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“Works for me,” I say with a shrug. “Am I dressed for it?”
I’m wearing an old pair of jeans with a lightweight sweater and a pair of Converse sneakers, nothing too fancy, but also nothing too rugged, and Ben takes a little longer than I like looking me over.
“Yeah, we’re not gonna venture all that far,” he says, and then, looking past me, adds to Camden, “No farther than the falls. Does that sound okay?”
I almost scoff at that. Camden is not in charge of me, doesn’t get to say what I do or where I go, but when he doesn’t answer Ben right away, I feel my pulse kick up a beat.
We’re not in Colorado anymore. We’re no longer just a simple English teacher and his wife who works at the local tourist attraction. Here, Camden is a McTavish, the de facto owner of Ashby House, and maybe that means hecouldsay no, and Ben would have to accept it.Iwould have to accept it.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
But in the end, Cam nods, swallowing hard as he meets my eyes. “Be careful,” he tells me, then steps forward, cuffing a hand around the nape of my neck and kissing my forehead. “And stay away from the edge.”
“Obviously,” I tell him, giving him a light shove, but he’s still watching Ben, his expression serious.
Something passes between them that I don’t quite understand, but then Ben is turning away, waving at me. “Let’s go, Mrs. McTavish!” he calls, and with one last lingering look at Cam, I follow.
THE AIR IScool as we head out into the woods, autumn creeping up the mountain slowly but surely. It’s just a little past nine in the morning, and the sky is overcast, darker clouds gathering over the mountains in the distance. Below us, I can see a few yellowed leaves among the mist, and I shiver, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. Ben is just ahead of me, his stride confident, his chin lifted.
“So—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.
“Do you know how many people have died in these woods?”
I nearly stumble over an exposed root, but manage to right myself just in time, so that when Ben glances back over his shoulder, I’m sure-footed and casual.
“No, but I feel like you are absolutely about to tell me.”
A little of the glee bleeds out of his expression, which I appreciate.
“No one actually knows,” he says ominously, and overhead something rustles in the trees.
I make myself look as calm and collected as I can, stepping over a muddy puddle in the middle of the trail. “You should probably make up a number, then,” I say. “I mean, if you want this campfire scary story bullshit to be effective, concrete details are important. No Girl Scout ever wet her pants over, ‘And then this guy had… something on his hand. Maybe a hook? Could’ve been a can opener though. Or maybe he had a hand, but was wearing a weird bracelet thatlookedlike a hook.’”
He turns around and fixes me with a glare.
I stop, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I’m just saying, if you wanna be creepy in the woods, I have notes.”
We’re not that far from the house, close enough that if I glance behind me, I can still see one of the chimneys over the trees, but I’m aware of just how quiet it is, how primeval this forest feels.
Still, I’d die before lettingBenjamin Franklin McTavishknow I’m a little freaked out.
And I must be doing a good job at convincing him I’m unbothered because he stares at me for one more beat before shaking his head. “Camden doesn’t deserve you,” he says.
“Trust me, it’s the other way around,” I reply, and he smirks at that.
“Maybe you’re right.”
More leaves crunch underfoot, the last remnants of the trail slowly merging back into the forest floor, and when I glance to my right, I realize there’s a pretty steep drop-off just a few feet away. If you weren’t paying close attention, it would beeasy to slip right off the side of the mountain, especially with everything so wild and overgrown, the trees so thick together.
“So this trail is only, like, a hundred feet long?” I call out to Ben, and he looks over his shoulder at me, his sunglasses dangling from a cord around his neck.
“Ruby had the trails made and maintained,” he tells me. “Or one of her husbands did. Anyway, the money for that kind of thing is Cam’s, so maybe take it up with him.”
I don’t reply, but tuck that information away for later.
We’re quiet for the rest of the walk, the only sound our footsteps and the occasional birdcall. I pull out my phone to check how long we’ve been walking, and see that it’s been only about ten minutes, but the three bars of signal I had at the house have dwindled down to one, and when we take a downward turn on the trail, that one bar turns into an X.
For the first time, I realize just how isolated Ashby House really is. Once you’re just a few hundred feet away, there’s no way to call for help. Even if you could, help would take its time getting up the mountain.
