Page 69 of Wildwood

Hi Elinor, it’s Joan. How are you feeling?

I’d almost forgotten I’d given her my number.

Okay. Thx again for helping me. I’m going to go for a walk.

I head outside, pulling a knitted winter hat on my head, and start walking up and down the road, calling for Hugo. I know it’s futile. But I will go crazy if I sit in the house all day. Joan comes down the road to join me.

“Any luck?” she asks, her breath fogging the air in front of her. It feels like it might snow soon. The air is cold and heavy, the clouds dark and ominous above.

“No,” I shake my head. “Thank you again for helping me yesterday.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes on the ground as we walk.

“I’m not going to find him, am I?” I ask, my voice beginning to quake.

Joan falters. “I mean, it’s possible he’s still out there.” She gives me a small smile, but her eyes tell me not to hope. It feels like we are having two conversations. One with our words, where she’s telling me all the right things. One with our eyes, where she is telling me the truth. And not just about Hugo. I feel her wanting to talk to me. But I don’t know how to break down the barrier. The last thing I want is to scare her off, now that she’s only just warming to me.

“What’s that?” she asks. We’ve turned around and are heading back in the direction of my house.

I look up and see a police car parked in our driveway. The full details of last night suddenly come flooding back to me. I remember the call to the police I’d made, late last night. When I was still in the throes of what had happened, when my body was still buzzing with adrenaline. The long, rambling monologue I’d given to the police.

“It was a recording,” I’d shouted. “The Brooks murdered my dog. Their family is hiding something. They’ve murdered people. They executed a witch!” I’d said it all. It had all come pouring out. Months of anxiety and nightmares and fear and confusion. And then the loss of Hugo. It broke me.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Did you call the police?” Joan asks, her voice tense.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, and I run as best I can to my house.

What have I done?

Chapter 63

When I open the door, I know it’s already too late. Topher and a man, who must be the police officer, though he looks to be in his seventies and is wearing plain clothes, are sitting at the kitchen table. They stand when I walk in. The officer’s face is grave. To anyone but me, Topher’s face is composed, even placid. But I can see the twitch of his jaw muscle. The coldness in his eyes. He’s angry.

“Elinor, this is Detective Anderson,” Topher says, his voice even.

“Hello, Elinor,” Detective Anderson says, nodding his head, crinkling his eyes slightly in a way that says, “I’m sorry to be doing this.”

“Detective Anderson told me about the call you made to the police last night.”

I don’t know how to play this.

“And?” I ask.

“There’s not a whole lot to go on,” says Anderson. “If you want to come down to the station and make an official statement, you are welcome to.”

“Okay. And will you investigate it?”

“We’ll review the report, and, pending the review, we’d then reach out to interview you.”

I avoid Topher’s eyes, though I feel them boring into me. “Okay, I will.”

“Thank you, Elinor. I’ll be going,” says Anderson. He holds Topher’s gaze a moment, before walking toward the parlor.

Topher and I follow him to the door in a solemn processional.

“Thank you, Detective,” Topher says, shaking his hand. “I appreciate you making the house call.”