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I took off, my heart feeling like it was about to explode. I just knew someone pulled my beautiful Anna into their car and that she’d been kidnapped. I sprinted toward the snow cone stand, but saw an officer and ran to him instead.
It took us ten minutes to find my Anna.Ten. Minutes.She was trapped in a water embankment, sitting on a boulder, her knees hugged to her chest, soaking wet. She’d slipped off the foot bridge, had fallen into the water, and was unable to climb the steep concrete walls to get out. She was hysterical because she can’t swim. She has a terrible fear of the water.
Her story was different than Sylvia’s. She said Sylvia suggested they go there to feed the fish. When Anna had fallen in, Sylvia was gone. Got distracted, left her sister by the water. Went off doing God knows what.
That’s just like Sylvia.
16
Sylvia
It is late afternoon by the time we arrive at Fogmoore Trail, a lesser-known eleven-mile trail that cuts through the northern side of Mount Mansfield Forest. The rugged terrain is not for the faint of heart and has become infamous due to the number of incidents reported along its route. Dotted with steep drop-offs, dangerous cliffs, waterfalls, and caves, the trail ends in the middle of a thicket of pines—literally the trail simply stops. No one knows why.
The small, pitted parking lot that marks the trailhead is crowded with a motley crew of hikers, some alarmingly novice with their flashy sandals and matching picnic baskets, others more adequately equipped with backpacks and trekking poles. All are seeking the beauty of the fall foliage. This time of year, it is not uncommon for the crowds to linger on the trails well past dark, despite the multiple signs advising them otherwise.
Today, I can’t blame them. The forest is postcard perfect, ablaze with dazzling golds, reds, and oranges, sparkling under the slanted autumn sun.
I calculate we have about two hours, max, until it is completely dark.
There is a sharp chill in the air. I’m grateful I grabbed a jacket before leaving, which I’ve tied around my waist. I’m also grateful I finally get to break in the hiking boots I purchased two years ago during a vodka-fueled night of self-loathing.
I park under a red maple, shove the Jeep into park and look over at Rhett.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“No.”
“Alright then.” I turn off the engine.
“I have a general idea,” Rhett says as he unfolds himself from the Jeep.
Sounds like an adventure, I think, as I stuff my keys in my pocket and meet him at the hood of the Jeep.
“I used to hike these mountains as a kid,” he assures me. “I know this land by heart. I know where the caves are, and I’m pretty sure I know the hidden ones the guys were talking about. They’re off the beaten path, hidden under a bluff. Not many people know about them.”
“Other than prison people.”
“Exactly,prisonpeople.”
I grin at hisalmosteye-roll.
Rhett pulls a can of bug spray from his plastic bag of belongings and tosses it to me.
“You spent your money on bug spray?” I ask.
“You’re from Dallas, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Your mom and I actually spoke, you know, when I was working on her cabinets.”
Right. “What’s your point?”
“Figured Southerners, if anyone, would appreciate the offer of bug spray.”
