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I stop and look up into the inky tree canopy. Pepper trots to my side and nudges my thigh, her form of consolation while we search. Dropping my chin to my chest, I scratch behind her ears. Then I level Ben with my gaze and voice my fears.
“But will we find her in time?”
Snow hits the forest floor with more frequency, wiping away any possibility of a trail. Scent trails still linger in the snowfall but fade with each new layer of flakes. Pepper won’t give up until I call her off the search. And with the heavy snow and lack of light fighting against us, we are likely to freeze or starve before picking up Kirsten’s scent again.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets and jaw set, Ben invades my personal space. “Don’t say shit like that.” He huffs, a thick cloud floating between us. “Don’t fuck up our chances with a defeatist attitude.” A step closer and we stand inches apart. “We will find her,” he proclaims. “Or I will without you.”
I nod and nod and nod, absorbing his confidence. “We’ll find her. She’ll be okay.”
“Damn right. Now let’s go.”
With a boost of conviction, I command Pepper to inhale Kirsten’s scent again and search for her. Pepper buries her nose in the sweater, inhales a few times, barks, and guides us deeper into the woods. Snow crunches beneath our boots as Pepper weaves us between the trees. While she leads, I let my mind drift.
Countless times, I have been in these woods. When I was a kid, before Dad turned the additional Emerson properties into rentals like the other Seven did, we came out here and camped two or three times a year. He and Mom brought us out here to get away from the gossip and internet. They wanted their children to not be sucked into digital misconceptions of the world.
We spent days hiking in these woods. Dad taught us how to navigate our way with a compass, marking our way, and by the stars at night, in case we got lost. Mom shocked us with her fire starting skills and ability to trap wildlife for food. My mom wasn’t unskilled in the kitchen, but I’d only ever seen her expertise in action when someone wanted to buy or sell property.
But those mini-vacations in the woods were years ago. Though not much has changed in the Bay Cliff Mountain range, my sense of direction out here isn’t what it once was. Distinct, curvy tree limbs and rotting trunks and moss-coated fallen trees I imprinted in my memory bear no resemblance to the snow-covered forest around us. The constellations I learned to navigate with are hidden behind clouds.
Every tool I have in my arsenal… useless. Close to a decade of not wandering these woods for hours and days on end has me aimless.
But I won’t give up, dammit. I can’t.
Pepper picks up the pace, her nose lowering an inch or two. A good sign.
“What is—” Ben’s stride stutters, then resumes its normal pace.
I glance at his profile to see his eyes narrowed and head forward, trying to make something out. Immediately, I follow his line of sight. My eyes widen as I lengthen my strides.
Maybe a hundred yards away, soft light filters through the trees. I aim the flashlight at the ground and mimic Ben’s reaction. The light isn’t much—a camping lamp, perhaps. It wouldn’t be odd for people to jump the property fence and camp on private land for free.
But this doesn’t feel like some drifter. This doesn’t feel like some adventurous cheapskate taking advantage of expansive, private property. Not in this weather.
Ben sidles up to me as we rush forward. Eager as I am to reach the source, to find my girl, we need to be smart. I call Pepper to my side and stop my trek toward what I pray is Kirsten.
“This needs to be flawless. If she’s there”—I point at the light—“we can’t fuck this up. One wrong move could mean life or death.”
He nods. “I agree.” With a slight bounce of his feet, he rubs his hands together, a wound-up ball of energy. “Tell me what to do.”
THIRTY-FOUR
KIRSTEN
Tugging on the heavy,metal door-slash-bookcase, I peek through the wider crack and search for any sign of movement. Goose bumps dance over my skin, a shiver rolling up my spine as frigid darkness meets my probing gaze. Hand on the wall, I exit the creepy, 60s-style house and tiptoe through the blackness.
My nose wrinkles after a few steps, an unavoidable blend of mildew and death in the air. Icy metal beneath my fingers and feet raises my tightly wound anxiety up a notch. I draw in a lungful of air and hold it, shuffling my feet faster while my hands explore the wall.
Loud crackling echoes in the space and I freeze. My eyes dart through the darkness, looking for something, anything. I flatten myself against the wall in an effort to make myself invisible. My lungs burn, begging for fresh air. Slowly, silently, I exhale the breath I’d been holding. Then, I breathe tiny, quiet sips of air.
The crackle grows louder, louder, louder. But it is no match against the deafening whoosh of my pulse in my ears.
“There she is.” A rough, cloaked voice breaks through the crackle, through my erratic pulse, and comes at me from every direction. “My pretty little whore.”
Oh god.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Instinctually, I knew whoever had been following me for months brought me to this place. Waking up cold and hurt in a prison disguised as an outdated home raised a thousand red flags. But hearing his garbled voice, hearing him call me a whore,his whore… it’s one merciless punch after another to the solar plexus. A reality I chose to ignore but knew, deep down, existed.
