The Stranger in the Woods

by Kiersten Modglin

  "Well, that's one theory," he said with a sigh, "but I'm afraid there are others."

  "Others? What do you mean?" She looked to Mason with worried eyes, and he squeezed her hand.

  "I think it's best if you just come on down to the station, Arlie. We need to do this in person."

  "Can I come tomorrow?" she asked. "With today being what it is…we're trying to avoid town as much as possible."

  He took a breath. "I'm sorry, Arlie. This really can't wait."

  "Okay," she said, her voice little more than a squeak as she pressed her finger to the red button and looked up at Mason, fear in both of their eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At the station once again, they immediately split Mason and Arlie. This time, the cop interviewing her was not Nathan, but rather the chief himself. The look on his face told her something was very wrong.

  "I need you to tell me what you were doing at Crimson Cafe last night?"

  "Um, I was…eating dinner with Mason."

  "And what time did you leave?" he asked, taking notes as she spoke.

  "I don't remember," she answered, picking at a loose piece of skin near her thumbnail. "Around eight or nine, I guess."

  He stared at her. "It's really important that you remember, Arlie."

  The way he said her name. Something was off, but she couldn't decide what. "It was closer to eight, I think."

  He nodded. "And you went home with this…Mason?"

  "I was with Mason, yes. He's still staying at my house."

  "And were you with him the whole night?"

  "Of course," she answered, though her cheeks grew pink with the answer.

  “And he can confirm that?”

  "Of course. Wait a second, you don't think Mason had anything to do with this, do you? You can’t possibly believe that."

  "To be honest, we aren't sure what to think."

  "Meaning what?" She cocked her head to the side.

  "Meaning whoever did this…whoever did all of this…has a surprisingly detailed knowledge of your books."

  "What are you saying?" she asked, a lump suddenly in her throat.

  "You know, Arlie, I don't want to think it's possible…but I have to ask."

  "What exactly are you asking?" she asked, venom in her voice now as she stared at the betrayal written all over his face.

  "I'm asking…" He pressed his lips together, rubbing a round finger over them. "Did you have something to do with this?"

  "How can you ask that?" she demanded, standing from her chair. "Why on earth would I have anything to do with this? Because it's linked to my books? I'd have to be the world's dumbest serial killer, wouldn't I? What? You think I can't come up with new ideas? I'd just reuse the ones I already had? Seriously?" She was hyperventilating, furious and confused all at once. Was this what police work had come down to? Random assumptions and jumping to the easiest conclusions?

  "Arlie, calm down," he said sternly.

  “I can’t calm down,” she said. “Not if you seriously believe I could have anything to do with this. You’ve known me since I was a kid, Reggie. Do you honestly believe I could…I could kill someone?”

  He shook his head. “It’s my job to ask the questions no one wants to ask. Believe me when I say I’ve been shocked more than once by what people are capable of. Especially on Founders Day. Just…just sit down. Let’s talk. Get you cleared, and then we can move on and figure out who is actually behind this mess.”

  She sat down, her arms folded across her chest. “Okay,” she said, though this was so not okay.

  “So, Mason can confirm your whereabouts all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, that’ll make this easy then. Has he started to remember anything?”

  She shook her head. “No. No luck finding his family?”

  He frowned, then closed his notebook. “No. Arlie, are you sure you’re safe around him? I mean, what exactly do we know about him? Not even his name. He could be a criminal. He could be a killer. He could be insane.”

  “Oh, so you do think Mason had something to do with this, then? Why? Because he’s not from here? Are we really that judgemental? He’s not like us so he must be bad, is that it?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Arlie. I’m still the chief of police, whether I’ve known you since you were in diapers or not. And I’m not talking about him committing these murders in particular, though I’m certainly not ruling that out. How do you know he’s not a stalker? If he did commit the murders, he could’ve targeted you. Maybe he’s a crazed fan trying to get close to you, and you’ve just let him into your house. We haven’t heard back about his fingerprints or DNA, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. And even if they aren’t there, that doesn’t mean he’s not guilty of something. I’m only trying to protect you. He could be dangerous.”

  “He’s nice to me,” she said firmly. “He didn’t find me. I found him. He didn’t invite himself into my home. I did that. And he’d never even heard of me until I brought him home. He’s not a stalker, Reggie. He’s just a guy who needed help, and despite what this town has taught us…maybe there are actually people out there who are just…good, without any ulterior motive. Maybe there are places out there that don’t go…freaking Purge-status once a year. This isn’t normal, Reg. But Mason is. Mason is safe, not dangerous. We are the dangerous ones.”

  “I’m not accusing him of anything, Arlie. I’m asking. I’m trying to protect you because, yes, there are good people out there, but there are also really, really bad people out there.”

  She pushed her seat back again. “You think I don’t know that? Do you even remember Brett?”

  He closed his eyes, taking a moment before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. No. Of course I didn’t forget him.”

  “I’m going to leave now.” Her lips were pressed into a fine line as she strode toward the door. Without turning to face him, she placed her hand on the metal door knob. “Unless you’re planning to hold me.”

  “No,” his reply came, soft and low. “No, Arlie, of course not. Go on home. Just…just be careful out there, okay?”

  Without another word, she pulled open the door and rushed from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Mason pulled the car into her driveway, Arlie’s phone began buzzing. Her throat was dry, mind empty, as she removed her phone from her jacket pocket and stared at the screen.

  She groaned. Phoebe was the last person she wanted to talk to at the moment. Especially considering that she’d made practically no progress on her manuscript since they’d last spoken.

  “Hel—”

  “Darling,” Phoebe's shrill, joyful voice filled the line. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it? I mean, a tragedy, of course, but marvelous. Marvelous!” She let out a loud cackle. “Joey’s called me twice this morning, numbers today are even better than yesterday. At this rate, you’ll be hitting all the lists this week. Turns out, this little psycho was exactly what you needed to get back on top. And on top you are, honey. Muah.” She made a kissing noise across the phone that made Arlie wrinkle her nose. The woman deserved an Oscar.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “Oh, darling,” Phoebe cried. “Haven’t you been online? You’re huge! Huge, Arlie. Bigger than before! Your books are on top of every chart.” She giggled loudly. “It’s brilliant!”

  “What? Why?” she asked, sitting up straighter in the car’s seat.

  “Because…” Phoebe said, pausing for dramatic effect as she so often did. “Well, because of the…erm, deaths. The ones in that adorable little town of yours. You know, the murders that are happening just like the ones in your books.”

  Cold chills suddenly lined her arms. “How do you know about those?”

  “Honestly, Arlie, it is okay to come out of the writer’s cave for some fresh air every once in a while. Do you honestly not know what’s been happening? You don’t know about Bartholome
w Danger?”

  “Who’s Bartholomew Danger?”

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “He’s…he’s the man who’s been chronicling the murders that have happened in your quaint little town. I have got to get down there one day, by the way. It seems so…quaint.” She repeated the word. “We could do coffee. Or tea. Tea’s very in, you know? Anyway, back to your success thanks to Bartholomew Danger. Bart. Barty. Seriously, darling, I assumed you knew. He’s a blogger of some sort. Very small fish. But his blog has blown up lately. More specifically, when he started writing about you. Well, about the connections between the murders in your books and the murders that have occured. And, honestly, we’re insanely lucky he did, because it’s brought you back into the news. You’re suddenly a hot topic again, Arlie. Your books are soaring, and people are just dying to get their hands on your new stuff. Which, I know you’re making progress on.”

  “But who is he?” Arlie asked, ignoring her attempt to get information on the new book. “Someone who lives here in Crimson Falls?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. He only identifies himself as Bartholomew Danger. Very mysterious. His blogs are only so-so, but with a little help from the way your tales are spun, he is finding himself quite a little niche. Who knows, if we do find him, you owe him a hug. He’s earning us both a big fat paycheck.” With that, she laughed again.

  Arlie placed a hand over her stomach, trying to calm it as it churned. “People are dead, Phoebe, you could show a bit of class here.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said dramatically. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should. Of course, it is very sad. Honestly, it is. I hate it.”

  “Why are people so fascinated with death and tragedy? Fictional, sure, but real life tragedy? I just don’t understand it.”

  “I don’t know, love. But, I’m sorry to say, you should be glad they are. Seeing as how you seem to have built a career on it.” Arlie sucked in a breath at her agent’s harsh words, though Phoebe apologized again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. There I go, foot in mouth all over again. My mother always told me my mouth would get me into trouble. But, what can I say, it’s also what’s gotten me in a lot of doors. Betcha you’re thankful for that, huh? Oh, look, there’s my other line. I’ve got to go. Listen, you just keep writing. I’ll take care of the rest.” With that, the line clicked and Arlie pulled the phone from her ear.

  “What was that about?” Mason asked, staring at her with a worried expression.

  “It was my agent,” she said with a sigh. “Bad news is, people are dying. Good news, that seems to have catapulted my career. Again.” She closed her eyes, feeling cool tears well in them. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

  He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his shoulders. “Shhh,” he soothed. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No.” She sobbed. “No, it’s not. Nothing is going to be okay because…tragedy follows me. And it’s never going to stop following me. And somehow I’m supposed to be grateful because good seems to come from all of the bad in my life, but I’m not grateful. I’d give up every ounce of the good for the bad to just go away.” She was rambling. Sobbing and snotting all over Mason’s new shirt, but he didn’t seem to care. His strong arms surrounded her, keeping her safe. Or, at least, attempting to. They sat in the car for what seemed like hours, him holding her and allowing her to cry for as long as she needed. Mason was the only person who seemed to understand. The only person who cared to understand. And none of this was his fault. He’d been dragged into her mess. And now he was a suspect in this crazy web. It was all her fault, and she wasn’t sure what to do to save him. Because she had to save him. She needed to. She needed him.

  She pressed her face into his chest more fully, realizing just how much she needed him and just how much that terrified her. At the end of the day, Mason mattered to her. More than she’d probably realized. More than she’d ever admit to him. She had to figure out a way to fix this.

  When she’d calmed slightly, she pulled away, wiping her tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be—”

  “No, I do. I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Or maybe I ruined it.”

  He clasped her shoulders, lowering his head so he was eye level with her. “Hey,” he said firmly. “You haven’t ruined anything. You saved me. You were kind to me. You didn’t have to be. You didn’t have to do anything, but you did. You’re a good person, Arlie. And I’m sorry that all of this darkness seems to surround you. I wish I could do something to take it all away.”

  She closed her eyes, nodding her head. “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I do,” he insisted. “Just name it. I’d do anything to help you. I owe you everything.”

  “You might regret saying that,” she said, placing her head on his chest again. “Because I actually could use your help with something.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Inside the house, Arlie was on her laptop, Mason at her side. “If we can find out who this Bartholomew Danger is, we can confront him. See what he knows. How he knows it. Maybe if we do that, we can figure out who’s doing this. If we solve the murders, or at least point the police in the right direction, they’ll finally believe we’re innocent and then we can try to move on.”

  "Okay, so how do we find him?" he asked, reading over her shoulder as she pulled up the first blog post that appeared from her search.

  She gasped as she read through the gruesome blog, filled with more details than the police had given her. So, how then could this blogger, this Bartholomew Danger, possibly know all of this? It had to be someone from Crimson Falls. As she read on, flipping through daily posts about the crimes, posts asking questions she wanted answers to herself, she found herself growing angrier. Just who was this person? Was he the killer? How did he know what he knew? And what gave him the right to publish it? What gave him the right to make a spectacle of her life? To make a spectacle of so many deaths. These people deserved more. She deserved more.

  She clicked on the HOME button, going to the homepage of the website where Bartholomew's blog was hosted. It was true what Phoebe said. He'd been blogging for a few years about random things: book reviews, recipes, updates on his pet Yorkie. But it was only recently, since he'd started blogging about her, about her town, and about the deaths that were rocking it, that he had begun to gain traction. Suddenly, the blogs were filled with comments—speculations, questions, people claiming they were reading her books to find the similarities, people claiming she must be guilty, people claiming Bartholomew himself must be guilty. She flipped through the page, searching for a way to contact him. There must be a way. And yet, she couldn't find it. No contact form, no email address. Bartholomew Danger did not want to be found. But, Arlie Montgomery did not like to give up.

  She went back to the search engine, typing in his name. There were no Bartholomew Dangers. No real ones anyway. She flipped through pages and pages of his blog posts, looking for him on Facebook to no avail. What kind of blogger wasn't on Facebook? She looked at the avatar on his website. Dark hair, glasses, bright green eyes. Could this be what he looked like? After all, we are all better versions of ourselves online. Perhaps he was overweight or acne ridden. Perhaps he was none of those things. She might never know.

  She closed the computer. "Do you think the police know about this? I mean, we could take this to them. Tell them to look him up. They can check his IP address or whatever, right?"

  "I don't know, Arlie. I don't know how any of it works, honestly. They could just think we're chasing our tails."

  "Is that what you think?" she asked, staring up at him. She needed his honesty. She needed it more than she could possibly explain in that moment. Was she crazy? Was she grasping at straws? Was she hoping so badly to point the blame at someone else that she was being ridiculous? Because the person they believed could be behind it—the person they believed could be guilty—she
couldn't stomach the possibility. It wasn't Mason. It couldn't be. She created Mason. He was perfect. He was beautiful. He was hers. And most importantly, he was innocent.

  "I don't know, Arlie," he answered finally. "I really don't. For all we know, this blogger is just some sick kid who's fascinated with death."

  "But what if he's not? What if he actually is the killer?"

  "Then we wait," he said firmly. "We make it through today, and we let the cops do their jobs. I will keep you safe. You know that. We both know we're innocent. That's what matters right now, okay?"

  She nodded, not feeling entirely sure she agreed. Everything else seemed to matter. The truth seemed to matter. Bringing the bad guys to justice seemed to matter. But she wasn't in the mood to argue. She didn't have the energy for it. Murder investigation was completely exhausting, truth be told. So, instead, she waited for Mason to stand up, making his way over to light the gas fireplace. "Let's just relax. We'll find a good movie. I'll start something for supper. All of our problems will be here tomorrow."

  Arlie nodded, though she quickly copied the URL of Bartholomew Danger's blog and pasted it into an email. She typed the chief's email address and pressed send before closing the laptop, trying to hide her worried grin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They’d made it through the day. Arlie heaved a sigh. She had no returned email from the chief, but she also hadn’t heard anything else about any murders. The day was coming to a close, and she was safe. She sat on the couch alone as she heard Mason heading back down the hallway.

  He rubbed a towel through his wet hair. “You okay?” he asked, noticing her blank stare at the wall.

  She turned to face him, shaking her head to brush off the trance she’d been in. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just…tired, I guess.”

  “I can’t say that I blame you there.” He glanced at the clock. “Only two more hours left in the day. We made it.”