Page 61 of Wildwood

Think logically, I tell myself. There are still untapped sources of information. You just have to keep digging.

The house groans, and I shiver as a blast of cold wind hits the single-pane window. The glass rattles and I notice a large crack in the glass in the corner. I wonder why Ezra didn’t fix it. He was a tidy person, but it seems like at some point, he just stopped maintaining the house. There has to be something else I can learn from him. Then I think of the key. I think of the desk in the library. There’s something I’ve missed. I know it.

I walk to the library, Hugo following me, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. I crouch at Ezra’s desk and open both drawers. I rifle through. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing new. I sigh, frustrated. Then I sit on the large chair and pull open the slim drawer, right above my thighs. It’s full of neatly organized pens, staples, paper clips, and stamps. I’m about to close it when I notice something. The drawer seems artificially shallow, like it should pull out more than it does for the width of the desk. I lean over, so I am eye level with the drawer. It’s hard to see anything, so I reach my hand back. And then I feel it. A small metal circle with an indent in the middle. A keyhole.

I sprint upstairs. The key ring is where I last left it, wrapped in a black silk nightie in the top drawer of my dresser. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice somehow for the first time that my hair has developed soft curls. I remember my mother telling me how pregnancy had changed her hair, how her once pencil-straight hair became full bodied while she carried me. Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed this change. But, as I take a trepidatious step toward the mirror, and see my wild eyes against the backdrop of the painted trees, I can’t help but see the woman in my dreams, even though I’ve never seen her face. A little thrill of panic tightens in my chest, and so I turn around and head back downstairs, burying the notion.

I crouch down by the desk and feel my heart thudding. This is it. This has to be it. I shine my phone flashlight into the drawer and can make out the keyhole. It’s a little tricky getting the key in, but finally, it turns, and I can hear the thud as the lock shifts. I smile and half laugh out loud. There’s a small ring next to the keyhole and I pull it. A second, hidden drawer slides forward.

There are just two items in the drawer. An envelope. And another key. It looks even older, and heavier, and more rusted than the first. I feel a flash of irritation. I’ve solved one mysterious key only to discover a second one. But then my eyes take in the handwriting on the envelope. I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s sweet and girlish. It’s Mathilde’s.

I pull it out, hands nearly trembling. Inside the envelope are two pieces of paper. The first is a letter that has lost its stiffness, either from time or from being handled so often. Perhaps both. It’s dated June 28, 2004.

Ezra,

Writing this letter is one of the most painful things I’ve done, but I’ve reached a difficult decision. Kate and Elinor will never come to Wildwood again. How can we after what’s happened? The high and mighty of Newfield need to admit what they’ve done. Even if you don’t believe me about what happened to Elinor, you said so yourself, the Brooks are trying to intimidate us. They want Wildwood. They’ve always wanted Wildwood. Then their secret is safe. I don’t know why you haven’t confronted them already. You are a coward and have put our family in jeopardy. Until then, I’ll have nothing more to do with this godforsaken place.

Mathilde

I sit a moment, staring at the paper, as if staring at it longer will make more words magically appear. What happened to Elinor. There’s a strange, uncomfortable stirring in my gut. Like when you know you did something embarrassing at a party but can’t remember what. Times a million. Something happened to me? Something connected to all this?

I feel a flash of anger toward my grandmother. This letter, while proving something happened here and that the Brooks are involved, is still so cryptic and vague. Why didn’t she just say what the hell happened here??

I unfold the second piece of paper. The handwriting is different. It’s not Mathilde’s, but Ezra’s. I recognize his scrawl though this text is written more aggressively, in capital letters, and underlined. It’s angry writing.

IT’S NOT SO DAMN EASY, MATHILDE. WITHOUT THE BODIES, THERE IS NO PROOF!!

I’m staring at the letters, like I’m holding twin grenades, one in each hand. I realize there’s a reason Mathilde’s letter feels so worn. It’s full of a thousand wrinkles. The kind made from crumpling a piece of paper in anger and then trying to smooth it flat.

Uncle Ezra was angry when he read it. Did he ever send her a reply? Or had he started a response but never finished it?

I probably won’t ever know that, but I’ve learned something even more important. WITHOUT THE BODIES, THERE IS NO PROOF. I was right. Someone died here unjustly. And not just one person. I picture the four unmarked graves. Why did they do this to you? Why did the Brooks do this to you? And what does it have to do with me?

Chapter 53

I’ve been wondering recently how I’d look to an outsider during my dinner routine. I cook my meal alone, pausing occasionally to give Hugo scraps of various ingredients. And then I portion out two plates. One plate sits on the counter to cool, and I’ll later pack it up for Topher to have for lunch tomorrow. I then take my plate and sit at the kitchen table and eat alone. I try to imagine what my silhouette looks like in the window. It’s funny, I should, by all accounts, eat like a slob. Elbows on the table, one foot tucked under my bum, scanning my phone as I shovel food down my gullet. That’s more or less how I’d eat back in Cambridge, on the nights Topher wasn’t home for dinner. But for some reason, I don’t do that now. I feel as if I’m performing for someone. And so, I hold my utensils properly, sit with both feet on the floor, and I make small talk with Hugo. Sometimes, I look down at Hugo, almost conspiratorially, and want to say, Do you think we’ve fooled them? As though we’ve tricked whoever might be watching into believing I’m capable and grown up, and I’m not home alone and I’m not afraid.

Tonight, I’ve made pasta Bolognese. The baby’s craving red meat. I have two servings, feeling oddly voracious. I almost feel like an athlete fueling up for a big game, or a marine prepping for combat. Hugo’s patiently watched me, salivating hard, so I put a meatball on a plate for him. He devours it in almost one bite. My belly is getting substantial, and I need to hoist myself up from the table to bring our dishes to the sink.

After dinner, like always, I open up the back door and let Hugo out to do his business one last time. The sky is practically black already, thanks to daylight savings time, and there’s a chill in the air.

Usually, Hugo bounds away, does a few laps and then his business, and he’s back within five minutes, while I stand watch in the back doorway. Tonight, he’s taking longer. I stand for a while behind the old screen door, peering out into the field, everything obscured by the dual veils of darkness and mesh.

“Hugo!” I call. “Come here, boy!”

I wait a few minutes longer and then, slightly annoyed, speed walk to the mudroom to get my shoes. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going and catch my big toe on something raised and sharp. The fucking nail again.

I let out an animalistic scream. There’s a warm sensation on my toe and I look down to see a tiny pool of red gathering on the floor. I grab a tissue and quickly wrap it around my toe and hobble into the mudroom, and carefully slide my feet into a pair of slippers.

The screen door slams shut behind me and from the deck I can hear Hugo barking and just barely see his shape by the edge of the woods toward the right of the property, on the side that eventually leads to Alice. He’s jumping and howling and pacing back and forth. I slowly make my way across the meadow, cursing the stupid dog for making me come out, pregnant, with my toe throbbing. He must have seen a skunk or a deer.

I’ve just about reached him, and he glances back, teeth bared, and he gives a low, guttural growl. And then, before I can take another step, he takes off into the trees. Shit. Hugo never goes into the woods alone. He rarely even goes in with me. I can hear him crashing through branches and over dry leaves, his bark echoing in the trees.

I call his name over and over, screaming at him to come back. The noise grows distant and I’m about to follow him but realize I don’t have a source of light.

I limp back to the house, as quickly as I can, and grab a flashlight from the mudroom. By the time I get back outside, I cannot hear Hugo. I know he went into the woods, but I know it’s not smart for me to go there alone at night. I’m less familiar with this side. When I walk in the woods, I always go on the other side, where the old foundation is. I go out onto the road and begin to make my way toward Alice’s house.

“Hugo!! Hugo!! Come here, boy!” My flashlight creates jumping beams of pale light on the road and in the woods. My pulse is beginning to quicken. Hugo’s never done this before. He’s so loyal, he rarely leaves my side and when he does, he circles back within minutes. What if he gets attacked by an animal? Was it a bear he sensed? Does he even know how to get back? After cursing him, I begin to curse myself for not going straight into the woods after him. There was still some light.