skeletal corpse of a Ferris wheel, early 1900s vintage. A crescent of rust and broken steel. But I can still see it: the ride in motion, slow and majestic. Men in suits and straw hats. Women in parasols and summer dresses. The air thick with popcorn and candied chestnuts.

And then—the girl falling.

The screaming.

The second the dream melted into a nightmare.

No wonder they shut the park down. A hundred years later, the grief still echoes. You can feel it humming beneath the dirt, like a buried heartbeat.

It’s trying to tell me something. Something about the island.

About Marjorie.

About the notes.

About Heathcliff.

About me.

But what?

Chapter 28

The sound of footsteps draws me from my thoughts. I freeze and listen for its source, searching for the sound between the squeaks of the carousel. Ahead to my right, from the bend in the dirt trail, moving toward me, just beneath the rustling of the trees, light and cautious, not wanting to be heard.

I catch a scent of tobacco. Russ Neuman? Eric said he was out fishing. Could he be back already? No, it’s not pipe smoke. It’s cigarette smoke.

I stiffen my spine and prepare to see his craggy visage turn the corner. But as I peer through the underbrush, instead of mud-stained jeans and untied construction boots, I see colorful Hokas and Patagonia hiking pants. My shoulders ease. It’s just another hiker.

Then a tree bends, and I glimpse his face.

It’s Vivek.

A white-filtered cigarette dangles from his long, thin fingers, and he inspects the foliage as he walks, oblivious to my presence. He moves like a wraith, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, floating rather than striding. I consider hiding behind the tree, but in my neon tank top, I stick out like a sore thumb. Plus, I’m tired of being afraid of him.

I stomp back along the makeshift path I created on the way in, steps heavy, so he knows I’m not hiding. He spots me, and a conceited smile crawls across his face, embroidered with a hint of fear. He runs his tanned fingers through his oily black hair and walks toward me, raising both hands in the air. A thin stream of smoke twists from his fingers. The birdsong drops to a murmur, as though they can sense the electricity in the air.

He takes a long drag, blows the smoke from his nose, and bows mockingly. “We meet again. Tell me, Charlotte, is this another one of your coincidences?” His voice is smooth and calming, like an enchanter.

I puff out my chest and cross my arms. “What are you doing here?”

He cashes his cigarette butt and snuffs it out with his shoe. “I was enjoying a peaceful stroll until I saw you.”

I search his eyes for deception, but they’re steady. “Well, don’t let me bother you. Keep strolling,” I say.