by Leah Konen
It was only after that I realized it—John hadn’t had to twist the dead bolt to get out.
My scalp prickled at what that must mean:
The whole night, the front door hadn’t been locked.
* * *
• • •
I tried to go back to sleep, to close my eyes and forget about all that had and hadn’t happened, but I couldn’t. Eight thirty turned to nine, nine to nine thirty, thoughts stinging, head pounding, eyes locked on the ceiling.
At some point I did drift off, but awoke to a rap at the door. I checked my phone. It was nearly three o’clock.
I forced myself out of bed and made my way into the living room, peeked through the drapes. Vera.
Cheeks on fire, I desperately wanted to head back to bed, pull the covers up and disappear beneath them, but she’d already seen me. Slowly, I opened the door.
“Took you long enough,” she said. She had a perky smile on her face and was wearing a long-sleeved black dress, a silver scarf twisted around her neck.
“I was in the bathroom,” I managed.
Her hand landed on her hip. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. You want coffee? Or tea or something?”
“I’m fine.” She sat on the sofa. “Christ, you look awful.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to act normal.
She threw her head back, laughing. “John told me you two hit the sauce a little hard last night. So that’s what happens when I encourage you guys to hang out? I hope I don’t have anything to worry about.”
I forced a quick laugh, as if the suggestion were absurd, but my heart pounded anyway.
“So it was no easy feat,” Vera said, “but I got a car this morning. A ninety-two Camry that somehow magically still works. Got back about an hour ago.”
I nodded along, trying to focus on the details, trying to push all thoughts of last night away.
Vera picked up on my discomfort anyway. “You okay?” she asked. “You didn’t hear from Davis, did you? Or Ellie?”
“No,” I said smoothly, trying to gather myself. “I’m fine. I’m just nervous, I guess . . . about tomorrow.”
Vera folded her hands in her lap. “That’s why I came over. I know you’re as eager to do this as I am, but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. With the car all set, things are officially in motion. We’ll be heading out tomorrow around two, aiming to get to the trail no later than three. You’re still good?”
Was I good? Far from it. I had betrayed her, even if we’d stopped. What we’d done was betrayal enough.
But the wave had already begun to build, growing taller and taller, and the only thing left was the violent crash against the beach.
“Of course,” I told her, delivering a smile. “Of course. I’ll be ready.”
EIGHTEEN
Vera’s handwriting was smooth as she signed her name on the sheet. The air was crisp and biting, turning her skin a paler shade of white. Her golden hair was pulled into an incredibly neat bun, as if she were off to a ballet performance after this.
Meanwhile, I was a mess. My curls had refused to be tamed, and my hands were quivering with nerves as I took the sheet from her, nerves I hadn’t been able to shake since waking up yesterday with John in my bed, since Ellie had discovered me the afternoon before in what had turned into an awful adult game of hide-and-seek.
“You okay?” Vera asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Fine,” I lied, signing my name quickly. “Good.”
I watched as John signed in, his scrawl of a signature shaky. His eyes connected with mine for a moment as he handed the clipboard back to Vera, his lips pressing firmly together, as if holding back words.
I looked down, his gaze too much. I wondered what he was thinking, or if I even wanted to know, as guilt clattered around inside my chest.
Vera surveyed the rest of the names, oblivious to the live wire linking John and me together. She told us that one person had come in at one thirty; we might pass them on the way up. If it worked out right, they could act as a witness, proof that John was there if anyone felt the need to check.
After that, I didn’t get any more chances to read John’s face, to search for feelings, for answers, for what we should do next. He took the lead, and though I was just behind him, Vera bringing up the rear, he didn’t look back as we began our ascent through sheer carved rocks covered in moss. I wasn’t sure if he was laser-focused on what he had to do or if he was avoiding catching my eyes again.
I tried to distract myself, taking in all the nature around us. The trees weren’t fully bare yet, though it was deep enough into fall that there were plenty beneath our feet; the sounds of snapping twigs, crackling leaves, the pop of a branch, creating an afternoon cacophony. I kept my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, my water bottle hooked to my belt with a carabiner. I had to act normal. With Vera bringing up the rear, she could see us both, our every move, like actors in a play. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
She would never know. She couldn’t ever know. I loved her too much for that.
After more than an hour, we reached a small gap in the trees where you could just make out the river below. It was a force—movement and momentum, eddies and whitecaps—certainly going fast enough for a body to get lost. A frothing, crashing sound rose up and bounced around the valley, angry and forceful yet somehow melodic—white noise.
Around us, colors: burgundy and burnt orange, eggplant and goldenrod, the sort you normally only see in paint chips. Patchwork hills rolling out before us like the quilt that Maggie had given Rachel, the hues dark and brooding where the thick gray clouds blocked the sun, bright and vibrant where they didn’t.
I flinched at a rustle behind me, a sound like someone was following us. “Don’t worry, it’s just an animal,” John said, turning for the first time to look back at me.
“Sorry, I’m just—”
He shook his head, as if he didn’t need an explanation from me. And of course he didn’t. His face looked as pained as mine was, nervousness crossed with shame, fear—desire? I wanted, suddenly, to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin.
“Come on, Lucy,” Vera said, interrupting my thoughts. She pointed to the clouds overhead. “It might rain soon, and we need to keep going.”
“Yes,” John said, the look of understanding disappearing from his face. “We should keep on.”
It did begin to drizzle, droplets sneaking through the light cover of trees. We walked for another fifteen minutes or so before we passed the hiker who’d signed in ahead of us, an older man with a walking stick, a Vietnam veteran cap, and a bright orange vest. “Happy trails, folks,” the man said, almost aggressively congenial, as his stick, made of some burly knotted wood, dug into the mossy, murky ground, softened by the light rain, penetrating the undergrowth.
We nodded back. “You too.” “Take care.” “Careful in the rain.”
Remember the three of us if the police call. Remember it was slippery that day, that the man in front had a camera around his neck.
Another twenty minutes, and the trees had gathered thick and tangled around us. My hair was matted to my forehead from the wet, and there was a sound of tumbling rocks, a squirrel or raccoon crawling through the underbrush, and a smell of decay and rot. More than that, there was the blistering knowledge that John would disappear only a few turns up ahead. That everything that had happened would be left unaddressed.
And that sense, once again, that someone was behind us.
On cue, John paused, turning to us. “I’m going to walk a bit faster,” he said. “Get some photos while the light is diffused like this.” He tried to force a smile, but his chin shook, his beard full and thick. “You guys are slowing me down,” he added. His script sounded strange and stilted, but Vera h
ad insisted upon it, claiming that it would go better if we limited our lies, told the police things that had happened, had been said. Twisted truths were better than flat-out lies.
“Be careful,” I said, which wasn’t necessarily part of the script, but it’s what came out anyway.
“Have fun,” Vera said, a better actress than me. “Get some good ones.”
John stepped forward then, approaching Vera, and my head swiveled back and forth, canvassing the area, making sure no one was about to approach.
His hands found her hips as he kissed her deeply. Her arms wrapped around him, and I looked away, giving them their moment, my insides twisting, fighting. They were so right together, and yet why had we kissed? Why had he spent the night in my bed? Was John his own kind of twisted truth?
“Jesus!” John’s voice was shrill, incredulous. “What the hell was that for?”
My head whipped up, trying to understand. Vera held a neon green box cutter in one hand. John cradled his forearm, a line of blood seeping from a slash just below the crook of his elbow.
He ripped his arm away. “Are you fucking crazy?”
“I’m sorry, but you have to give them some sort of proof that you fell.”
She pulled out an extra-large bandage, unwrapped it, and slapped it against the wound, a temporary blockage. “You’ll be fine. This will tide you over for now, and when you’re in the woods, you can bandage it up properly with the first-aid kit in your bag.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you hate blood,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You never would have agreed to it.”
I sucked in a breath, ready to yell at her, to protest, only, how could I? I’d seen John cut himself chopping vegetables once. He hadn’t fainted or anything, but the blood had freaked him out—I remembered his reaction distinctly because it was such a contrast to the rest of his rough-and-tumble personality.
Besides, we did need proof—of course we did. Vera seemed to have thought of everything John and I hadn’t.
“Are you okay?” I asked John instead.
He nodded, fingers pressing at the bandage. “This is real now. Proof. No turning back.”
“No turning back,” she echoed. “After you set your backpack and your water bottle down, you’ll need to make sure some rocks and dirt fall from the ledge. Don’t use your feet—it’s too dangerous—use your camera. Just bang it on the edge a couple of times, enough so the scene looks disturbed, like you could have slipped. Then take your camera, cover it with blood, and drop it over the edge of the cliff. Make sure it falls straight down, so it hits the rocks on the bank of the river, not the actual water. We don’t want it to get carried away. It’s the only real indication you fell.”
He nodded, a dutiful pupil.
She slid the box cutter into her pocket. “Go on,” Vera said.
John leaned in, gave her one final kiss, and then turned to me.
He approached me slowly, and my heart beat fast as I contemplated what he might do. He opened his arms wide, wrapped me in a hug. He felt so warm, so strong and so safe, and I remembered, once again, the sight of him in my bed, guilty as it made me feel.
“Don’t bleed on her,” Vera said firmly.
John pulled away, but as he did, a whisper in my ear, so quiet I didn’t think Vera heard: “I’ll see you soon.”
He turned around, hand holding the bandage tight, and we watched as he walked forward, around the bend, out of sight.
A flash of panic, of paranoia—what if I never saw him again?
I searched Vera’s face for similar emotions but found none.
“Let’s pause for water,” she said.
Nodding, I unhooked the bottle from my belt, then began to guzzle it. I wasn’t even that thirsty, the cold preventing me, for once, from overheating, but I drank anyway, eager for something to do.
“Wait. Your backpack is open.” She zipped it shut, then out of nowhere, she pulled me toward her and grabbed my face in her hands, framing my cheeks, pressing. “This is real, Lucy,” she said. “We can’t screw this up.”
My eyes caught hers, and I was as sure as I’d ever been. “I won’t.”
I went ahead on my own, making my way as planned. There were three turns exactly between me and the clearing, the sheer cliffs and rocks that would purport to take John away. I made the first one, and the grove seemed to close tighter around me, as if squeezing me just as Vera had done. I looked back. Already, I couldn’t see her, though I knew she was just behind. I imagined John, alone and bleeding.
I made the second turn, the path opening up just slightly, the light peeking through the trees, dappling the ground, which had turned from stones to thick, fat roots, crawling beneath my feet like snakes. I walked the length of the path, and before the next turn, I paused, again rehearsing the script in my head. Just after I got to the clearing, I heard him scream. I saw him slip and fall.
I stilled my breath, listening for footsteps. None, nothing but the rolling of the river below, the chirp of a songbird.
Then I heard him scream.
NINETEEN
It echoed through the woods, but I forced myself to count off beats in my head instead of running straight for the clearing. I imagined it all, him stepping away from the camouflage of the trees, the rocks slipping from beneath him, his camera in his hand as he fell to the bottom, his backpack and water bottle the only markers left behind. We’d all agreed it was better this way; if Vera and I watched John walk off the trail, we might get our stories messed up.
So I waited, twenty counts, and then, as if suddenly sensing danger, I ran.
The clearing was empty, not a soul in sight, but I spotted his backpack, about fifty feet up ahead. I bolted down the path, over rocks, around ivy, across fallen leaves, toward the spot, the light spatter of rain coating my face, letting myself pretend, for a moment, that my story was true, that I really had seen him. Letting myself feel those feelings just the tiniest bit: of being alone, of losing someone you love. Feelings I knew well, that the absence of my parents had printed on my heart.
Up close, the tableau was more frightening than I’d expected.
I shouted for Vera, as we’d agreed I would, then studied the scene before me. The backpack and bottle were upright and covered in water droplets—obedient pets waiting for their owner to return.
There was no blood—John must have been careful not to drip any—but the rocks and gravel on the cliff’s edge were disturbed. It looked so real, so true to life. I stepped closer. The tiny bit of grass and mud just before the rocks was marked with . . . footprints. Had to be John’s.
Vera had told him to be careful, but what if he’d gotten too into staging it?
What if . . .
I turned back, looking for John’s footprints leading back off the trail, but the leaves were too thick to see any—there was nothing. It made sense, of course. He would have been careful to step only where the ground was covered as he walked off the trail, careful not to leave any tracks. My ears pricked, listening for the rustle of leaves, for John’s movements, but I couldn’t hear a thing.
I took one step closer, careful to stay out of the mud so as not to disturb his footprints, taking them in. They were thoughtfully placed, as if he’d stepped far too close to take a photo—an artist’s work, his swan song. I reached out, wanting to run my fingers over them, these impressions of John, unsure when I’d see him again.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped up, my feet kicking at an errant bit of gravel, and I heard it bounce all the way down. I swallowed, throat tight. “It just looks so real. If he really had fallen, we wouldn’t even see him.”
“Exactly,” Vera said. “That’s the point.”
Her gaze was steely, like I’d disappointed her somehow.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Do you think we should
make sure he’s okay? Before we . . .”
Vera shook her head firmly. “We can’t, Lucy,” she said. “We have to stick to the plan.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, and then repeated myself, as if to prove the point: “Okay.”
Her eyes softened, and the old Vera came back. “He’s fine, I promise, he knows exactly what he’s doing out there—”
“But I hardly gave him any time to prepare.”
“It’s okay, Lucy,” Vera said. “He’s good at this. He’s doing his part—we need to do ours.” She retrieved her phone, rubbed it against her shirt to clear it of water, and made a show of keying in 911. “No service,” she said robotically.
I nodded, wanting to look at the river again but knowing I shouldn’t.
Vera stepped closer, and though her eyes were serious, there was kindness there, too. Coated in droplets, her hair practically shone. “Can you do this, Lucy? If you can’t, we can call it off. We can meet John in his cabin tonight. We can pretend that none of this ever happened. We can go back to—”
“I don’t want to call it off.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Vera asked. “Because there’s no going back, once we do it. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I understand.”
Vera took my hand in hers, cool and damp from the weather, and squeezed. “Thank you,” she said. “I love you. Now, let’s get back to where we can make a call, before it gets dark.”
As agreed, we ran, retracing our steps, Vera, agile, leading the way; me, trying my best not to trip over roots and stones, matted leaves slick from the rain.
At a break in the woods, she stopped and checked her phone. “I have service.”
“Me too.”
We stood, like statues, at the same place I’d paused to take in the colors, but now the sun was almost down, the hues hazy and fever-dreamy. There wouldn’t be light much longer. We had flashlights, and so did John. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling, deep in my bones, that something had gone wrong. That John was in danger, that this wasn’t going to work.
