Page 88 of Wildwood

“I would do anything for Julian,” Joan says simply. She holds the gun in her right hand.

“But . . . but he’s evil. You said so yourself, the whole family is evil.” I’m casting about, trying to make sense of it.

“His family has been on that land for hundreds of years. They’ve done great things. We can’t risk you jeopardizing all that. Digging up things that happened centuries ago. I’m preserving what we built. What we’ve earned.”

“Was any of it real?” I think back to my conversations with Joan. My conversations with Madeline. Joan is touchy. Joan had a series of miscarriages.

She pauses. For a moment, she looks sorry, but her face hardens again. “No.”

“The miscarriages?”

“No.”

Anger flares up inside of me. My right hand clenches.

“Why were you helping me then?” I know it’s a stupid question and I should get there sooner, but my mind is swimming.

“There’s no proof without the bodies,” Joan says simply. “Your family knows where they are. We need to find them and finally be done with this.”

I think about the letter she’d allegedly found from Ezra to Julian.

“The letter from Ezra. It didn’t say ‘You have to come clean.’ It said, ‘We have to come clean,’ didn’t it?”

Joan nods. “I wasn’t sure what you would do if you knew your family was involved too,” she says.

“I would still have wanted to help!” I spit, shocked and devastated by this betrayal. Shocked and devastated, too, that she thought I’d try and cover up the history, like the Brooks did.

“Don’t be all high and mighty,” she says. “I don’t have the luxury of turning on them. Without them, I have nothing.”

“You have your firm; you don’t need them.”

She laughs. “What a silly, naive girl you are. Their money is behind everything. That’s how they always get what they want. Now tell me.”

“You’ll kill me anyway,” I say. If all this is to keep the secret safe, I can’t possibly be allowed to live.

Again, the tiniest flicker of sadness passes over her gray eyes. “I am sorry,” she says. “Now tell me.” The revolver moves an inch closer to my face.

“But I won’t tell anyone,” I begin to beg, grasping around the maze inside my head, trying to find the outlet. “My family is guilty too. The Bishops were in on it—”

“But you’re not really a Bishop, are you?” I’m momentarily stunned at how cutting her words are. Not because I care about the legacy or belonging. But because it was a sham, all of it with all of them.

My heart is leaping from my chest. It feels like there is not an ounce of air in the room anymore. The painted trees start to tremble and groan, stretch, and contract.

“It’s there,” I say, pointing to the floor beneath my dresser. “I think there’s another hidden compartment there. The nail rises there too.”

She keeps the revolver raised, eyes not leaving me. “Downstairs. We’ll get the hammer.”

“I’ve already got it,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen slightly in confusion and flicker down to my hands.

I let the hammer slide from where it’s been hidden in my right sleeve. The metal head passes over my palm, then the wooden handle. My fingers grasp it before it starts to fall to the floor.

I tighten my grip and then swing. The bone crunches as I shatter her kneecap. Her face snaps up to look at me, surprise registering before the pain. Then Joan drops the gun, and she collapses to the ground, howling in anguish.

The slow motion seems to snap off, and suddenly, I’m aware that I have to act and fast. I go to reach for the revolver but it’s too close to Joan. So, I run. I run through the bedroom door, leaving Joan on the floor of the room of painted trees. I run down the hall and when I cast one last look at The Forest of the Dead, I swear I see a branch reaching out toward Joan who is crawling toward the door, gun in hand, its branches like hungry claws. Then I’m down the stairs and out the front door.

It’s snowing. I’d forgotten about that. I make to run to the road, but from up on Cold Brook Drive, I see a set of headlights barreling down the driveway.