Wicked Charm

by Amber Hart

  The shadow runs. Beau takes off after it.

  Fear chews on my heart, and I cannot move. I clutch the edge of the boat until my skin stretches white over bone. I gulp down breaths, trying to rein in my terror.

  Not a second ago, I was looking at a murderer, my gut tells me. But since I’m not completely sure which form is Beau’s and which belongs to the murderer, I can’t risk using the shotgun.

  I flip on my flashlight, but it’s no use. I see nothing but marsh and forest. Beau is gone. The shadow is gone.

  I jump out of the boat and attempt to stand on shaky limbs. I walk toward the trees, afraid of what I’ll find. Terrorizing fear forces me to imagine Beau in the worst ways.

  In a heap at the base of a tree, like a pile of snarled roots.

  A crushed windpipe, unable to breathe.

  Eyes wide and staring, drained of life.

  I shake my head and dislodge the creeping worry.

  “Beau?” I call out, uncertainty shaking my voice.

  The wind answers back, biting at my skin.

  There is the sound of a shuffle, and I point my flashlight into the dark. My eyes are keen enough to catch a glimpse of something before it darts out of my beam. I follow the sounds. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know the path out of the trees. I don’t know the path into them, either.

  I walk, beam trembling, until branches brush my limbs, clothes, hair. Moonlight creeps in between leaves and lands in shafts on the ground. Mist distorts the light. The landscape is blurred at the edges, as though someone has smeared it.

  I pause. Listen carefully. Something is coming. Footsteps pound behind me. I run. I don’t turn around. Fear grinds my heart until tears burn my eyes.

  I run and run and run. Until my lungs heave and my chest hurts and I can’t see anything. I still run.

  I will not be murdered in a swamp, damn it.

  I will not let the killer win. But I know my time is running out. The stranger is gaining on me. I turn around to fight and arms wrap me up tight-like.

  “Let me go!” I scream.

  “Shh,” comes Beau’s soft voice. “It’s me. Are you okay? Did he get you? Did he hurt you?”

  I pull back and look at his face.

  “Beau,” I whisper.

  He looks me over. Hugs me again. “He’s gone. I couldn’t catch him.”

  Beau walks me back to the boat. Somehow, he knows his way out of the forest. When we get to the edge where we first saw the shadow, I freeze. My flashlight catches an object at the base of a tree. I bend closer and pick it up.

  A single earring.

  Silver with a dangling green-amber stone that nearly matches the swamp’s surface.

  18

  Beau

  Police claim to have not found a match for the earring in either of the victims’ homes, and no other girls have been reported missing. Who did the killer take the earring from, then?

  “Do we need these?” Charlotte asks, holding up a bag of apples.

  The closest local town—a strip of shops, blink and you’ll miss it—is nearly deserted now. Rain falls in a thick mist. Most people don’t venture out on damp days, but we decided to restock our supplies.

  “Only if you plan to cook pie. Otherwise, no. You know I don’t like apples plain,” I reply.

  “Suppose I could make pie,” she replies. “Maybe invite Willow over and tell her all about you. Ask her why she bothers with you. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it? Watching her squirm.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I warn. “I will never forgive you if you embarrass her or me.”

  We both go quiet as a woman passes.

  “Listen to you, defending her,” Charlotte mocks.

  She places the apples in a cart and continues to shop the local mart. There are three lines with cash registers, but only one is open. The store is small enough that we make quick work of buying food supplies to last a month: our usual breads and vegetables, fruits and canned goods, snacks and meat. There’s even an aisle for ethnic food, which we use in the recipes my mom left behind. What we don’t use right away, we freeze.

  The cashier, a girl I recognize from school, smiles at me.

  “Hi, Beau,” she says.

  I peer into her eyes. “Hey.”

  She rings up the items slowly. Charlotte watches the girl.

  “That’ll be two hundred dollars and ten cents,” the girl says.

  I hand her cash. Her stare lingers, trailing my every movement.

  “Have a good day now, you hear,” she says.

  “Let’s grab a quick coffee to go.” Charlotte heads for the exit.

  We load the back of the truck with groceries. Rain dribbles beads of water on the plastic bags, making them squeak as they slide toward the back of the bed. I pull the bed cover tight so they don’t get soaked. Never know with Southern storms. One minute mist, the next monsoon.

  We pass shops, an assortment of small buildings crammed next to one another—general store, post office, ice-cream parlor, and more. The coffee shop sits at the end of the block.

  The bell above the door chimes and a guy—college age—comes to the counter.

  “Hi, Charlotte.” He smiles ruefully.

  Though he’s older by a couple of years, he knows her.

  “Hello,” she purrs.

  What I like most about the place is the smell. It’s not just coffee. Sweet permeates the air—vanilla and mocha. The scents mingle, and I inhale deeply.

  “I’ll have a large coffee, extra sugar,” I say.

  Charlotte orders the same coffee she always does, one that’s sure to be swimming with cream so thick that the drink turns nearly white. We take a seat at a wooden booth with red-and-tan-checkered seat cushions while we wait. The tables are made from local trees, and the reclaimed wooden wall hosts a variety of signs. The air is hot, reminding me of the swamp’s warm surface after it rains.

  “You’re different lately,” Charlotte says. “And I think it’s time we both acknowledge that it’s because of Willow. She has a hold on you.”

  “Not really,” I reply, but that might not be entirely true.

  “I think you more than like her.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do, too.”

  My twin knows me too well.

  “Your point?” I ask.

  She sighs, frustrated. “You have to be cautious. You’ve always been so careful to only have fun. What’s changed now?”

  It’s hard to say what’s different about me with Willow, why my insides twist in a good way around her. Somehow when I wasn’t looking, between trying to keep her near but not too close, Willow quietly slipped past my mental guards. She filled my head with smiles and trust and shot straight through my every defense.

  The barista brings us our coffee. Charlotte leaves a tip on the table and, on the way out the door, a warning in the air for me.

  “Beau, don’t forget what happened to Mom and Dad.”

  I could never forget. I slam shut the door to my thoughts for fear that I might crumple under the weight of the memory.

  “Don’t let it happen to you, too.”

  19

  Willow

  I try as hard as I can to erase the image of the silver earring from my mind as I reenter the swamp a couple of days later. This time with Jorie.

  The damn gators here are thick as blankets over the water. When one snaps at my oar, I hit it square on the head with the wood. Then talk to it like any sane marsh person would do.

  “Listen here, gator,” I say. “We have to share this swamp, you and me both. Now, I don’t go shooing you out of the water, and you have no right to do it to me, either.”

  Jorie looks at me as though she’s watching a movie play out, a grin on her lips. The boat holding us rocks gently.

  “I’m gonna put this oar back in the water, and if you bite at it one more time, so help me God.”

  I don’t have backup oars, and rowing home with only one isn’t an option.

  “Plus,” I
say, getting a good look at the gator’s tail. It’s mangled at the end, missing a few knuckle-size notches. “Aren’t you one of the regulars Gran feeds?”

  I decide to go on and answer my own question.

  “You are. I recognize you. Bite at this oar one more time, and I’ll tell Gran to never feed you again. That is a promise.”

  The gator dips his head back under the water and swims away. I grin a little.

  “Girl,” Jorie says. “You are reasoning with the gators. I’ve never seen such a thing in all my life.”

  “Sometimes they listen,” I say.

  Jorie laughs.

  Today we’ve decided to take a boat ride for the hell of it. Some days are like that. Not much else to do in the swamp, anyhow. Jorie holds out a flask, and I take a sip. I don’t typically drink, but this evening is an exception. Jorie says sometimes you got to have ordinary fun. And so we are.

  “You think the sun will set proper-like—big burning ball they always show on postcards and paintings—and give us a good show? Or is it going to break apart like mist and disappoint us?” I ask.

  “Proper-like,” she replies, leaning back against the metal edge of the boat.

  “Sure hope so,” I say, downing another sip of the bourbon. It burns like hell taking up residence in my throat.

  “Where did you say you got this?” I ask, examining the flask that has reeds and a duck etched into it.

  “From my poppa’s stash. He won’t notice it’s missing. He doesn’t drink enough to know the difference.”

  In that case, I take two sips.

  “I’m glad we met,” I say.

  “You’re just happy that you had someone to warn you about Beau before you got in too deep,” she jokes.

  I smile. “Maybe a little of that, too.”

  She knows what I really mean. The distance from town and people can get lonely. Family is wonderful, but without Jorie I’d be in this boat alone most likely—Beau can’t always be around to join me—and I much prefer to share it with her.

  “I’m glad to have someone near, too,” she says. “All the others are either boys or not my age, and going into town every day to see friends gets old quick.”

  “Do you have other friends in town?” She hasn’t introduced me, if so.

  “I know people,” she replies. “Acquaintances, mostly.”

  “Me, too. I never had close friends in Florida.” The confession hurts more than I thought it would. “I saw people at school and at after-school activities. There was a group—four of us—who tried to meet up for bigger events like football games and spirit days. But I didn’t do best-friend things, like share clothes or spend the night. I didn’t even know where they lived, much less stay over with them.”

  “There are friends. And then there are friends.” Jorie pops her gum loudly. “Some you invite to parties. Some you call when you’re having the worst day. One you show your front to. The other has your back.”

  I think I know which type to label Jorie.

  “You can always call me,” she says softly.

  A smile tucks its way into my cheeks. “You, too.”

  The sky turns bright orange, burning the horizon. We get the sunset we’d hoped for. Colors are reflected and smudged in the water, dripping through tree limbs, landing on leaves and the forest floor. The entire world seems to be on fire.

  “Where’s the rest of your family?” I ask.

  “Gone.” She watches the sun slip away.

  “They never visit?”

  “Not if they can help it.”

  I nod, knowing the feeling. “Reminds me of my family. I have cousins up north. Aunts and uncles all over. None of them likes the swamp much, mind you.”

  Jorie shrugs. “Sometimes family is what you make it. Mine is my momma and poppa and none of the extended relatives who happen to think we’re strange for living so secluded.”

  “I suppose I’m glad Mom and Dad moved me to Florida for some time. Helped me to see the world outside. Turns out that I happen to love country roads, but leaving for a while let me see that. I might not ever leave again. Think you will one day?”

  “I hope not.”

  We stay out on the water until I’m pretty sure I’m tipsy. Until the sky darkens and a creeping takes over the swamp. I remember the person Beau and I saw in the woods and decide now is as good a time as ever to go home.

  Shadows begin clinging to the trees the farther the sun slides down the sky. A shiver racks my body of its own accord.

  “Are you thinking about the girls, too?” Jorie asks.

  “How did you know?”

  “I can feel it sometimes, the sadness coming off the swamp. I think you feel it, too.” She dips the oar gently into the water. “I think about the killer more than I should. I guess it’s mostly because no one’s been caught.”

  “Speaking of, I don’t want him finding us out here,” I tell her.

  She nods, and we try hard to row back, the flask now empty. We nearly forget the way. My brain feels fuzzy like the outside of a peach. When we finally make it home, Mom and Dad are waiting up for us.

  Mom leans in to kiss me on the forehead.

  “Wanted to make sure you made it back safely before we go off to bed,” she says.

  Her nose crinkles. I know then that she smells the bourbon.

  She whispers in my ear. “Say good night to your father and go upstairs to take a shower.”

  I think she means for my dad not to smell the alcohol. It’s not like he would mind much, I don’t think, but it’s easier to do as Mom says.

  “Night, Dad!” I call as Jorie and I take off toward the stairs.

  “Night!” he responds.

  Jorie and I disappear to my room.

  “You’re still planning to stay over, right?” I ask. No way she can drive home in her state.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She salutes me with a goofy smile.

  Jorie grabs a change of clothes from her bag before heading to the shower. When water pounds on the other side of the wall, I pull open the curtains.

  And find what I’m looking for.

  Beau’s truck is there.

  …

  Once I’ve showered and Jorie passes out, I make my way outside. A minute later, Beau’s front door opens, and he walks across the dividing line.

  “Willow,” he drawls. “What are you doing out here alone?”

  He risks coming onto Gran’s property to take a seat next to me on the porch swing.

  “Counting the stars,” I say slow-like.

  He eyes me. “You can’t count the stars.”

  “I can try,” I insist. “Now stop interrupting me. You’ll make me lose track.”

  It’s no use. Now that I’ve caught sight of him, I can’t look away.

  His hair blends darkly into the night. His shirt is deep green, maybe brown. Hard to tell with only the stars to go by. I feel the texture of his jeans rub up against my bare leg.

  “Did you go into the bog without me today?” he asks.

  “Sure did. Watched the sunset with my friend Jorie.”

  I don’t know if it’s the rocking of the swing or the alcohol, but everything spins softly like a slow carousel.

  “You’re beautiful,” I say, though I mean to say not a word.

  Beau grins. I think he assumes I’m joking. I lean in closer, pressing my upper body against his, feeling the strain of his well-sculpted muscles. He inhales sharply.

  “What has gotten into you, Willow?”

  His breath is warm against my skin, sending an ache stealing through my blood.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” I reply. “You have a way of enchanting people. And even though some whisper in the school halls, suspicious of you and the deaths, I know you didn’t kill those girls. You’re mighty mean sometimes, but you’re no killer.”

  I did wonder at first about Beau’s innocence. How could I not? His sister seems mean enough that she just might lie about his being with her, the original alibi
he holds so tightly to. Gran always is reminding me of the evil his grandfather totes around like a charm, so who’s to say his grandfather wouldn’t lie for Beau, too? They’re family, after all. Blood before all else.

  It doesn’t help that the police are always talking about his involvement with the girls. But I saw him with the group from the pool. There’s no way he could have been in two places at once. He has an alibi for them both—he was with his family when the first girl was killed, and he had company over when the second girl was murdered. And the same killer did murder her—the police said so. It couldn’t have been Beau. Not the boy who looks at me with sharp eyes, who speaks in riddles, who touches me softly.

  I forget for a moment that Jorie is in my room, that Gran sleeps down the hall, and that Mom and Dad have a room on the bottom floor just below mine. I forget everything because his stare forces me to.

  “I wish you could come inside with me,” I say.

  His eyes turn absolutely electric. “I don’t know, Willow. Your gran isn’t a fan of mine, and I don’t want to mess things up with you.”

  He takes my hand.

  A howl sounds in the distance, and I imagine a coyote lifting his snout to the sky and letting loose the beautiful sound. Beau turns to the woods, listening to the wail.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. I have company. Jorie is inside.”

  But under the stars, no one is here to see a thing. Beau could press his lips to mine and no one would know.

  “You should kiss me, Beau,” I say boldly.

  I’m finally ready.

  I reach a fingertip to his mouth and brush his bottom lip lightly. There’s a hunger in his stare. It takes everything I have to control the pleasure it gives me to see him so unhinged.

  When I move my mouth nearer to him, he backs up. Stands and straightens his shirt.

  “Why do you smell like bourbon?” he asks.

  I smile and stand next to him, trying to pull him against me. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that.”

  The world wobbles, and Beau is there to steady me.

  “Damn it, Willow. I’m not gonna do a thing now, you know that, don’t you? Not if you’ve been drinking.”