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Shame is a hot flame that starts in my center and flushes up my neck bringing heat to my scar and tears to my eyes.
“I found you,” he says, gripping my hand. “I brought you home. You’re here, Maddie. Yousurvivedhim.”
I look into the tar black of his eyes. “You saved my life.”
The swing creaks beneath our weight as he pushes it slowly back and forth, his heavy boots on the wooden slats.
He casts his eyes away. “I should have been there sooner.”
“I shouldn’t have been there at all. You tried to stop me.”
He shakes his head, sits up. “Can’t go back. Can’t undo the things we did. It’s ancient history.”
“What if it’s not?”
I tell him what I learned from Harley Granger. He takes the information in silence. I don’t tell him about the gifts, even as I hide the music box in the big pocket of my hoodie, touching its edges like a worry stone. It’s my secret; I cling to it, selfish, childish.
“So what are you telling me?” he asks when I’m done.
“Maybe my dad was right. There was someone else there that night.”
A frown creases his brow. “Who? You were always so sure that it was just him.”
“Maybe I needed to believe that.”
“And now?”
“And now I need to know the truth. I’m going to help Harley Granger. I’m going to tell him what I remember. All of it.”
With the new information about the other missing women, the fact that I’ve kept the Christmas gifts a secret all these years—ten years—seems like a horrible mistake. Is it evidence that may have proved my father was right? If I told him, would it have given the police a new lead, led them to Ainsley and Sam, prevented other women from being harmed?
“What is it?”
I almost tell him. If I can share this secret with anyone, it’s Badger.
“Nothing.”
“Maddie.”
“Will you help me?”
He’s shaking his head again, hunched over his knees. “This is a mistake. Digging up the past.”
“I can’t go back there without you. And I think I have to go back.”
He tightens his grip, and his hand is warm, skin calloused, mechanics hands. It’s easy to be with him, our friendship, the truest and most constant thing in my life except for my dad.
“For Ainsley and Sam,” I say. “For Steph.”
He doesn’t answer right away. But I never doubt him. “Okay,” he says.
I stare out into the darkness between the trees. The light snow that fell yesterday still clings in the frigid temperatures.
For a second I think I see something shift in the shadows and my heart surges with fear. But no, it’s just the wind moving the branches, the mournful call of a barred owl.
13
Harley Granger’s Mustang roars along the rural road heading out of Little Valley. He likes the way it feels. A real car with a powerful engine and a body designed for speed. Very male, like it runs on testosterone instead of gas. He thought about a Tesla when the money started rolling in. But in the end, he opted for the restored Mustang—a fraction of the cost. And he’s nothing if not frugal. If they’re smart, writers know to hold on to whatever money comes their way.
