Page 72 of Wildwood

Topher walks toward me and pulls me into a long hug. He kisses the top of my forehead and lets his lips linger.

“I’m going to be okay,” I tell him. “It’s going to be just fine.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, when Topher is taking a power nap before heading off to the hospital, I sit at the kitchen table and flip open the manila folder. Eight-year-old me stares back at me. Chin-length hair, bangs, and a look of innocence.

I pick up the article and realize that there’s a second article beneath it. This one is from a different paper. I scan the article and much of the information is the same. A girl walked out of her room at night, following a woman with long, curling hair. But farther down, something new catches my eye, a familiar name. Alice Clark.

Alice Clark was questioned by police, at the request of Bishop, who claimed Clark had been found trespassing on his property in the past. However, after the interrogation, the police have removed Clark as a person of interest.

I chew the inside of my cheek. Alice had been trespassing on our property. Why? And what made the police dismiss her as a suspect? I think of how so much of my theory is tied up in what Alice had said about the Brooks trying to buy the property, and my uncle hating the Brooks. But why am I trusting Alice?

I realize, suddenly, that I have no idea how the case concluded. I have no idea what final determination my family and the police made on what happened that night. I know it was Lydia who led me out into the night, though I’m not sure why. But what was the final narrative to everyone else? Was I kidnapped and let go? Or did I sleepwalk and then fabricate a tale, like one of the nursery rhymes my mother used to tell? Or did I sleepwalk and then my mother created the fairy tale, as a way to trick the young mind into forgetting that it actually happened? Did she plan for the nursery rhyme to turn fact into fiction, in a little girl’s memory?

I flip the article, scanning the back quickly before putting it back in the manila folder. There’s a picture on the back. It shows the same scene as the other newspaper, though it’s taken from a slightly different angle. It shows a few more people standing around the driveway, who were cut off in the other photo. It’s not clear if they were helping or rubbernecking. But my eye stops on one person in the crowd. A beautiful young woman, with long red hair and striking eyes. A younger Madeline Brook.

As I slide the articles back into the folder, something clicks in my brain. When I’d banged on her door, only a few days ago, and showed her the article. I wasn’t even there when it happened, she’d said. I was living in New York.

I smile to myself, as a shiver runs up my spine. Liar, I think.

Chapter 64

When I come downstairs the next morning, I feel like I’ve just recovered from a bad hangover. And it’s as though I’m doing the walk of shame through my own house. I don’t want to make eye contact with myself in the mirror. I slink into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee and make myself some eggs, toast, and sliced-up avocado. I need something to make me feel civilized. The lump on my head throbs and I’m worried it will cause a full-blown migraine. The Chaga had been helping. At least, I think it was. I hadn’t noticed the headaches as much since I started drinking it. Yesterday, Topher tossed the remains into the trash and took it out to the dumpster. I contemplated fishing it out. But if he caught me, that would be it. We’d be out within the day.

I eat at the kitchen table, staring at the black bricks of the fireplace. The worn wood of the kitchen table. A draft rattles the windows. Outside, the sky is gray again. It feels heavy and pregnant, like I do. Something is going to come down. It’s only a matter of time.

I need to decide whether or not to file a police report. Part of me thinks I should, to stand by my story, and hopefully look saner in doing so. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t, to acknowledge it sounds crazy, and hopefully look saner in doing so.

Detective Anderson’s folder still sits at the kitchen table. I open it up and look again at the articles. At the pictures of the lost little girl. At the picture of Madeline standing in the corner. Her face shows concern, her eyebrows furrowed, one hand drawn delicately over her mouth. The perfect pose for the good neighbor, worried about the little girl across the street. I think of my grandmother’s letter. The look of fury on my grandmother’s face when I told her the story of what happened in the woods. A woman with long curling hair told me to follow her into the woods.

Before going to sleep last night, I had an unexpected surprise. A Facebook notification. Anna Reese has accepted your friend request. I’ve been so preoccupied I had forgotten all about Anna. Instantly, heart racing, I’d sent her a message.

Hey Anna, I don’t know if I have the right

person, but this is Elinor Lin, your cousin?

When I woke up this morning, she’d responded.

Elinor! Wow! Yes, it’s Anna.

We sent a few chat messages back and forth, my heart pounding in my chest the entire time. I forced myself to ask a few pleasantries. She’s been in Switzerland since she was fourteen. She’s married with a six-year-old daughter. Tom is back in the States, working in California. I told her I’m living in Wildwood. There was a pause.

How is it? she finally asked.

I typed the response before I could stop myself. Pretty fucking weird TBH

She laughed out loud, sent a nodding emoji.

Finally, holding my breathing, I asked it.

I know this sounds crazy, but something happened to me at Wildwood as a kid. I went missing for a night in the woods. Do you remember this?

Three bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared then disappeared.

Yes.

I hate to put you in a weird position, after all these years. But do you by any chance know what the adults thought happened?