by Amber Hart
“The killer.”
I pull back so quickly that I stumble into a tree behind me. Charlotte sits up and rubs her neck, eyeing the blade still in my grasp.
“He’s here,” she says. “In the swamp. I saw him for sure.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago,” she says. “And then again tonight. He came to the edge of the trees, hood over his eyes. Stepped into a beam of moonlight, and then disappeared again, almost as though he wanted me to see him.”
Charlotte sits up, brushing leaves from her clothes, and winces. Her hand is bleeding from the fall, dripping like paint on the ground. She inspects her palm slowly, wiping dirt from the superficial wound.
“But I doubt he’s still here now, after the commotion we just made. Let’s go home,” she says. “I need to get this cleaned up.”
I glance back and call Willow’s name into the night, letting her know it’s safe to come to me.
The sound of her footfalls nears until she stops beside us, huffing, mouth wide in shock at seeing Charlotte.
“You brought her,” Charlotte says.
“Of course I brought her. None of us should be going into the woods alone. God, Charlotte. What did you think you’d do if you found the murderer? Do you honestly think you could take on someone like that alone? What is wrong with you?”
Willow grabs my arm and stands firm beside me, though I feel the slight tremor of her hand.
“I guess I wasn’t thinking. I just saw him and took off, a gut reaction,” she says.
Willow’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “Your gut reaction is to go into the woods alone at night?”
Charlotte sneers. “No, you fool. My gut reaction is to find the murderer in order to save you, because something tells me you aren’t exactly safe, since you’re tied to Beau. Not that I’m doing it for you, of course. This is strictly for my brother.”
Willow looks as though she doesn’t know whether to be thankful or offended.
“He seems to have an obsession with you,” Charlotte continues. “I’d hate to see him lose the only girl he’s ever actually wanted to keep.”
31
Willow
I’m trying my hardest to concentrate on schoolwork and not on the memory of finding Charlotte in the woods last night.
Soft whispers float over my desk, and I lift my head.
“Wonder if she’s connected…”
“Maybe the first victim…”
“No one’s brought her up for a while…”
A group of girls is having a hurried conversation in hushed tones by the art table. I reach for my paintbrush and fake fruit, setting up my props and materials for today’s assignment.
“Do you think she ended up like the others?”
“Possibly.”
“Maybe he did do it.”
“Maybe she’s just really gone.”
“But people are saying…”
“Ericka never came back…she just disappeared. People think she might have died.”
Just then, one of the four girls glances up and notices me staring.
“Suppose you heard us,” she says.
I nod, wondering if it’s a bad thing that I did.
“You should be careful now that you’re dating him,” she warns.
Just like that, she looks away.
I drop the fake fruit on the white sheet propped up on my desk. Jorie sits beside me, watching the confrontation, if it could even be called that.
“Don’t worry about her,” Jorie says. “She’s just jealous because she dated Beau once. Couldn’t keep his interest past a week.”
“Who’s Ericka?” I ask.
The other students on each side of us perk up at the mention of her name.
“A girl who used to go to school here,” Jorie explains. “She moved away quickly and people thought it was odd.”
“Why was it odd?” I ask.
“Because she never said goodbye to anyone. She withdrew from classes. Didn’t go to school for a few weeks. In a place as small as this, people notice. I’m telling you, it was nothing. But you know this town, always needing to have a story to spin.”
“How do you know it was nothing?” I ask. “Those girls seemed to think it was suspicious.”
“Listen, I used to tutor the girl in math. Her parents got another job offer, and they sold the house and moved. Only reason people even talk about it is because of what happened right before. Terrible coincidence.”
I dip my brush in water, and then in paint, but I’m not paying much attention to the assignment.
“Didn’t you used to hang out with Ericka?” the girl to my left says to Jorie. “I thought you were friends.”
Jorie glances sharply at the girl, her eyes hard. “Not your conversation.”
“Were you?” I ask. “Friends with her, I mean?”
Jorie shrugs. “Sure. You could call us friends. I helped her out in math, and she sometimes brought me the most delicious chocolate chip cookies as a thank-you. We weren’t enemies, but I wouldn’t say we were close, either.”
Maybe Jorie knew her well enough to understand more of the girl’s story.
“What happened right before?” I ask.
Jorie is quiet for a moment. “Remember how I told you that Beau breaks hearts?”
I don’t like where I suspect this is going.
“Well, word has it that Ericka and Beau dated. He’s dated so many girls, it’s hard to keep track. Mind you, he’s not always public with the girls he sees, so who knows what went on behind closed doors.”
“You telling me he hurt this girl?” I ask.
“That’s what people think. That he hurt her feelings so badly, in fact, that she up and disappeared one day. Her whole family did. No one has seen her since. But like I said, her whole family didn’t leave town for a breakup. Much as I don’t like Beau, it’s mighty hard to believe he caused a girl’s disappearance, don’t you think?”
“But those girls said that maybe she died,” I say. “That maybe she is actually the first of the Mangroves Murderer’s victims.”
“Well, that’s impossible. She wasn’t found dead in the swamp, see?”
“That’s true,” I say.
Still, I wonder if she really did move away.
…
Gran shuffles around the kitchen, acting like she doesn’t need a cane, holding onto the counters and chairs for support as she moves about.
“Set the table, will you?” she asks.
Mom and Dad discuss birds at the kitchen table. It’s been confirmed that they did, in fact, discover a new species. They’re thrilled. I’m not. Maybe because I miss them, and maybe because I’m jealous that they have so much love for each other and their profession that they don’t mind being tied up in it. Though lately, they’ve been staying home more because of the murders. Even still, it’s obvious they miss the field. As much as I like having them around, I can’t wait for them to get back to what they love. And for the murderer to be found.
“Mind grabbing the gravy, too?” Gran says. “Can’t have turkey and taters without gravy. Get the green beans while you’re at it. I need to fetch the rolls from the oven.”
“Sure,” I answer.
There’s something on my mind. Something I need to discuss with Gran. If anyone knows the truth, it’s her. Gran always has a way of finding things out.
“Gran, do you think you could tell me about a teen girl named Ericka who disappeared?”
She sighs heavily. “Ericka Sprayer. I knew that story would eventually find its way to you, though I’d hoped it wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you want me to know?”
Gran takes a seat in the living room and beckons me to do the same. My parents are too busy pointing at numerous pages in their journal to notice what Gran and I are discussing.
“Because there’s no use in scarin’ you. Some things happen ’round here that folks don’t talk much about, and this is one of them. That girl, she had it all. A fami
ly. A nice house in town. Friends. Up and left everything. Her parents got a job offer somewhere else, though most people don’t believe that version of the story. No one ever heard from her again. Shame, I tell you.”
My stomach churns with nerves. Something tells me that this girl has a part in the murders. How? I have no idea, but I suspect that she’s connected.
“Well, ’course there are a few ’round here who can’t leave well enough alone. The town librarian, for one. She went digging. Swear some people are born with the need to know, and some are born with gossiping mouths. Thankfully the librarian didn’t tell many people, and the ones she did tell decided to keep quiet.”
“Were you one of those people?”
She watches me with a sharp look.
“You seem to be the type who has to know. So I’ll tell you, I will, but I want you to keep quiet, you hear?”
I swallow a lump in my throat and nod.
“I was one of them, yes. Saw the reports on the internet myself. That Sprayer girl didn’t disappear. Neither did her family. They quietly sold their house and left. The reason they got positions elsewhere is because they wanted to move to help their daughter, you see. The girl was having trouble here. No one is quite sure why. What would make her as sad as she was? Word has it that her family had a history of depression. Secrets like those are normally carried to the grave around here, such a stigma attached. Shouldn’t be, of course, but there you have it. Something upset her so badly that her parents thought it was in her best interest to leave town altogether.”
“They moved?” I ask, not quite sure I understand. “That’s all? She’s not dead?”
Gran closes her eyes slowly, and when she opens them, worry shines through.
“Now, I didn’t say that,” she whispers.
I don’t understand, not at all.
“It didn’t seem to matter that she moved across the country. The girl never recovered. She took her own life. So yes, she’s gone.”
I feel sick—my stomach churning like the swamp waters after high winds. There’s something familiar about the way Gran gazes at me, as though she means to comfort with a single stare. Ericka’s life is lost. I somehow feel the absence, even though I never knew her. I wish I could have helped. I wish someone—anyone—would’ve helped her. I wonder if she reached out in her pain, in her time of need. Was her family there for her?
“What happened?” I ask. “What would drive her to such a thing?”
“Like I said, so many rumors around here. Maybe depression. Maybe something personal. But some say she dated your boy, Beau.”
“A lot of girls have,” I say.
“Yes, but Beau’s wicked ways could have spawned her actions. He is prone to upsetting girls.”
Gran stands and nearly falls over. I catch her arm and wait for her trembling muscles to steady. She takes a minute and then walks back to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tea. I pretend not to notice when she spills a few drops. Sensing that she’s not done yet, I wait.
“I wouldn’t doubt that Beau emotionally destroyed her,” she says.
“If it’s true that he dated her, and that she suffered emotionally and mentally, I wonder why she didn’t say something to someone other than her parents. Wasn’t there some way to help her?”
“Maybe,” Gran replies. “Or maybe he hurt her heart too badly for healing, Willow Mae. And perhaps she never recovered.”
32
Beau
I ease the boat around an eddy, through silt waters that have risen from the rain. Mangrove roots can no longer be seen. Everything is covered in a clear sheen of swamp like a thin wax coating.
Today, Willow and I have boated to the platform.
“Beau, I need to talk to you about something,” Willow says, tying up the boat and splaying herself out on the wood. Not a care in the world about the mud and dirt and bugs below. I smile.
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
I lie next to her, peering at the hanging lantern.
“There was a girl once,” she says. “You knew her. I want to know what happened.”
“Happened to who?” I ask.
I hardly see how telling Willow about a girl I once knew could be interesting to her, especially since all the girls I know, aside from Charlotte, are linked to me romantically.
“Her name was Ericka.”
I stiffen.
“She disappeared one day and never came back. People are speculating that she’s connected to the murders. What do you know about this?”
“You sure you don’t want to talk about anything else?”
“Tell me, Beau.”
I sigh, resigned.
“Okay, I dated her. It lasted”—I think back, trying to remember—“maybe a month? I called it off. I don’t know anything about this connecting to the murders. The murders just started, and she left a while back.”
Willow winds a lock of dark hair around her finger and then lets it go.
“What do you remember about her?”
Shit, that is not the right question to ask me. I remember the way she kissed me like she was dying to get more. But even these remembrances are distant, like a far-off sound, hard to make out.
“Willow, I really don’t think—”
“Answer me.”
I don’t want her knowing this.
“I remember some times with her,” I say tentatively.
“Doing what?”
“Willow.” I groan.
She must know what she’s asking of me.
“Say it,” she demands.
“Fine. I remember private moments with her at her house when her parents were working. That’s it. I hardly knew her.”
She cringes.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t want to tell you, but you insisted.”
“Do you know why she left?”
“No idea.”
“Do you happen to know that she missed weeks of school after you broke things off with her?”
“Did she?”
“And then her family sold their house, packed up, and they were gone.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
She rolls to her side to look me in the eyes.
“I heard she couldn’t get over you, and that’s why they left.”
“Who told you that?”
Willow waves a hand around. “Oh, you know. People at school. Pretty much everyone knows your history with girls, and so they assume you were the reason.”
I’ve honestly not thought of Ericka since she moved a year ago. Of course, I first heard the rumors that she left because of me, but I figured they were just that: rumors. Now, I wonder if they were true. My heart kicks up a notch as I think about what that means for me, that maybe my actions are to blame.
“You seemed to have broken her heart, and I wonder, Beau, if you know just how many girls you’ve hurt. And if you even care.”
A wave of guilt makes me feel uneasy. “I hope I didn’t have anything to do with it, and you know why I’ve been closed off. I’m working on that. I definitely don’t want anyone to be hurt. I feel awful about these victims. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else coming to harm. You believe me, right?”
“Yes, I believe you,” she replies. “And plus, you just admitted that you care. Not in the exact words, but you’ve let down more defenses.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You mean I am.” She folds her arms and narrows her eyes at me.
“I mean maybe.”
“Or I suppose I could be reading this all wrong.”
Her eyes search me so thoroughly that I have the urge to look away.
“You’re not.”
“You and your damn riddles, Beau.”
She leans into me like she’s planning on kissing me. So I close the gap between us and kiss her.
“It’s getting late,” she says, pulling away. “We need to be on our way back.”
I help her up and take the oars to row home.
“Someone’s here,” I whisper.
“How do you know?” Willow glances at the tall grass, which bends ever so slightly away from us, like it doesn’t want to be bothered.
“The markings,” I say. “They’re everywhere.”
A just-made scratch on a tree, sap oozing. An overturned leaf. Branches slightly askew.
I quickly dock the boat again, and we carefully get out and push through the grass. Thickets of trees begin to thin as we approach the edge of the swamp forest.
Is it my imagination, or did the trees move?
I hold a finger to my lips to signal Willow to be silent. Her eyes widen, and she stands dead still. My heart thrashes with anticipation, and I can hear Willow breathing wildly. Her eyes dart around, looking for something to settle on, trying to track the person we both know is near.
I take closer stock of the trees. A flicker of black. A small moan. A vestigial shadow.
I burst through the trees.
And nearly fall to my knees.
My legs wobble and threaten to give out.
There’s a person hunched over, interested in something at the edge of a channel of water that separates the land. A cluster of mangroves nearly hides the stranger, who’s wearing a black cloak, hood up.
“Hello?” I say.
I barely feel Willow as she lays a hand on my forearm.
The stranger spins around, holding the hood down so that all I catch is an angular chin draped in shadow. I’ve startled him. I now see why. Tall grass obscures part of what I’m witnessing, half hidden. The other half is unmistakably a pair of legs.
“God,” Willow says, taking a step back.
“No,” I say, taking a step forward.
The swamp separates me from the stranger.
The killer.
I take off running into the water. It drops off suddenly, and I am swimming, swimming, swimming as fast as I can. There’s a gator near me. I can only hope that it won’t mistake my sudden splashing movements for prey. I can’t stop to think about anything.
I’ve nearly reached the mangroves when the killer runs.
I pull myself out of the water and glance at the legs, which lead to a body.
