Wicked Charm

by Amber Hart

  “Should we just skip it tonight?” Charlotte asks.

  Her eyebrows pinch together, as though she’s concerned. I hold my breath and silently hope that Grandpa won’t call off our hunt. We haven’t looked for the intruder for several days, and that’s too long for my liking.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Grandpa says.

  I exhale and pack our sandwiches. It’s a relief to have another chance to attempt to clear my name, to rid the swamp of a killer, to keep trespassers off our property.

  “And quit giving me that damn look. I don’t need your pity,” he adds.

  Just like that, Grandpa is one hundred percent again.

  We load the boat and stretch our muscles before taking off for a night in the bog. Moonlight leaps and dances in our wake. Sludgy water foams at the shore. A scattering of leaf litter floats on the surface like tiny stained spots. The swamp, rimmed with tall marsh grass, is a perfect place for someone to hide.

  With the last fading bit of sun, night begins to wrap around me. I feel dampness on my skin, slick sweat at my hairline, and a rough metal seat underneath me.

  Charlotte watches the trees.

  “Did you see that?” she asks.

  I peer at the spot she indicates, through narrow reeds, but I see nothing.

  We float closer to the edge of the water. Plumes of gnats hang like a barrier between us and solid ground. That’s when my beam catches sight of something.

  “Look here,” I say. “The branches are disturbed.”

  We know enough of the swamp to tell when a disturbance has been made by human or animal.

  “Not animal,” Charlotte comments.

  We coast farther up.

  “And here,” Charlotte says. “The markings on that tree. What do you think they mean?”

  Three lines are etched in, as though someone scraped a bag or pack against it.

  We look for more signs, and we find them. Footprints. Broken branches. Someone has been here. The tracks are clearly fresh.

  They can’t be from Willow or her family. They were gathered in their living room, watching a movie, when we left. I saw through the open curtains.

  No matter how hard we search for the next hour, nothing turns up but animal bones and alligator backs.

  As we near home, and the sky has gone blue-black, Charlotte holds out her hand and whispers, “There’s something out there.” She leans forward, scanning the shore. “Something’s close.”

  I eye the scenery, our property, Old Lady Bell’s property. I see nothing unusual. Just the swamp under moonlight.

  “What’s there?” Grandpa asks.

  “A shadow,” Charlotte replies.

  Either she’s seeing things or her eyes pick up what mine cannot. I shine the flashlight around. Nothing. I swing the beam around more. My hand freezes. I suck in a breath. Charlotte locks onto my face. I think I see it, but it’s too dark to know for sure. There are too many shadows.

  “See something?” Grandpa whispers.

  The swamp is deadly still.

  “Maybe,” I answer.

  I have the very distinct feeling that someone is watching us.

  23

  Willow

  The Wizard of Oz plays on Gran’s static television. She loves it and cannot be persuaded to watch anything modern. I pass the heaping bowl of popcorn to her. Gran grabs a handful and passes it back to me. I pretend not to notice when her hands shake and she drops kernels on the ground. Mom and Dad share a separate bowl.

  “Willow, why do you not have a nice pair of sparkly shoes like that Dorothy?” Gran asks.

  I look at her in horror. “Because that would be social suicide.”

  “That dress is nice, too,” she says. “I have an old tablecloth with a similar pattern. I could sew it up pretty for you.”

  “You’re kidding,” I reply.

  She doesn’t confirm or deny it.

  The movie ends, and Gran insists I help her clean the kitchen. I don’t mind, though. I like time with her. And the truth is, Gran is getting too old to do it all, which is why we moved here in the first place—to help her keep the place tidy, make sure she’s eating right, and to keep her from getting lonely in her old age. God forbid if something happened to her—like a fall—and no one was here to help.

  “You still talking to that damn hellion next door?” Gran asks as I stand at the sink to soap the plates she hands me.

  “Mother,” Dad says from the doorway.

  “Don’t you start with me about the cursing or I’ll say every bad word I can think of right here and now, and I won’t be quiet about it.”

  Dad sighs but lets it go. I shoot him a smile, and he shrugs as if to say, What are we going to do about her?

  Mom watches our interaction, attempting to hide a laugh behind her glass of sweet tea.

  “His name is Beau,” I tell Gran.

  Beau admitted that his heart is guarded. He hurts girls’ feelings before they ever have a chance to hurt his, and so he thinks he’s safe from ever caring deeply. But there was heart in the way he touched me. In his lips on mine.

  Gran frowns. “What the hell are you grinning about?”

  It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Nothing.”

  “I’m taking your smile as a ‘yes’ to my previous question, Willow Mae. You’re still seeing him. I know it. When will you listen to me? You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Actually, I think I do.

  “Tell me, then.” I place the clean dishes on the rack. They leave water marks on the counter. “Tell me why you hate the Cadwells.”

  I need to hear what Gran has hiding in the cobwebs of her mind.

  I pay careful attention to the wrinkles carved into her face. How much time she’s had and how much wisdom must have come from that time. I see them deepen slightly as she frowns.

  “Tell me what it is about them that upsets you.”

  “That family has a pull, Willow. I know you feel it.”

  I do. I can’t deny it. I feel it in my throat every time I see Beau, the way I can hardly swallow. I should tell Gran that I feel it, but I don’t.

  “Give me a good reason to walk away,” I say.

  “Tell me if you feel it,” she replies, ignoring me.

  “Did you feel it for Mr. Cadwell?” I ask. “That’s what I’ve heard. I heard he broke your heart once, and now you hate to see him. You want me to hate Beau, too, don’t you?”

  Gran’s face falls, and I instantly regret my words.

  “Willow,” Mom warns.

  Gran hobbles up to me, so close that her nose nearly touches mine.

  “Let me tell you something, girl,” she says in a calculated tone. “You think you can handle what that boy will do to your heart, but you’re wrong. You’ll never be the same. Not ever.”

  And with that, Gran leaves the room, goes upstairs, and shuts her door.

  Well, hell.

  “She’s just grumpy in her old age,” Dad reassures me. He grabs a rag and begins wiping the table and counters. “She doesn’t mean anything by it. Maybe you’re right that Mr. Cadwell broke her heart once. It would explain a lot. Not that she’s ever admitted so to me.”

  Mom stands at my back and wraps her arms around my waist. She rests her chin on my shoulder. “You can see the boy as long as you want. Don’t listen to her.”

  I relax in Mom’s arms the way I always do. The way autumn brings colorful leaves and pumpkin spice and scarecrows. The way wreaths and lights and hot cocoa go with Christmastime. The way the swamp is always listening, a place to tell your problems and secrets. Mom’s hugs are natural and warm, a part of everything I know.

  I turn around and hug her back.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  I finish the dishes. My eyes slip to the stairs. I can’t help but wonder what exactly Gran is hiding from me. And what has her thinking I need protecting from Beau.

  I finish cleaning the kitchen and begin to make my way upstairs to Gran’s room. I
find her at her desk, photo album open. She sighs when she sees me in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She waves me in.

  “If you want to know the answers, they’re in here.” She glances at the album.

  I want to reach for it, but I’m not sure if I should, sensing that whatever is in there is deeply personal.

  “Go on,” she says, hand fluttering to the book. Her old fingers curl slightly, though she holds nothing in them. “Look already.”

  I sit on Gran’s bed and open the book. Black-and-white photographs stare back at me, four to a page. I know right away that they’re of a younger Gran. The first is of her—hair tied back with a bandanna, smirk on her face—standing in front of an old car. Well, possibly new then. Second is of Gran with a girlfriend, both their heads tilted back, laughing at who knows what. Third is of Gran at the pool. I smile. She was a knockout. Fourth is of her up a tree, a dog waiting at the roots.

  I continue to flip through the pages, Gran in various places and poses, until I get to one that makes me stall.

  “Yes,” she says. “That’s who you think it is.”

  “Mr. Cadwell?” I ask.

  Beau’s grandpa.

  “You were right. We were an item,” she says.

  I trace a finger over the clear plastic that covers the aged photo. The corners have faded, and I’m afraid with enough time the entire square might erase completely.

  Mr. Cadwell is handsome. Beyond handsome. Just like Beau.

  I turn a page. And another. And another. His face is everywhere.

  “There are several pictures of you and him together.”

  “Yes,” Gran replies.

  I swear she almost grins.

  “He pursued me. Said I was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Little ol’ naive me believed him, too.”

  I flip to another page. Gran and Mr. Cadwell are in a boat in the bog. They look only a few years older than I am now.

  “We stayed like that.” Gran touches a picture of him. “Together from when we were seventeen until we were twenty-two, when I discovered the truth. All the cute notes he’d written me, the weekly wildflowers he’d left at my doorstep, the kisses he’d steal…he’d done the same for other girls. I was never the only one for him, though he’d later swear that he was young and dumb and that he did truly love me.”

  She stops there. Not another word.

  “What did you do about it?”

  She blinks back what I suspect is the beginning of decades worth of tears.

  “I ended things that day, of course. Never looked back, except in memories. But it did something to me. I wasn’t okay for years afterward. You have to understand that I thought I’d marry that man. I was completely convinced. And when you give such a big part of your heart away, you never do get it back.”

  I reach for Gran’s hand and squeeze it lightly.

  “That’s why I’m warning you away from that grandson of his. He’s Parker all over again. That I can promise. I’ve seen him interact with girls in town, heard the way he smooth talks them. Even his mannerisms mimic Parker’s. It’s best if you stay far away. Trust me.”

  I want badly to trust her. But then I think about Beau’s grin. About his recent honesty. About his hunting for the murderer.

  “He’s not all bad, Gran,” I say. “Just because he’s somewhat like his grandpa doesn’t mean he’ll hurt me.”

  “Oh, my stubborn Willow. You don’t understand what it’s like to live with half a heart, never being able to truly trust one hundred percent again, never being able to love as deeply as you once did. It’s a hard thing to know that you gave the best part of your heart to someone and that you’ll never get it back. Every other lover afterward will suffer because of it. They might not know it, but your mind will sometimes revisit that burning, all-consuming feeling you once had, and anyone from then on will never receive anywhere near as intense a love from you.”

  I see it in her stare, how she’s still not over him.

  “You’re going into this thing with Beau unguarded. You don’t know what it’s like to live with the memories of a love so strong that you wish you could feel something that good again, while understanding that you never truly will.”

  She shuts the album and locks me in place with her stare.

  “You might not know the feeling yet, but keep this up with Beau and you will soon enough.”

  24

  Beau

  Today, I have a few quiet hours to myself.

  The swamp welcomes me with a soft caress of wind and a water snake slithering past my boat. There’s a purpose to my quick movements, each tug and pull as I row to the spot I picked out especially for Willow. I stretch my feet, careful to not kick the supplies I’ve brought, and secure the oars as I step out and drag the boat to land, wedging the nose in a fissure between two sturdy rocks. I tie it up good and sidestep a gator lounging near the water line, its scales wetly reflecting sunlight. It tracks my movements, blinking once before deciding I’m no threat.

  I haven’t yet told Willow what I’m doing or, more specifically, what I’m building.

  Though the water sloshes over my shoes, I make sure to keep it off the supplies I carry from the boat. With each haul of heavy materials lugged dozens of yards through thin trails, I feel the heat. My arms shake with exertion, and I swipe at the sweat forming over my brows, threatening to drip into my eyes.

  Birds keep me company, chirping loudly from tree to tree. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the gator. Last thing I need is for it to sneak up on me, but it seems content to leave me be.

  When all the supplies are finally loaded on land, I grab a hammer and nails and get to work. It’ll take days, but I’m determined. It’s the first time I’ve shown that I care like this. With every breath I take, I push aside the pinch in my chest, the warning that I’ve gone and done exactly what Willow requested of me.

  I’ve allowed her close.

  Still, I push on until it’s time to go home. I need to meet up with Pax and Grant. I look over my creation, checking each section. A few more trips and a couple more days set aside, and it’ll be finished. Willow is going to love it.

  …

  Hiking the town trails is nothing like the swamp. Here, the ground is solid and holds my weight without my boots sinking in. It’s green, all right, but there are no vast waters, no alligators. All things I’ve grown accustomed to.

  “It’s hot,” Grant complains, taking a seat on a fallen tree trunk. “Wish we’d brought water.”

  We’ve been hiking for an hour, tops, and he’s already tired.

  I lean against a tree and look skyward. Try not to think about the swamp and the murderer and the lies. Someone out there is going about his nights killing young girls and acting innocent. He must be good at disguise because otherwise he’d have been caught by now. Tracks aren’t easy to cover, but somehow he has.

  “…know what I mean?” Grant says.

  He’s been talking about something, and I haven’t been listening. Not one bit.

  Grant’s waiting for an answer.

  “What?” I say.

  “You’re not listening for shit. You thinking about that girlfriend of yours again?” he asks with a smile.

  A spear of sunlight hits his red hair just right and sets it on fire with color.

  “Not that I blame you,” he continues. “I’d kill to snag the attention of the kind of girls you do.”

  I stare at him quizzically. “That’s a strange choice of words.”

  Kill.

  His face goes blank.

  “You know what I mean, man,” he says. “It’s just that you’re always gettin’ the girls. They never even notice Pax or me with you around.”

  But what I notice is the way he begins to fidget. He scratches the back of his neck, his leg, his arm. He’s nervous. What’s he have to be nervous about?

  I try to imagine him making his way through a tumbledown swamp—trees blocking pat
hs, mud eating boots, rough trails and dead ends, snakes and gators. I hardly see him as the type of person who can handle navigating the bog. But then again, he could be a good actor. I’ve never thought of him as a possible suspect until now.

  “You aren’t seriously worried about me, are you?” he asks.

  He must spot the suspicion on my face.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Where were you when all these murders happened?”

  Pax gives a weak laugh, unsure if I’m serious.

  “Come on, man,” Grant says. “We’ve been friends for years. You know me better than that.”

  Do I? Do they really know me? Maybe in the ways I want them to. They don’t know my past, though. They don’t know what happened to my parents. They think I play girls for fun, but they don’t realize that I have no choice. I’m guarded for good reason, or at least I used to be.

  Grant’s brown eyes squint at me from a few feet away.

  “You’ve lost it, man. You really have. I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  The wind blows and a tree branch leans toward me, brushing its long, leafy fingers over my shoulder. Sweat pools on my skin, the heat starving my body of liquid.

  “He’s only joking,” Pax says.

  But he’s wrong. I’m not joking at all, and I think they both know that. On the one hand, they’re my friends. On the other hand, how well can you ever actually know a person?

  I’m not quite sure what to think, so I turn on my heel and start walking up a steep hill. Our destination isn’t far. I like it for the small pond. Nothing but fish and turtles in it, but something about the water draws me.

  It’s our spot. The place where we goof around, talk nonsense. Mostly, I listen. And mostly, they rag on me about girls. There are things we don’t talk about, too. Like how Grant is never happy with being himself, always wanting what others have. And we never mention Pax’s mom getting laid off and the possibility of them losing everything. Another thing we don’t talk about is me.

  “I seriously hope you’re joking,” Grant says.

  I don’t bother with a response.

  Everywhere I step, shafts of sunlight filter in like hundreds of flashlight beams. My jeans pick up dirt where they drag on the ground. I make my way through the overgrown maze of greenery, the few skeletal dead trees. Some of the trunks are browbeaten and moss-stained. I think I like those the best.